IgorKrupnik, Rachel Mason,
and Tonia Norton, editors

NORTHERN ETHNOGRAPHIC LANDSCAPES
Perspectives from Circumpolar Nations
Mist hangs over the abandoned Sdmi summercamp at Kvcenangsfjellet mountain, Norway.
|\jorthern h nograph i
c
[andscapes
perspectives from (^j'rcumpolar Nations
IGOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON,
AND TONIA W. HORTON, EDITORS
Published by the
Arctic Studies Center,
National Museum of Natural History,
Smithsonian Institution
Washington, D.C.
In collaboration with
The National Park Service
© 2004 by the Arctic Studies Center, National IVIuseum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution
Washington, D.C. 20560-0112
All rights reserved.
ISBN 0-9673429-7-X
Library of Congress Cataloging-ln-Publication Data
Northern ethnographic landscapes : perspectives from circumpolar nations / Igor Krupnil<, Rachel Mason, and
Tonia W. Norton, editors.
p. cm. — (Contributions to circumpolar anthropology ; v. 6)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-9673429-7-X (alk. paper)
1. Ethnology—Arctic regions. 2. Human geography—Arctic regions. 3. Landscape assessment—Arctic regions.
4. Landscape protection—Arctic regions. 5. Environmentally sensitive areas—Arctic regions. 6. Arctic
regions—Environmental conditions. I. Krupnik, Igor. II. Mason, Rachel, 1954- III. Norton, Tonia W. (Tonia Woods)
IV. Series: Contributions to circumpolar anthropology ; 6.
GN673.N67 2004
306'. 091 1 '3-dc22
2004024361
oo The paper used In this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard For Information
Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1 992.
This publication was supported by a grant from the National Park Service, Alaska Regional Office.
Technical Editor: Thetus H. Smith
Cover design: Raissa Macasieb-Ludwig
Series design: Anya Vinokour
Production editor: Elisabeth Ward
Printed In Canada.
This publication Is Volume 6 in the Arctic Studies Center series, Contributions to Circumpolar Anthropology, produced by the
Arctic Studies Center, National Museum of Natural Nistory, Smithsonian Institution.
THIS SERIES IS MADE POSSIBLE IN PART BY THE JAMB W. VANSTONE (1921-2001) ENDOWMENT.
Cover: Cape Espenberg, Alaska. During the last 6,000 years, storm surges and winter winds sculptured sands deposited from offshore
currents into the beach ridges of Cape Espenberg on the southern shore of Kotzebue Sound, Alaska. The cape was inhabited by
the Pittagmiut, a group of North Alaskan Ihupiat people in the 19th century. In late May or early June the entire population
of 400 people would be located along the cape hunting for bearded seals in the offshore ice. The long expanse of coastline from
the cape to the current community of Deering is known as Saniniq, meaning "shallow ocean. " National Park Service Photo.
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contents
VII
X
xiii
XV
Contributors
List of Figures
Abbreviations
FOREWORD
William W. Fitzhugh
INTRODUCTION: LANDSCAPES, PERSPECTIVES, AND NATIONS
Igor Krupnik, Rachel Mason, and Susan Buggey
fart O ne
part ~]~wo
1 7
45
65
105
131
155
177
State Policies: Perspectives from Four Arctic Nations
AN APPROACH TO ABORIGINAL CULTURAL LANDSCAPES IN CANADA
Susan Buggey
PROTECTING ETHNOGRAPHIC LANDSCAPES IN ALASKA:
U.S. POLICIES AND PRACTICES
Rachel Mason
WRITING ETHNOGRAPHIC HISTORY: HISTORIC PRESERVATION,
CULTURAL LANDSCAPES AND TRADITIONAL CULTURAL PROPERTIES
Tonia Woods Horton
MANAGING THE SAMI CULTURAL HERITAGE IN NORWAY:
THE LEGAL LANDSCAPE
Ingegerd Holand
CONCEPTS AND PRACTICES IN ETHNOGRAPHIC LANDSCAPE
PRESERVATION: A RUSSIAN NORTH PERSPECTIVE
Pavel M. Shul'gin
Protecting the "Invisible": Stories from the Arctic Zone
'TO SAVE THE YUGAN": THE SAGA OF THE KHANTY CULTURAL
CONSERVATION PROGRAM
Andrew Wiget and Olga Balalaeva
NENETS SACRED SITES AS ETHNOGRAPHIC LANDSCAPE
Galina P. Kharyuchi
LANDSCAPES OF TRADITION, LANDSCAPES OF RESISTANCE
Donald G. Callaway
203 "THE WHOLE STORY OF OUR U\ND": ETHNOGRAPHIC LANDSCAPES
IN GAMBELL, ST. LAWRENCE ISLAND, ALA^SKA
Igor Krupnik
228 SUSAN WILHITE FAIR, IN TRIBUTE
Herbert Anungazuk
230 NAMES OF PLACES, OTHER TIMES: REMEMBERING AND DOCUMENTING
LA^NDS AND LANDSCAPES NEAR SHISHMAREF, ALA6KA
Susan W. Fair
255 MEDIEVAL TALES, MODERN TOURISTS: EXPLORING THE NJAL'S SAGA
LANDSCAPE OF SOUTH ICELAND
Elisabeth I. Ward and Arthur Bjorgvin Bollason
277 CULTURAL SEASCAPES: PRESERVING LOCAL FISHERMEN'S KNOWLEDGE
IN NORTHERN NORWAY
Anita Maurstad
fart T'liree Regional Approaches to Documentation and Protection
301 'THE LAND IS LIKE A BOOK": CULTURAL LANDSCAPE MANAGEMENT
IN THE NORTHWEST TERRITORIES, CANADA
Thomas D. Andrews
323 DOCUMENTING ETHNOGRAPHIC LANDSCAPES
IN ALASKA'S NATIONAL PARKS
Tonia Woods Horton
343 CULTURAL HERITAGE IN YAMAL, SIBERIA: POLICIES AND CHALLENGES
IN LANDSCAPE PRESERVATION
Natalia V. Fedorova
358 SAMI CULTURAL HERITAGE IN NORWAY: BETWEEN POLITICS
OF LOCAL KNOWLEDGE AND THE POWER OF THE STATE
Torvald Falch and Marianne Skandfer
fart rour Comparative Perspectives
379 JOINING THE DOTS: MANAGING THE LAND- AND SEASCAPES
OF INDIGENOUS AUSTRALIA
Claire Smithe and Heather Burke
401 EPILOGUE. NATIONS, PERSPECTIVES, AND NATIONS: WHAT DOES IT ALL
MEANS?
Ellen Lee
407 INDEX
41 4 ILLUSTRATION CREDITS
contributors
Thomas Andrews has conducted research in the
northern Yukon and in the Canadian Northwest Territo-
ries since the late 1970s. His many publications in-
clude articles on Aboriginal land management systems,
community-based resource management in the North-
west Territories, local cultural landscapes, ethnoarchae-
ology, and sacred sites. Since 1990, he has worked at
the Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre, in
Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, where he currently
holds the position of Territorial Archaeologist.
Herbert O. Anungazuk is an Inupiaq from Wales,
Alaska. Since 2003, he has worked as a Cultural An-
thropologist for the Cultural Resources Team of the
National Park Service in Anchorage, Alaska. Before
that, beginning in 1993, he was a Native Liaison and
Heritage Specialist with the NPS Alaska Office. His
knowledge of liiupiaq language and culture, along with
traditional skills acquired from elders over decades,
facilitate his work as a researcher, liaison and inter-
preter.
Olga Balalaeva is a researcher in folklore and eth-
nology of the Peoples of the North and in Finno-Ugric
Studies. She has served as Senior Scientific Researcher,
Folklore Department, A.M. Corky Institute of World Lit-
erature, and as scientific consultant to State Committee
of the North and the Arctic Science Committee of the
Russian Federation. She has been engaged in field-
work among the Khanty since 1 988.
Arthur Bjorgvin Bollason was Director of the Saga
Centre, Hvollsvollur, Iceland in 1 999-2003. After com-
pleting Master's degree research in Germany, he be-
came the Icelandic radio's national correspondent for
German affairs, was a researcher at the Arni Magnusson
Institute, and will be the co-chief editor for a new Ger-
man translation of the Complete Saga of the Iceland-
ers. A sometimes television host, poet, and tourist guide,
he now works for Icelandair in Germany.
Susan Buggey has been active in research, evalua-
tion, and writing on cultural landscapes for 25 years.
Former Director of Historical Services for Parks Canada,
she is now an Adjunct Professor in the School of Land-
scape Architecture at the Universite de Montreal in
Monreal, Canada. She writes extensively on landscapes
associated with the history of Aboriginal peoples and
the associative values of cultural landscapes.
Heather Burke has over thirteen years experience
as a consultant archaeologist, working in New South
Wales, Queensland, South Australia and the Northern
Territory. Her particular skills are in the fields of site
recording and significance assessment, for both histori-
cal and Aboriginal archaeological sites, the assessment
and recording of standing structures and mining heri-
tage, and the interpretation and presentation of heri-
tage sites. She has authored several publications on
Aboriginal archaeology in Australia.
Donald C. Callaway is the Senior Cultural Anthro-
pologist in the Alaska Regional Office of the National
Park Service. He has conducted fieldwork and research
in rural Alaska for the last 19 years and, over the last
decade, in the Russian Far East. A cultural anthropolo-
gist by his training, he also held post-doctoral fellow-
ships in statistics at DC Berkeley and in health issues at
the Institute on Aging and Oregon Health Sciences in
Portland, Oregon. His primary fields of interest include
applied anthropology, formal methods, network analy-
sis, and oral histories.
Susan W. Fairv^as a folklorist and Native art histo-
rian; she conducted independent research and wrote
extensively on Alaska Native art and culture. Her rela-
tionship with the Ihupiat village of Shishmaref, in North-
west Alaska, was particularly close. In the 1 970s and
early 1 980s, she was a certified appraiser of Native
American and Alaska Native art. In Alaska, she curated
several prominent installations of Native art and eth-
nographic collections. At the time of her death in 2003,
she held a joint teaching/research appointment at the
University of Arizona Tucson.
Ton/aid Falch is Deputy Director General, Depart-
ment of Environment and Cultural Heritage, Sami Parlia-
ment of Norway in Vuonnabahta (Varangerboten),
Norway. He has a Masters' degree in political sciences
from the University of Oslo and he has worked for the
Sami Parliament's Department of Cultural Heritage since
1 994. He is responsible for the management and docu-
mentation of Sami cultural sites and landscapes in Nor-
way, as well as for the general political liaison in ac-
tions concerning cultural heritage, biological diversity,
sustainable development, and environmental issues.
Natalia Fedorova is Senior Research Fellow at
the Institute of History and Archaeology of the Urals
Division of the Russian Academy of Sciences in
Ekaterinburg, Russia. Since 2003, she is also Deputy
Director of the Museum and Exhibit Center in Salekhard,
Yamal. Her recent studies are focused upon the prehis-
toric cultures of the West Siberia boreal forest and Arc-
tic zone, medieval and antique metal artwork, and
culture contacts in Central (Inner) Eurasia. She authored
six books and more then fifty papers on West Siberian
archaeology and art history.
William W. Fitzhugh is Director of the Arctic Stud-
ies Center and Curator at the Department of Anthropol-
ogy, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian
Institution, in Washington, DC. His interests include pre-
history and environmental archaeology, maritime ad-
aptations, and culture contacts. He has organized sev-
eral special exhibit projects, such as Inua (1 982); Cross-
mads ofContinentsO 988); MnuO 999); and Vikings(2000).
Ingegerd Holand works as Adviser on Sami (Saami)
cultural heritage and resource management at The Nor-
wegian Directorate for Cultural Heritage (Riksantikvaren)
in Oslo, Norway. She was born in Kvaenangen, North-
ern Norway, in a Coastal Sami comunity, and is an ar-
chaeologist by profession, educated in Tromso as well
as in London. Her research and work has previously
included both mainstream Scandinavian archaeology
and Sami archaeology, while her present job involves
responsibility for all Sami monuments, including land-
scape preservation.
Tonia Woods Hotton is a landscape architect and
ethnohistorian. She was the first manager for the Cul-
tural Landscapes program in the Alaska Region, Na-
tional Park Service, from 1998 to 2004. She directed
projects through Alaska's fifteen national parks with a
special focus on ethnographic landscapes. She holds
degrees in landscape architecture, and in American In-
dian and environmental history. Currently she is an
assistant professor of landscape architecture at Penn-
sylvania State University.
Calina P. Kharyuchi is senior researcher at the Cen-
ter for Humanitarian Research on Indigenous Minority
Peoples of the North in Salekhard, northern Russia.
She was born to a Nenets reindeer-herding family in
the Gydan tundra along the Arctic coast of West Sibe-
ria. She graduated from teacher's college and worked
for several years as an educator in her native area, prior
to becoming professional ethnographer. She has a de-
gree in history and anthropology, and she writes exten-
sively on indigenous nations of West Siberia and her
native tundra Nenets people, in particular.
Igor Krupnik, Arctic ethnologist at the Arctic Stud-
ies Center, Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC,
is currently coordinator of various international projects
studying the impacts of global climate change and the
preservation of cultural heritage, and ecological knowl-
viii
redge of northern Native people. He writes extensively
on Arctic peoples and he is the general editor of the
Smithsonian Contributions to CircumpolarAntleropology
series.
Ellen Lee is Director of the Archaeological Services
Branch of Parks Canada, an organization responsible
for the national parks and national historic sites pro-
grams of Canada. She has written on a range of topics
related to cultural landscapes and the commemoration
of Aboriginal history in Canada, and maintains an inter-
est in the overlapping of cultural and natural values for
protected area management. Her most recent publica-
tion is "Managing the Intangible" (co-authored with A.
English), in 7/ie Full Value ofParks and Protected Areas:
From Economics to the Intangible (2003).
Rachel Mason is a cultural anthropologist with the
National Park Service, Alaska Regional Office. She has
worked in Alaska since 1986, most extensively in the
Kodiak Archipelago and the Aleutian Islands. Prior to
her current employment at the NPS, she worked as a
technical advisor to the Federal Subsistence Manage-
ment Program for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
Her research interests include Alaska Native cultures,
subsistence, and commercial fisheries.
Anita Maurstad has performed research on small-
scale fishing in northern Norway since the late 1980's.
She has a doctorate in resource management, and her
publications focus on culture and knowledge manage-
ment in small-scale fisheries, paying special attention
to its interaction with science and fisheries manage-
ment. Formerly a research associate by the Norwegian
College of Fisheries Science since 1997, she is now
associate professor at Troms0 Museum, Department for
Contemporary Cultural History.
Pavel M. Shul'gm is Deputy Director of the Russian
Research Institute for Cultural and Natural Heritage in
Moscow, since 1 992. His research interests include vari-
ous issues in economic, legislative, and regional de-
velopment that relate to the conservation and use of
heritage resources in Russia. His numerous publica-
tions have advanced the concept of the so-called
"unique historical territories," that is, regions, for which
heritage preservation should be regarded as a top eco-
nomic and social priority.
Marianne Skandfer has a Ph.D. in archaeology from
the University of Tromso. She is currently a post-doc-
toral fellow at the University of Tromso in Troms0,
Norway. Her research interest is in north Fenno-
Scandian archaeology, including Stone Age, early ce-
ramics, and the emergence of Sami ethnicity. Between
1997 and 1999 she worked as an executive officer in
the Department of Sami Cultural Heritage in the Sami
Parliament in Norway.
Claire Smith is a Senior Lecturer in Archaeology at
Flinders University, Adelaide, Australia. Her main re-
search focus is on archaeological field methods and
on Indigenous archaeology. She has conducted field-
work in the Barunga region of southern Arnhem Land
since 1 990, and has on-going excavation projects in
the Barunga region, Northern Territory and in Burra,
South Australia. Her major publications include the co-
edited volume Indigenous Cultures in an Interconnected
World (2000) and the authored book. Country, Kin and
Culture. Survivalofan Aboriginal Community{m press).
Elisabeth I. Ward is a graduate student at the Uni-
versity of California, Berkeley, Scandinavian Studies
Department. Drawing on her maternal Icelandic heri-
tage, Elisabeth has actively pursued her interest in the
Icelandic language and culture. After completing a
Master's degree in Anthropology at George Washing-
ton University, she became Assistant Curator and Co-
editor for the Smithsonian Institution millennial exhi-
bition, Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, a position she
held from 1998 until 2003.
Andrew Wiget is professor and Director of the New
Mexico Heritage Center at New Mexico State Univer-
sity. He has been involved in cultural conservation
work and land claims cases with Native American tribes
for twenty years. Since 1992, he has partnered with
Olga Balalaeva in conducting ethnographic field re-
search and engaging in applied work among the Khanty
of western Siberia.
ist of fjVures
Title: Mist hangs over the abandoned Sami summer camp at Kvaenangsfjellet mountain, Norway ii
1/ Mt. Drum in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, Alaska xiv
2/ Traditional houses and ritual constructions at the abandoned Masik site, Chukchi Peninsula, Siberia. xvi
3/ Ezogokwoo ('bones of Ezo's people'), a Dogrib sacred place and the site of a major battle, Canada 14
4/ Map of landscapes important to the history of Aboriginal peoples in Canada 18
5/ Bear Rock, on the Mackenzie River, Northwest Territories, Canada 21
6/ Mortuary or memorial poles in the village of Nan Sdins on SCaang Gwaii Island, British Columbia 23
7/ Paallirmiut drum dancing, near the community of Arviat, Nunavut 25
8/ Nagwichoonjik, the Mackenzie River, Northwest Territories 27
9/ Deline fishery, at the mouth of the Great Bear River, Northwest Territories 29
1 0/ Kwikati or 'Tence Narrows Lake", on the Idaa Trail, Northwest Territories 33
1 1/ A campsite at Sahyoue (Grizzly Bear Mountain), Great Bear Lake, Northwest Territories 35
1 2/ The Kazan River at Piqqiq, Nunavut, in the land of the Harvaqtuurmiut 37
1 3/ View of Denali Mountain (Mt. McKinley), in Denali National Park and Preserve, Alaska 47
14/ Eilson Road in Denali National Park and Preserve, Alaska 48
1 5/ Chief Deaphon and his Athapaskan band that was associated with Denali National Park, 1919 51
16/ Map of Federal Lands in Alaska 53
1 7/ Map of State of Alaska Game Management Units and Federal Wildlife Management Units 54
18/ Map of Ten Alaskan regions represented by Federal Subsistence Regional Advisory Councils 55
19/ Telida, an Upper Kuskokwim Athapaskan village and a subsistence communtiy for Denali National Park 59
20/ Map of Sami settlement areas in Scandinavia, with the estimated number of Sami living today . 83
21/ Old Coastal Sami communities of Sorstraumen and Nordstraumen in Northern Troms, Norway 89
22/ Reconstructing a traditional Sami turf house (gamme) at Nordstraumen, northern Norway 91
23/ The old church at the island of Skorpa in Kvaenangen, northern Norway 93
24/ Typical post-World War II farm buildings at Saltnes in Kvaenangen, northern Norway 95
25/ The sacrificial stone (Graksesteinen) at Mortensnes in Varanger, Finnmark, northern Norway 97
26/ Map of Sami sites in Northern Norway discussed in the text 98
27/ The site of Hjemmeluft/Jiebmaluokta in Alta, Finnmark, northern Norway 99
28/ The Eastern Sami site of Skoltebyen in Neiden, Finnmark, northern Norway 1 01
29/ Ostyak (Khanty) mother and daughter, at their family camp, 1911. West Siberia 1 1 5
30/ Visiting the Kayukov Family Camp, 1 999. Salym River, West Siberia 1 1 5
31/ Traditional Khanty storage structures at Aidar Yourts, Salym River, 191 1 117
32/ Khanty storage structures (ambars) at Punsi Yourts, Salym River, 1 999 1 1 7
33/ Khanty herders build smoky log cabins to protect their reindeer from mosquitoes in summer time, 1 999 1 1 9
34/ Khanty wood grouse trap near Punsi Yourts, Salym River 121
35/ Putik, a wooden path through the marshes to pastures and fishing sites, Salym River 1 23
36/ Two Yamal Nenets men making sacrifice at the Khagen-Sale sacred site, Yamal, West Siberia, 1928 1 28
37/ Map of The Middle Ob River Basin, West Siberia 1 33
X
r38/ Aerial view of the Bolshoi Yugan River Basin, West Siberia 1 3 5
39/ Map of sacred sites of the Yugan Khanty area, 1998 1 36
40/ Destroyed sacred hill, Imi Yaoun, and Khanty sacred site on the Trom-Agan River, West Siberia 1 3 7
41/ Map of Vassily Kaimysov's hunting territory, Yugan River basin. West Siberia 1 38
42/ Map of Proposed Yugan Khanty "Protected Territory of Traditional Land Use" 1 39
43/ Forested high places in swamps, called 'islands,' are often sacred sites 143
44/ Cultural heritage site with sacred wooden cabins {labas) at Lake Larlumkina, Bolshoi Yugan River 1 47
45/ Khanty caretaker, Yefim Kolsomov, at one of the Khanty sacred sites. West Siberia 1 51
46/ Area populated by the Nenets people in Arctic Russia and the area of the Cudan Tundra Nenets 1 5 7
47/ Galina Kharyuchi during her winter field survey 1 58
48/ Active Nenets sacred site in Southern Yamal, 1996 1 59
49/ Nenets children at an abandoned oil rig site 1 61
50/ Nenets sacred site at Cape Tiutey-Sale, Yamal, 1928 1 63
51/ Nenets herders work on the map of traditional sacred sites, summer 2001 1 69
52/ Nenets reindeer herders from the Cydan Peninsula, 2000 1 71
53/ Traditional Nenets sacred site on Yamal Peninsula, 1928 1 73
54/ Sunset on the Yukon River, Alaska 1 79
55/ Eagle Bluff, Alaska, known to the local Han Athapaskan people as "Water hitting right in to it" 1 83
56/ ATV trail through a meadow in bloom, Alaska 1 85
57/ Map of the Lower Noatak River basin, with the boundaries of Cape Krusenstern National Monument 1 86
58/ Map of the present-day land-status owners, Seward Peninsula, Alaska 1 87
59/ Ahtna place-names plotted on computerized map 1 88
60/ Graph of annual subsistence cycle for the community of Tetlin, Alaska 1 91
61/ Alaska Native caribou hunt 1 93
62/ Mentasta caribou herd density dependent model 1 94
63/ Aerial view of Cape Chibukak, with the Sivuqaq (Cambell) Mountain, St. Lawrence Island, Alaska 205
64/ Henry Collins' map of ancient sites at Cape Chibukak, St. Lawrence Island, 1937 207
65/ St. Lawrence Island women and children, in front of their traditional house, 1 889 209
66/ Gambell's landscape as of summer 1930 21 1
67/ Men are wrestling at Qellineq, traditional village public space in Sivuqaq/Gambell, 1912 213
68/ Map of Sivuqaq/Gambell area and major local place names, by Willis Walunga, 2001 21 5
69/ Traditional sacrificial site at the outskirts of Sivuqaq/Gambell, 1930 21 7
70/ Beach area in Gambell, with summer tents and winter houses, 1889 21 9
71/ Section of the "old village" in Gambell, 2001 221
72/ The view of the old Siqluwaghyahget site, destroyed by "subsistence digging," 2001 223
top Susan Wilhite Fair (1948-2003) 228
73/ Susan Fair and Edgar Ningeulook interview Gideon and Fannie Barr in Shishmaref, Alaska, 1993 229
74/ Northwestern shore of Seward Peninsula, Alaska - the Saniq-Saniniq coastline 2 32
75/ Early Ifiupiaq map of the Saniq-Saniniq afreadrasNn in Wales, Alaska, 1 902 2 33
76/ Watercolor of the Messenger Feast, or Wolf Dance, 1902 235
77/ The village of Shishmaref in the late 1 920s. 2 37
78/ House in Shishmaref hangs precariously over the bluff created by the severe storm, 1997. 2 39
79/ Shishmaref boats gather on the open Chukchi Sea during spring hunting in 1 987 241
80/ Members of Shishmaref Traditional Council, who saved the village from the influenza epidemic of 1918 243
81/ The village of Shishmaref in 1983 245
82/ The fish- and berry-picking camp near Shishmaref, 1998. 247
83/ Open treeless landscape allows for expansive view towards Trihyrning Mountain, southern Iceland 2 57
X 1
84/ Drawing of Gunnar meeting his wife Hallgerdur by A. Bloch, reproduced as a postcard, 1929 2 59
85/ Map of Iceland and distribution of Njal's Saga sites 261
86/ Gunnarsstein (Gunnar's stone), believed to be associated with Gunnar's fight, in Rangarvallasysia, Iceland 263
87/ Highway signage of Njaluslod, southern Iceland 265
88/ American tour group at Hof, southern Iceland, August 2001 267
89/ Tour guide relates the story of the death of Gunnar at Gunnar's farm, HIidarendi, southern Iceland, 2001 269
90/ Icelandic tour group at Dimon, southern Iceland, August 2001 271
91/ Bergthorshvol, the site where Njal and his family were burned alive, is the last stop on the tour, 2001 273
92/ Fishing village Kj0llefjord, Finnmark, northern Norway 279
93/ Small-scale fishing in the near-shore seascape of Lyngenfjord, northern Norway 281
94/ Storms at sea create special challenges, and opportunities, for fishermen 285
95/ Small-scale fishing vessels resting in Tromso on their way to the Finnmark fishery 291
96/ Big Rock near Mesa Lake, NWT, Canada, believed to be associated with the Dogrib chief Edzo 298
97/ Map of Northwest Territories, showing indigenous communities and land claims areas 302
98/ Map of significant places and sites, NWT, Canada 304
99/ Drum Lake, Mackenzie Mountains, a Mountain Dene sacred site, NWT, Canada 305
100/ A Dogrib hunter prepares to butcher a bull moose 307
101/ Bear Rock, at the confluence of the Bear and Mackenzie Rivers, NWT 31 1
102/ A Dogrib elder teaches two youth how to clean a large lake trout 31 3
103/ Dogrib elder examines archaeological remains of a birchbark canoe 31 5
104/ Kweedoo (Blood Rock) sacred site, at the confluence of the Bear and Mackenzie Rivers, NWT 31 7
105/ Relocated Tlingit grave marker at Dyea Cemetery, Southern Alaska 327
106/ Tlingit village at Healy and Wilson's Trading Post, Dyea, 1897 329
107/ Tlingit village, KhartHeenee [Gal-hi-r\i], "Salmon Water, " 1889 335
108/ Nenets herders visiting the Yarte site archaeology camp in Central Yamal, Siberia 345
109/ Nenets domestic reindeer grazes at the Vary-Khadyta-2 site 349
1 1 0/ Khalmer, traditional Nenets burial site. West Siberia 351
111/ The Tiutey-Sale site, long considered a remain of "Eskimo type" culture on Yamal Peninsula, Siberia 353
1 1 2/ Remains of a traditional Sami goahti (turf house) and protected farm buildings, northern Norway 359
1 1 3/ Remains of a traditional Sami goahti ('turf hut') for goats, Devddesvuoppmi, Inner Troms, Norway 361
1 1 4/ Frame of a recent Sami summer herding tent, lawo in 0verbygd, Inner Troms, Norway 363
1 1 5/ Bj0rnesteinen ("The Bear stone") in Ceavccegeadgi/Mortensnes, northern Norway 365
1 16/ Fireplace at a Sami reindeer herding camp at Devddesjavri, Inner Troms, northern Norway 367
1 1 7/ Ancient Sami grave at Gaparas/Klubben represents a continual tradition from 2000 BC to AD 1600 369
1 18/ Pre-Christian Sami grave in Veidnes, Unjarga/Nesseby municipality, northern Norway 373
1 1 9/ lyat, or Serpentine Hot Springs, a place of healing and spiritual renewal for Ihupiat of Northwest Alaska 376
120/ Indigenous women's dreaming site, near Barunga, Northern Territory, Australia 385
121/ Luma Luma, a female ancestral being from Northern Australia 388
1 22/ Wakulyarri Tjukurrpa (Rock Wallaby). Aboriginal painting 390
123/ Untitled acrylic on canvas painting, by Barunga artist, Paddy Babu, 1992 391
1 24/ Reindeer herders tent (choom) at the camp site on the Yamal Peninsula, West Siberia 406
xii
a reviations
ADFG Alaska Department of Fish and Game, USA
AMNH American Museum of Natural History, New York, USA
ANCSA Alaska Native Land Claims Settlement Act, 1971, USA
ANILCA Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act, 1 980, USA
ASC Arctic Studies Center, Department of Anthropology, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.
ATV All terrain vehicle
BIA Bureau of Indian Affairs, U.S. Department of the Interior, Washington, D.C, USA
CEAA Canadian Environmental Assessment Act, 1 996, Canada
CIS Commemorative Integrity Statement, Canada
CU Cultural Landscape Inventory, National Park Service, USA
CPAWS Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society, Canada
CRM Cultural Resource Management
ERI Ethnographic Research Inventory, US National Park Service
EVOS Exxon Valdez oil spill, USA
CIS Geographic Information System
GPS Geographic Positioning System
HSMBC Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada
ILO International Labour Organization
ILUA Indigenous Land Use Agreement, Australia
IPS Indigenous Peoples' Secretariat
KMAO Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area, Russia
NAGRPA Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, 1 990, USA
NHP National Historic Park, USA
NHPA National Historic Preservation Act, 1 966, USA
NHS NatioanI Historic Site, Canada
NAA-SI National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution, USA
NPP National Park and Preserve, USA
NPS National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior
NWT Northwest Territories, Canada
RAIPON Russian Association of the Indigenous Peoples of the North, Russia
RRICNH Russian Research Institute for Cultural and Natural Heritage, Moscow, Russia
TCP Traditional Cultural Properties
TEK Traditional Ecological (Environmental) Knowledge
USFWS United States Fish and Wildlife Service
USGS United States Geological Survey
WACH Western Arctic Caribou Herd, Alaska
X i i i
1/Mt. Drum in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, Alaska. The Ahtna Athapaskans living in this area called this 12,01 0-foot
peak "Upriver K'elt'aeni. " Nearby Mount Sanford is Downriver K'elt'aeni, while Mt. Wrangell is simply K'elt'aeni. Many
Athapskans tend to render all directions as "upriver" or "downriver. " The name K'elt'aeni seems to mean 'The One That
Controls,"apparently referring to the weather.
xiv
foreword
Today, few scholars would question the importance
of "landscape" as an integrating concept in understand-
ing cultural traditions. Landscape approaches have been
applied for several decades in European and North
American scholarship. In American anthropology, land-
scape theory has been influenced strongly by Julian
Steward's concept of cultural ecology and more re-
cently by increasingly integrative approaches combin-
ing environmental studies, ecology, history, and an-
thropology. More recent movements toward under-
standing ethnographic landscapes are being fostered
by growing collaboration between scientists and na-
tive partners in studies of climate and environmental
change, natural resource distribution, subsistence prac-
tices, and many other topics having a geographic com-
ponent. The extension of such studies into historical
periods and the deep past and growth in scientific
knowledge of paleoenvironments and effects of cli-
mate change expand these frontiers still further.
Native American groups, especially in North
America, are playing an important role in advocating
that these concepts of cultural and ethnographic land-
scape be included into government programs and
management policies. Nevertheless, it is encouraging
to discover a government agency building such an
idea into its management policy. Unlike other nations
that have recognized the importance of culture (ad-
mittedly, often a "national" culture, not always "cul-
tures"), the United States has not had a distinguished
record of heritage preservation in general or of cultural
preservation in particular. Such themes have generally
been relegated to museums, scholars, and private in-
terest groups rather than governments. Therefore, I was
delighted when Ted Birkedal of the Alaska Office of
the National Park Service (NPS) expressed interest in
having the Arctic Studies Center collaborate with the
NPS to conduct a study of how the concept "ethno-
graphic landscapes" was being utilized in scientific lit-
erature and government policy in the circumpolar
region.The Arctic Studies Center was familiar with how
park systems operate among many arctic nations and
was actively conducting research and educational pro-
gram throughout this region. As the editors explain in
their introduction, the initial idea was to provide a state-
of-the-art overview that could be used by the NPS in
their policy formation process. While it took us several
years to design the study and identify partners, this
publication represents the perspectives of specialists
involved in key organizations and projects. The result
is, of course, only a sampling of thought and practice
as applied to the arctic and subarctic region.
The Arctic Studies Center has been pleased to col-
laborate with the National Park Service's Alaska Office
in this effort by bringing together a body of new knowl-
edge and practice in the field of heritage preservation.
The inclusion of ethnographic and cultural landscapes
as valuable elements of national heritage conserva-
tion provides an important new opportunity for rec-
ognizing the contributions of culture, ethnography, and
the traditions of indigenous arctic residents; it also pro-
vides an important perspective for understanding cul-
tural similarities and differences around the globe.
William W. Fitzhugh, Director
Arctic Studies Center
X V
2/Masik site at the entrance to Mechigmen Bay, Chukchi Peninsula, Siberia. This ancient whaling settlement was abandoned
around 1 950; but family visits, memories, and stories associated with the site keep the old landscape alive.
xvi
introduction
Landscapes, perspectives, and jXjations
IGOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON,
AND SUSAN BUGCEY
The creation of this book is a remarkable story worth
sharing with its readers. In the late 1 990s, the Cultural
Resources office of the U.S. Department of Interior's
National Park Service (NPS) in Anchorage, Alaska, con-
sidered contracting a junior archaeologist or a gradu-
ate student for a fairly standard service: producing an
overview of the current literature and policy documents
about cultural and ethnographic landscape preserva-
tion in some northern countries. Money was available
and the terms of reference were clear; nobody believed
that it would take more than a few months to produce a
50-60 page report for the agency's internal use only.
The NPS' Alaska Regional Office was eager to look
at other nations' policies on ethnographic landscapes
for several reasons. By that time, several federal and
state legislative actions, NPS-led initiatives pertaining
to Native Americans' heritage and ancestral lands, had
been adopted. Many collaborative projects with Na-
tive communities were under way, both in Alaska and
elsewhere in the United States. After several decades
of protecting '"historic sites"~historic monuments and
buildings, battlefields, archaeological ruins, and remains
along pioneer trails—the NPS finally acknowledged
the need to extend protective status to heritage places
that may have, but equally may not have any visible
traces of human activities.
This recognition opened the way for a new vision
of heritage preservation that was far more suitable to
the Native American perspective. It included physical
landscapes with great value to indigenous people, re-
flected in their associated myths, stories, rituals, and
spiritual practices. As a result, new terms, such as "his-
toric properties," "tribal preservation," and "indigenous
cultural (or ethnographic) landscapes" appeared on the
Native American public agendas and in NPS documen-
tation alike (cf. Parker 1 990; Stoffle et al. 1 997). In 1 990,
the NPS institutionalized a distinct Cultural Landscapes
Program that addressed serious inadequacies in national
preservation policies, particularly affecting the lands
that were of special value to Native Americans (see
Norton, this volume). It was clear that this area would
require innovative approaches in management and pro-
tection. In fact, the new notion of 'ethnographic land-
scapes' would become one of the most contentious
policy issues for years to come.
At the federal level, the Native American Graves
Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) of 1 990 sym-
bolized a huge step in recognizing the cultural pres-
ence of Native Americans on their ancestral lands and
in requiring by law that all human remains and funerary
items discovered on federal grounds be repatriated to
associated tribes. Two years later, the 1 992 amendment
to the National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) of
1 967 required that places significant to Native Ameri-
cans be conserved with other culturally significant sites
that are part of a diverse national heritage. In 1996,
Executive Order 1 3007 explicitly protected Native
Americans' access to their sacred sites provided under
1
the American Indian Religious Freedom Act (AIRFA) of
1978 (Mason, this volume). In Alaska, negotiations
between the NFS and Russian park managers had been
under way since the late 1 980s to establish a new joint
"Beringia International Park" on both sides of the Bering
Strait. Key among its many declared functions was the
protection of landscapes, monuments, and the subsis-
tence activities of indigenous people as well as their
ties to the ancestral lands and their historical connec-
tions to each other. The "Shared Beringia Heritage Pro-
gram," established in 1 991 under the NPS Alaska office,
offered strong support to such ties and connections
through research, conferences, and cultural exchanges
across the Bering Strait (Beringian Heritage 1989;
Callaway 2003; Vdovin 1990).
Those transitions in U.S. attitudes toward indigenous
lands and landscapes went hand-in-hand or were often
preceded by similar developments in Canada (Buggey
1 999, this volume), Norway (Holand, this volume), and
several other countries, particularly Australia and New
Zealand. The crucial role of UNESCO cannot be over-
estimated, notably since 1992, when it introduced the
term "cultural landscapes" to its operational guidelines
pertaining to the World Heritage Convention of 1972.
It recognized them as "the combined works of nature
and of man" and "the interaction between humankind
and nature," and it officially acknowledged that "the
protection of traditional cultural landscapes is . . . help-
ful in maintaining biological diversity" (UNECSO 1 996x1.
36-38). By 2002, about thirty cultural landscapes were
inscribed on UNESCO's 'World Heritage List (Fowler
2003:ch.3).' Scientific literature was bubbling up with
new monographs, conference proceedings, and project
reports, including three seminal international volumes
on cultural landscapes published under the One World
Archaeology senes (Carmichael et al. 1994; Smith and
Wobst, in press; Ucko and Layton 1 999; see also Alanen
and Melnick 2000; Bender 1 992; Feld and Basso 1 996;
Hirsch and O'Hanlon 1995; Mitchell 1994; Thompson
1995; Tilley 1994). At the same time, the NPS Alaska
office supported several field programs aimed at docu-
menting Native Alaskan oral traditions associated with
protected landscapes around the prospective 'Beringia'
Park and elsewhere across the state (Simon and Cerlach
1991; Fair and Ningeulook 1994; Schaaff 1996; Fair,
this volume; Callaway, this volume). New data and ex-
pertise argued strongly in favor of shifting the NPS'
focus toward ethnographic landscapes as the next cut-
ting edge in its activities, particularly in the areas criti-
cal to Native Americans' lives, history, and heritage.^
Despite all these factors and the establishment of a
special "Cultural Landscapes Program" at the NPS Alaska
office (which recognized ethnographic landscapes as a
particular focus of its activities in 1 998), several gray
areas remained. No clear instructions existed on how
to deal with ethnographic landscapes and the associ-
ated traditions of indigenous people, from the park
management perspective. A tentative definition of what
constitutes an "ethnographic landscape,"^ developed un-
der the NPS guidelines, proved to be of limited man-
agement value. National Register Bulletin 38 (Parker
and King 1 990), part of a series that was so instrumental
in developing the NPS cultural landscapes framework,
offered little help, since its primary focus remained physi-
cal landscapes. Anthropologists working with northern
Native communities were quick to point to the whole
spectrum of invisible indigenous legacies associated
with ethnographic landscapes—myths, dreams, personal
stories and names, place-names, teaching and initiation
practices. Without Native people's participation, those
legacies remained hidden to park managers and were
not listed on their preservation mandates. Therefore,
new expertise was needed and more information had
to be collected to tackle the ethnographic landscape
challenge, for both theoretical and practical purposes.
A Book Project Emerges
The initial idea of contracting with a student to do a
brief in-house review was quickly abandoned, and the
NPS opted to collaborate with the Arctic Studies Cen-
ter (ASC) of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington,
D.C. By that time, the ASC was conducting its own
2 INTRODUCTION
heritage landscape studies and site surveys in Canada
(Labrador), Alaska, and Russia (Yamal Peninsula in West
Siberia). The ASC also had a long history of coopera-
tion with the NPS, particularly with its Alaska office.
Smithsonian anthropologists promptly suggested that
the project be turned into an international venture and
that it present authentic visions and voices from many
northern nations besides the U.S., including Canada,
Russia, and the Scandinavian countries. The appear-
ance of a Parks Canada special report. An Approach to
Aboriginal Cultural Landscapes (Buggey 1 999), with its
trove of information on the Canadian approach to heri-
tage landscape preservation, made such an idea even
more appealing.
For about a year the main vision for the study cen-
tered on an international workshop, with speakers from
several countries presenting their national policy pa-
pers. In 2000, Igor Krupnik, the ASC ethnologist, intro-
duced a new scenario for the project. Instead of a con-
ference to be held in Washington, D.C. or Anchorage,
Krupnik suggested producing an edited volume of in-
vited papers written by scholars and managers from
several northern nations. Such an international collec-
tion of articles would be published jointly by the ASC
(Smithsonian Institution) and the NPS. The main incen-
tive to prospective contributors would be the potential
to demonstrate a circumpolar diversity of perspectives
and approaches to ethnographic landscapes in a single
book. This approach positioned the U.S.-Alaskan heri-
tage preservation policy as an important component (if
not the key magnet) of the book, something not en-
visioned under the original plan. The NPS gladly
accepted this new vision. Two of its Alaskan ethnog-
raphers, Rachel Mason and Donald Callaway, and the
manager of the Alaskan NPS cultural landscapes pro-
gram, Tonia Horton, agreed to write papers for the book,
and Mason and Horton became its co-editors. Krupnik,
was named the lead editor for the volume, and he went
on trips to Russia (Fall of 2000), and to Norway and
Canada (Spring of 2001 ) to look for possible authors.
The response to a joint international volume on
ethnographic landscape preser^/ation was overwhelm-
ingly enthusiastic, even though most of the invited
authors had never met and often had never heard of
each other's work in the same field. By late 2002 the
book's core had been assembled with contributions
from the U.S., Canada, Russia, Norway, Iceland, and Aus-
tralia (see below). Authors include park management
specialists, heritage administrators and scholars, cultural
anthropologists, and indigenous researchers (see Con-
tributors list). It took two more years to complete the
project and to produce this volume as a part of the new
Smithsonian series. Contribution to CircumpolarAnthro-
pology, published by the ASC.
Indigenous/Aboriginal Approach to Landscape
As has been asserted repeatedly, indigenous peoples
in many parts of the world view landscapes in ways
common to their experience but different from West-
ern views on land, landscape, and historic heritage
(Buggey 1999:1).'' Indigenous people view the rela-
tionship between people and places in holistic and
often openly spiritual terms, rather than seeing it pri-
marily in terms of material interests and ownership/
property rights. This does not mean that they have no
material interests in land and landscapes, or that their
subsistence use of land and landscape lacks any no-
tion of land ownership, based on tribal, clan, or family
ties. The difference is, first and foremost, in the priori-
ties that indigenous people put into their perspective
on landscape—or, for that matter, the seascape, i.e., the
waters they use or travel through. Most indigenous com-
munities, particularly hunter-gatherers and herders, re-
gard themselves as an integral part of the holistic and
living landscape. Within this worldview, people are at
one with the landscape, which also includes animals,
plants, known and mythological ancestors, and various
supernatural beings, like animal keepers, malignant spir-
its, and non-empirical creatures. The spirits of all these
entities inhabit the landscape, which—according to in-
digenous views— is a multi-faceted and densely popu-
lated place, well beyond humans' daily presence.
IGOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON, AND SUSAN BUGGEY 3
Traditional aboriginal cosmologies similarly saw a
relationship of the earth and sky, the elements, the
dirertions, the seasons, the life species, and mythic trans-
formers to the lands that people have occupied since
ancient times. All those elements were also connected
via journeys or paths through space and time that once
were accessible to humans' mythological ancestors and
that still are/were accessible to shamans and even to
some ordinary people through dreams, initiations, or
visionary revelations. In this perspective, land and land-
scapes are revered in total as well as in specific physi-
cal incarnations, such as mountains, lakes, rocks, stones,
capes, trees, etc. Those physical incarnations are prima-
rily, though not exclusively, regarded as places of con-
nectivity, nodes of spiritual power, or markers of paths
andjourneys related to ancestors, shamans, animal spirits,
or supernatural beings.
This is, of course, a condensed and a bit idealized
compilation of what may be called "aboriginal world
views" (Buggey 1999:1-3). In reality, views on land-
scape differ substantially from one group to another
and also change through time. Even classical tribal eth-
nographies of the nineteenth and early twentieth cen-
turies often documented only fragments or traces of
the elements of this generic complex. Introduced reli-
gions, particularly Christianity, and later, modern edu-
cation, also made huge inroads in indigenous perspec-
tives in many northern areas; both contributed sub-
stantially to the erosion of the old holistic visions
(Krupnik and Vakhtin 1 997). Nevertheless, traditional
knowledge in the form of myths, narratives, place-
names, and ecological lore, bequeathed through oral
tradition from generation to generation, has embod-
ied and preserved indigenous people's relationship to
the land, from the ancestral times to the present. Such
a holistic view is often cited as a key in understanding
indigenous conceptualization of the land, the land-
scape, and its cultural resources (Stoffle and Evans 1 990;
Stoffle et al. 1 997:232). Today's northern people differ
greatly in terms of their individual knowledge and abil-
ity to articulate their specific ties to the land; but they
voice their unity with the land immediately when con-
fronted with another view of the same landscape es-
poused by resource and heritage managers, govern-
ment people, and scientists.
Besides their specific vision of the land and land-
scapes, indigenous northern people have a particular
view of history (cf. Buggey 1 999:3). Their approach to
history is primarily through cosmology, narratives, ge-
nealogies, and places—rather than through written
records, fixed dates, and established time sequences.
Elements of the land often become markers of time
and of past events, particularly through place- names
and associated stories that are remembered and trans-
mitted to younger generations. Under this vision, the
land is "like a book" to indigenous people (see Andrews,
this volume); it is their most solid chronicle and a tribal
register that unites group members through shared
memories, residence, and affiliation. The land also acts
as an ever-present teaching ground, a classroom to which
the elderly and the learned bring the young and the
uneducated.
With this in mind, we would like to endorse the
following definition of indigenous "ethnographic land-
scape" that was formulated earlier by one of the co-
authors of this Introduction (Buggey 1 999:27):
An 'ethnographic landscape [or '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 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.
The key components to this definition—long and
complex relationship between people and land; the
idea of people's unity with both natural and spiritual
environment; the expression of people's ties to the
landscape primarily through their cultural knowledge;
and the unimportance of material remains in support-
ing such ties—are all critical indicators. They fuse into
that which anthropologists call the "living group iden-
4 INTRODUCTION
tity," that is, a cognized feeling of today's cultural speci-
ficity and belonging, actively transmitted within the com-
munity and among the generations. We believe, this is
the pillar in approaching indigenous cultural (ethno-
graphic) landscapes, rather than the constructs com-
monly used by heritage managers, such as "historic
memory," "testimonies to past glory," "monuments of
human creativity," "aesthetic values," and others. In many
well documented cases, such a vision collided with the
indigenous approach to land, landscape, and history—
almost universally with great loss and harm to indig-
enous people (cf. Keller and Turek 1998). Recently,
however, the trend is gradually being reversed—whether
the issue at stake is a claim to land-use or to specific
resources, access to land for particular spiritual purpose,
or a government-initiated designation of lands as wild-
life sanctuaries, parks, or heritage areas.
The concept of "northern wilderness" that had served
for decades as the cornerstone for all approaches to
landscape protection was the first to change its status,
as illustrated by several chapters in this volume. Whether
focused on the pristine nature of vast northern expanses
or on "untouched" arctic ecosystems, it argued for north-
ern lands to be protected for the purpose of nature
preservation, or as the nation's treasure, or for the sake
of future generations—that is, independent and irre-
spective of its residents, northern peoples, as well as of
their values, memories, traditions, and their current use
of the land. While still popular with the broad public,
some conservationist groups, and tourist agencies alike,
the "northern wilderness" paradigm is quickly losing its
appeal among parks- and heritage managers in many
northern countries (see several papers in Catton 1997
and Burks 1994, specifically Turner 1994; Muk and
Byaliss-Smith 1 999; also chapters by Buggey, Callaway,
Norton, Mason, Shul'gin, Ward and Bollason, Wiget and
Balalaeva, this volume).
The recognition of indigenous landscapes—via the
score of new policies and projects described in this
book—constitutes a milestone in this transition. The
designation and protection of certain landscapes, be-
cause of their specific cultural meaning to indigenous
people, paves the way to a far more respectful and in-
formed approach to aboriginal cultures and to the gen-
eral heritage of all local peoples. It applies to every
northern nation whose preservation practices are de-
scribed in this book. It also elevates the status of ab-
original views on landscape and land-human relation-
ships to the sphere of legislative actions, management
instructions, budget allocations, and daily work of the
respective governmental agencies. As heritage manag-
ers, scholars, cultural anthropologists, and citizens, we
applaud such a transition.
The Structure of the Volume
As chapters of this volume were gradually taking shape,
it became clear that the book would address three dif-
ferent perspectives, or levels, in northern ethnographic
landscape preservation. The first level analyzes what
may be called "national doctrines": the established of-
ficial approaches and management systems of individual
polar countries, like Canada, the U.S., Russia, and oth-
ers. This represents a view from the top, a reflection of
the general ideology that is usually developed and
espoused by the main national preservation agency or
associated research institutions. At the opposite end of
the spectrum is a specific bottom view that comes from
the "foot soldiers" in the trenches, such as park manag-
ers and researchers, engaged in particular local pro-
grams or projects. Those local experiences illustrate
the true diversity and on-the-ground realities that are
often hard to grasp from major national policy docu-
ments. Finally, the middle stands for a regional per-
spective in management that comes from local hubs
and regional agencies, and is shaped by decades of
accumulated practical studies and management deci-
sions. It also represents unique blends of local histo-
ries, administrative politics, and population mixtures
typical of each major northern region.
Most of our authors have worn several hats during
their professional careers, and each person has his or
her heartfelt story about ethnographic landscape re-
ICOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON, AND SUSAN BUGGEY 5
search or management to share. No individual chapter
in this volume, therefore, speaks for only one particu-
lar "beast". Still, we found it useful to group the papers
along national, local, and regional lines, and to orga-
nize the book in three main sections, according to
those major visions.
Part 1 : State Policies from Four Arctic Nations
Part One is made up of five papers. Arranged geographi-
cally, each paper represents a nation: Canada (Susan
Buggey), the U.S. (Rachel Mason and Tonia Norton),
Norway (Ingegerd Holand), and Russia (Pavel Shul'gin).
Altogether those four countries cover almost eighty-
five percent of the circumpolar land area. We regret our
lack of information on ethnographic landscape poli-
cies in Greenland, Sweden, and Finland; a paper by
Elisabeth Ward and Arthur Bollason (see below) at least
partially represent the situation in Iceland. The two pa-
pers covering heritage landscape preservation in Alaska
comes from the realities of the U.S. National Park Ser-
vice system that recognizes "cultural landscapes" and
"ethnographic landscapes ' as two separate programs.
Similarly, the two institutionalized visions on heritage
landscapes in Norway are represented by the main gov-
ernmental heritage agency, Riksantikvaren {Ho\ar\6, this
section), and by the Sami Parliament (Falch and Skandfer,
below).
Part 2: Protecting 'The Invisible": Ethnographic Land-
scape Stories Across the Arctic Zone
Part Two is made up of seven chapters, which follow a
thematic, rather than a geographic, progression. They
illustrate the richness and variety of local ethnographic
landscapes; each paper describes a specific research,
documentation, or a local management effort.
The section starts with ethnographic landscapes
having the greatest physical visibility of human traces
on the ground, such as material constructions built for
subsistence activities in the boreal marshland areas of
West Siberia (Andrew Wiget and Olga Balalaeva) or at
indigenous ritual sites across the Siberian tundra used
by nomadic reindeer herders (Calina Kharyuchi). It moves
to a more complex overlap of indigenous and mana-
gerial perspectives on protected landscapes in Alaska
(Donald Callaway), with their conflicting intertwinement
of uses, boundaries, markers, and regimes. A different
mixture is presented by the story of a complex multi-
layer heritage landscape of a contemporary Native com-
munity, the village of Sivuqaq/Gambell on St. Lawrence
Island, Alaska (Igor Krupnik). Here, the overlapping traces
of earlier ethnographic landscapes are engrained both
in remains and in human memories stretching back to
the past The section progresses to even more intan-
gible markers of human presence on the land, such as
Native place-names from the Seward Peninsula in North-
west Alaska (Susan Fair), and to virtual heritage land-
scapes re-created by projecting medieval Icelandic saga
stories onto the twenty-first century terrain (Elisabeth
Ward and Arthur Bollason). In the two latter cases, the
ethnographic landscape barely exists beyond the hu-
man mind; it is being created and transmitted by the
sheer power of community memory and its adherence
to the ancestors' traditions. The last paper presents the
most extreme case of "invisible" heritage landscape,
almost beyond today's park managers' imagination. It
deals with the purely mental constructs of ocean fish-
ing grounds and "seascapes" of the ocean bottom off
the coast of northern Norway (Anita Maurstad). These
products of generations of accumulated fishermen's
knowledge are both the most elusive and the hardest
types of "scapes" to manage, as they literally cease to
exist at the moment the fishermen leave the place.
Part 3: RegionalApproaches to Ethnographic Land-
scape Documentation and Protection
Part Three has four chapters, which are, again, orga-
nized geographically to cover Canada, U.S., Russia, and
Norway. In this section the authors present more tar-
geted regional reviews peppered with individualized
experience from the ongoing heritage landscape pro-
6 INTRODUCTION
Tgrams in the Canadian Northwest Territories (Tom
Andrews), in two Alaskan National Parks (Tonia Norton),
in the Russian Yamal Autonomous Area, in northern
West Siberia (Natalia Fedorova), as well as from the
work of the Sami Parliament and of its former Sami
Cultural Heritage Council on the protection of the Sami
heritage landscapes in Norway (Torvald Falch and
Marianne Skandfer). We believe that those four chap-
ters, framed by years—often, decades—^of their authors'
involvement in local research and documentation/pres-
ervation efforts, will be both illustrative and indicative
of current trends across the circumpolar North. We hope
that further writers and publishers explore this vast body
of northern landscape management expertise that we
cannot explore here beyond a few selected stories.
^
Part Four and Epilogue
The final section offers our readers a look at heritage
landscapes preservation outside the northern polar zone.
In a book about northern landscapes, we had space for
just one compelling perspective from outside the Arc-
tic—a paper about the management of aboriginal heri-
tage landscapes and seascapes in Australia (Claire Smith
and Heather Burke). We believe that the Australian ex-
perience is particularly relevant to heritage manage-
ment in the North, not only because the Australians
pioneered the idea of indigenous heritage landscapes,
but also because so much in Australian indigenous
landscapes is about 'invisible' elements such as myths,
dreams and 'dreamlands,' place-names, ancestral jour-
neys, story-scapes, and knowledge initiation rites.
The volume concludes with an Epilogue by Ellen
Lee, Director of the Archaeological Service Branch of
Parks Canada. Her remarks review some of the many
institutional hurdles and bottlenecks in heritage land-
scape preservation and in carrying the message out to
the general public and to policy-makers. It reiterates
the key line of every chapter in this volume that points
to partnership with northern aboriginal communities as
the best strategy to better document and to protect
the invisible heritage of their lands.
Lessons and Messages
As always, the edited chapters and the final printed
volume represent only a fraction of what has been as-
sembled and reviewed during our project. As we pe-
rused the many paper drafts, agency reports, and sec-
ondary literature, several themes emerged as common
experiences from across the northern regions. In the
final section of this Introduction, we want to share a
few critical lessons we learned through this process.
We also consider these points as our key messages to
park managers, researchers, and to general readers in-
terested in the issues of northern ethnographic land-
scapes policies, preservation, and documentation.
Definition
Our first message is that there is a common understand-
ing among researchers and managers in many northern
countries about what constitutes an etiinograplnic land-
scape. But neither a good working definition nor a prac-
tical management approach transcends the boundaries
of the respective nations. Landscape scholars and man-
agers quote each other's policy documents and papers
actively, but their daily operations take place in the
legal and administrative spaces of their respective na-
tional systems. Of the four national approaches reviewed
in our volume—those of Canada, the U.S., Norway, and
Russia—two national systems (the U.S. and Russia) use
the term "ethnographic landscape," whereas two other
systems (Canada and Norway) stick to the term "cul-
tural landscape" instead, with the added terms "aborigi-
nal" and "Sami," respectively. This demonstrates that
true convergence of policies and approaches is still far
ahead of us, if ever attainable, given the diversity of
peoples, traditions, politics, and histories across the cir-
cumpolar zone.
In every northern country landscape managers and
scholars now agree that the preservation of "ethno-
graphic landscapes" is of critical importance to its Na-
ICOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON, AND SUSAN BUGCEY 7
tive residents. In the long run, it may be as crucial to
the continuity of their cultures and identities as physi-
cal access to ancestral lands, in terms of subsistence
activities, mobility, and use of traditional resource and
community sites (Parker 1990). However, little public
understanding and a great deal of managerial discord
exist about what actually constitutes an indigenous "eth-
nographic landscape" and how such a landscape can
be protected.
One may argue that there is only a minor semantic
difference between the American vision of "ethnographic
landscape" and the Canadian "aboriginal cultural land-
scape," and that the more distinctive Norwegian and
Russian definitions fall more or less within the same
realm. But the seemingly minor semantic distinctions
may conceal more important practical differences. For
example, under the U.S. National Park Service, ethno-
graphic landscapes are just one of /bwr recognized types
of cultural landscapes (in addition to historic sites, his-
toric designed landscapes, and historic vernacular land-
scapes—see papers by Mason and Norton, this vol-
ume). Ethnographic landscapes, defined herein by the
MPS as "containing a variety of natural and cultural
resources that associated people define as heritage re-
sources," are clearly perceived as a combination of cer-
tain valuable resources that have to be identified, listed,
and protected. The NPS' Ethnography Program, how-
ever, uses a different definition that presents an ethno-
graphic landscape as "a relatively contiguous area of
interrelated places that the members of contemporary
social groups define as meaningful because it is inex-
tricably and traditionally linked to their own local or
regional histories, cultural identities, beliefs, and be-
haviors." Under that vision, the focus is upon certain
"contiguous areas" and places that must be, similarly,
identified and protected.
Canada's definition sees a cultural landscape as "any
geographical area that has been modified, influenced,
or given special cultural meaning by people" (Parks
Canada 1 994:1 1 9). In contrast to the U.S. definition,
it stresses the role of human impact upon the land-
scape. Within this wide scope, it generally follows
the anthropologically-inspired typology of the
UNESCO World Heritage Convention (UNESCO 1996,
cl.39). Common grounds are quite obvious; but one
has to have extensive insider knowledge to grasp the
practical differences.
Though accepted in their respective management
systems, those definitions are but a starting point. They
co-exist with several other related terms that some-
times offer a more instrumental perspective, such as
"sacred landscape" (Carmichael 1 994), "sacred sites"
(Balalaeva 1 999), "sacred places" (Kelley and Francis
1 994), "spiritual (or ceremonial) lands," "spiritual geog-
raphy" (Griffith 1 992), "symbolic landscape" (Burley 1 991
;
Schanche 1 995), "ancestral lands," "holy lands" (Spicer
1957), "holy grounds" (Schlee 1990), "storyscapes"
(Stoffle et al 1 997), and others.'' They also lack a func-
tional aspect indicative of the specific origin or uses of
an ethnographic landscape. Every typology has certain
gray areas of ambiguity; some authors argue that all
socially relevant landscapes are symbolic and histori-
cal (Cosgrove 1989; Ingold 1991).
Definitions inevitably have limited operational value
and have to be elaborated by specific identification
guidelines that address the distinctive qualities of dif-
ferent types of landscapes. In terms of implicit guide-
lines for identifying and especially for managing ar-
eas that could be labeled ethnographic versus other
recognized types of cultural landscapes, much work
is urgently needed. We cannot offer a plausible re-
sponse to this challenge, besides pointing out that vari-
ous symbolic landscapes have an interwoven and even
conflicting history, and that flexibility, openness, and
consultations are the best tools in dealing with "virtual
realities," such as ethnographic landscapes.
Knowledge
Although both the title of this book and the various
policy and management systems it represents feature
the terms "lands" and "landscapes," the real subject is,
in fact, knowledge. It is the human knowledge about
8 INTRODUCTION
the landscape, preserved and transmitted by its resi-
dents (or, often, former residents), that gives its magic
touch to northern lands and waters. Verbalized human
tradition transforms the vast and mostly unpopulated
arctic areas with no signs and street markers, or a terrain
dotted with anonymous archaeological remains, into
meaningful cultural space.
We believe that such an explicit focus on human
knowledge and tradition is critical in developing poli-
cies regarding ethnographic landscape preservation.
Unlike a physical landscape, an ethnographic landscape
is alive and meaningful as long as it is supported by
viable and accessible cultural knowledge. In a reverse
statement, the extinction of cultural knowledge associ-
ated with a certain landscape returns it to the status of
wilderness or makes it an empty land with barely seen
remnants of former occupation.
We would argue that in practical managerial terms it
is, therefore, as important to preserve and support the
knowledge about the land (through documentation,
education, and other heritage efforts) as it is to estab-
lish a vigorous protective regime for the land itself. A
compelling example comes from the fishermen's knowl-
edge of seascape (Maurstad, this volume). When the
fishermen are gone, and their knowledge of bays, cur-
rents, ocean floor, and specific fishing sites is lost, the
age-built cultural seascape reverts back to the "wild"
ocean or is reduced to a nautical chart. There would be,
in fact, nothing more to protect than lighthouses and
fish stocks.
The focus on human knowledge, rather than on the
land or landscape itself, offers new prospects for long-
term preservation and even for a restoration of certain
ethnographic landscapes. Indeed, knowledge preserved
in writing or orally within the present or former resi-
dential community may bring new life to the old cul-
tural landscape. Old knowledge is the only path to
restore cultural value to the landscape that has lost its
original meaning for its current residents and land man-
agers. The unique preservation of early medieval oral
histories (sagas) in Iceland helped revitalize "virtual
ethnographic landscapes ' of the past and turn them
to today's use for tourism and heritage education (Ward
and Bollason, this volume). Therefore, today's invest-
ment in documenting the knowledge related to north-
ern ethnographic landscapes may be the best and the
most sound policy to assure their continuity in the
future.
Cooperation
As many papers in this volume illustrate, documenting
ethnographic landscapes is a collaborative process.
There is a huge mental gap to bridge and a great dis-
tance to cover between the offices of heritage preser-
vation agencies (even those located in the northern
regions) and the indigenous communities who created
and maintained local ethnographic landscapes over
generations. Here nothing can be done without true
collaboration, mutual trust, and respect. Cultural sensi-
tivity is crucial in approaching the most invisible as-
pects of Native legacy related to ethnographic land-
scapes and to people's bonds to their ancestral lands.
Whereas heritage managers may address local com-
munities directly and often do a thorough job in col-
lecting knowledge about landscapes, we believe that
three other groups of players are critical to this pro-
cess. The first are respected indigenous experts, usu-
ally elders. They embody local heritage and tradition,
and they act as the most legitimate and authoritative
spokespersons for their communities. Cultural anthro-
pologists, with established ties to local groups and ex-
tensive first-hand knowledge of their tradition, make
up the second group. Local educators, particularly those
from within the Native communities, are the third type
of players. Their role in landscape documentation and
preservation is absolutely critical, though greatly un-
derestimated. Their main input is in formatting the
knowledge of elders (and of anthropologists) into sto-
ries and texts appealing to the younger generations of
Native people, who will be the bearers and protectors
of local ethnographic landscapes for decades to come.
Through our personal experience—and more than
IGOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON, AND SUSAN BUCCEY 9
ever, after this volume—we believe that no documen-
tation and no protection of ethnographic landscapes
can be successful without the full involvement of local
communities. We regard this as the key message of our
collective effort and we want it to be heard clearly by
policy-makers, heritage professionals, and public alike.
Acknowledgements
This Northern Ethnographic Landscapes volume is an
outcome of collaboration between the NPS Alaska
Regional Office in Anchorage and the Smithsonian Arc-
tic Studies Center. This book would never have materi-
alized if not for friendly guidance as well as the logisti-
cal and financial backing of the NPS in Alaska. Within
the NPS Alaska Regional Office we are especially grate-
ful to Ted Birkedal, Cultural Resources Team Manager,
and to Steve Peterson, Senior Historical Architect. They
developed the initial concept of a report on interna-
tional practices in northern ethnographic landscapes
documentation and they have supported the project
through every stage of its implementation. Donald
Callaway, Senior Cultural Anthropologist, was our NPS
project liaison. At the Smithsonian, William W. Fitzhugh,
the ASC Director, was always a source of friendly en-
couragement and insight; Stephen Loring and Aron
Crowell shared their knowledge and offered good ad-
vice. We thank you all.
Several more people were instrumental in intro-
ducing prospective contributors, sharing their exper-
tise, and providing other forms of support. In Alaska,
we are grateful to Judy Gottlieb, the NPS Associate
Regional Director for Subsistence and Partnerships, in
Anchorage; and to Leigh Selig, then Assistant Superin-
tendent, Western Arctic National Parklands, in Nome.
In Canada, we thank Ellen Lee and Helene Chabot at
Parks Canada in Ottawa; Norman Hallendy in Carp,
Ontario; and Rick Armstrong at the Nunavut Research
Institute in Iqaluit, Nunavut. In Norway, we received
great support from Ole Gron at the Norwegian Institute
for Cultural Heritage Research (NIKU) in Oslo; Audhild
Schanche at the Nordic Sami Institute and Alf Isak
Keskitalo at the Guovdageaidnu Municipal Museum in
Kautokeino; Bjornar Olsen and Henry Minde at the
University of Tromso in Tromso; Terje Brantenberg and
Ivar Bjorklund at the Tromso Museum, Tromso. In Rus-
sia, Krupnik's trip to Salekhard in fall of 2000 was sup-
ported by the Science Department of the Yamal Area
administration, and was facilitated by Natalia Fedorova,
Sviatoslav Alekseev, and Aleksei Zen'ko.
While working on this volume, we lost one of its
most devoted contributors, the Alaskan folklorist and
art historian Susan Fair, who passed away in 2003. We
are fortunate that Susan's colleague, Herbert Anungazuk
from the NPS Alaska Office, graciously prepared a trib-
ute to Susan's legacy for this collection.
We are grateful to many colleagues who kindly of-
fered their photos for section and text illustrations. These
visual contributions by Thomas Andrews (Yellowknife,
Canada), Sergei Bogoslovskii (Moscow, Russia), Donald
Callaway and Thetus Smith (Anchorage, Alaska), David
Dector (Jerusalem, Israel), William Fitzhugh (Washing-
ton, D.C.), Ingegerd Holand (Oslo, Norway), and John
Hood (Harrow, UK) are very much appreciated.
Our special thanks go to the volume's editorial and
production team. Thetus H. Smith, our style- and tech-
nical editor from the NPS Alaska Office, was instrumen-
tal in bringing individual papers into one consistent
format for the volume. Georgene Sink in Anchorage
assisted with translation of the Russian papers, and Cara
Seitcheck and Katherine Rusk in Washington offered
their editorial skills. Elisabeth Ward and Iris Hahn-Santoro
at the ASC and Bryan Hood in Tromso assisted in trans-
lation and editing of Torvald Falch and Marianne
Skandfer's paper, delivered in Norwegian. We thank
Elisabeth Ward, our volume production editor (now at
Berkeley); Kathleen Paparchontis, who prepared the In-
dex for the volume; and Raissa Macasieb-Ludwig, who
prepared the illustrations for the book.
Finally, we salute all our volume contributors. Our
common journey, from the outset of the project to the
printing of the book, took several years to accomplish.
We would never have made it if not for their enthusi-
10 INTRODUCTION
asm, patience, and comradeship that helped coalesce
many individual studies in several languages and coun-
tries into a collective vision on ethnographic landscapes
preservation across the circumpolar North.
Notes
1 . As of 2002, 29 cultural landscapes have been
nominated from 23 countries (World Heritage Con-
vention 2002). As of this writing, there were 1 5 sites
officially registered as "cultural landscapes" and two
sites listed as "archaeological landscapes," in addi-
tion to 23 "mixed" properties (of which most feature
"outstanding cultural values") on the overall list of
788 "world heritage properties" (http://
whc.unesco.org/pg.cfm?cid-31 ).
2. This turned out to be the right prediction, as
the issue of indigenous ethnographic landscapes
became the key theme for the 29"^ Annual Meeting
of the Alaska Anthropological Association in An-
chorage in 2002 (titled "Lands, Landscapes and Land-
marks") as well as for "WAC-5," the 5* World Archaeo-
logical Congress in Washington, D.C. in 2003.
3. According to the NPS definition, an ethno-
graphic landscape is a landscape that contains "a
variety of natural and cultural resources that associ-
ated people define as heritage resources. Examples
are contemporary settlements, religious sacred sites
and massive geological structures. Small plant com-
munities, animals, subsistence and ceremonial
grounds are often components" (Birnbaum 1994:2;
Hardesty 2000:1 82; see also chapters by Mason and
Norton, this volume).
4. The literature on the issues of indigenous
worldviews and landscapes is indeed enormous. The
most commonly quoted sources include Basso 1 996;
Berkes 1 999; Brody 1 981 ; Frey 2001 ; Kelley and Francis
1 994. For the Northern indigenous people see Fienup-
Riordanl 994; Haliendy 2000; Kari and Fall 1 987/2003;
Kawagley 1 995; Nelson 1 986; Nelson et al. 1 982; Tan-
ner 1979. International collections, with extensive bib-
liographies include Feld and Basso 1996; Grim 2001;
Hirsch and O'Honlon 1 995; Irimoto and Yamada 1 994;
Mills and Slobodin 1994.
5. Again, we regret that the limits of our vol-
ume prevent us from presenting regional data from
other northern countries as well as from other areas
within the four nations covered in the book, like
Nunavut in Canada (Haliendy 2000; Heyes 2002), or
Chukotka in Russia, for which a lot of information is
IGOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON, AND SUSAN BUCCEY
available
6. See also specific northern/Arctic terms, such
as 'memoryscapes' (Nuttal 1 991 ), 'culturescapes' (King
2002), 'visioscapes' (Sejersen 2004). One could ar-
gue that some of these terms refer to different levels
of aboriginal ethnographic landscapes and, thus, may
be organized typologically, if not hierarchically. For
an attempt to produce such an hierarchy of cultural
(ethnographic) landscapes of Southern Paiute people
of the Grand Canyon area see Stoffle et al. 1997.
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IGOR KRUPNIK, RACHEL MASON, AND SUSAN BUCCEY
3/ Ezogokwoo ('bones of Ezo's people'), a sacred place and the site of a major battle between the Dogrib and a
neighbouring group, Northwest Territories, Canada.
STATE POLICIES— PERSPECTIVES FROM FOUR ARCTIC NATIONS

/\n /Approach to /Xborigina!
(^uiturai Landscapes in (panada
SUSAN BUCGEY
Indigenous peoples in many parts of the world view
landscape in ways common to their experience and
different from the Western perspective of land and
landscape. The relationship between people and place
is conceived fundamentally in spiritual terms rather
than primarily material terms. Many indigenous people
consider all the earth to be sacred and regard them-
selves as an integral part of this holistic and living
landscape. They belong to the land and are at one in it
with animals, plants, and ancestors whose spirits inhabit
it. For many, places in the landscape are also sacred, as
places of power, ofjourneys related to spirit beings, of
entities that must be appeased. Laws and gifts from
these spirit beings shaped the cultures and day-to-day
activities of Aboriginal peoples in Canada's North. Inti-
mate knowledge of natural resources and ecosystems
of their areas, developed through long and sustained
contact, and respect for the spirits that inhabit these
places, molded life on the land. Traditional knowledge,
in the form of narratives, place names, and ecological
lore, bequeathed through oral tradition from genera-
tion to generation, embodies and preserves the rela-
tionship to the land. Landscapes "house" these stories,
and protection of these places is key to their long-term
survival in Aboriginal culture.
In Canada's North, Aboriginal peoples have occu-
pied the harsh, varied environment for millennia. A
diversity of historical experience across time and
place, as well as differing current situations, marks the
relationships of people with the region. Today Indi-
ans, Inuit, and Metis comprise approximately fifty
First Nations, speaking predominantly Athapaskan
and Inuktitut in about sixteen different languages.
The area is divided politically into three territories;
Yukon in the west, Northwest Territories in the cen-
ter, and Nunavut in the east. Aboriginal rights and
settlement areas are defined by comprehensive land
claims agreements negotiated between Aboriginal
peoples and the federal government and based on tra-
ditional use and occupancy of lands. Provisions in each
claim differ. Agreements concluded in the past decade
include chapters relating to environment, heritage,
and cultural resources that provide part of the plan-
ning context for national historic sites (Lee 1997).
The Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, es-
tablished in 1991, examined the relationship between
Aboriginal peoples and Canadian society in general,
including government, over time and throughout the
country. Its massive report (Canada 1 996) articulated
Aboriginal worldviews, traditions of knowledge, is-
sues, and recommendations that have situated, or placed
in context, subsequent considerations of Aboriginal heri-
tage. The Supreme Court of Canada decision in the
Delgamuukw case (1 997) marked legal acceptance of
Aboriginal oral history related to a group's traditional
area along with wider implications for Aboriginal
rights related to land ownership.
To recognize the values of Aboriginal cultural land-
scapes (Fig. 4) and to commemorate these places, iden-
tification and evaluation have to focus on Aboriginal
worldviews, rather than on those of non-indigenous
cultures of Western civilization and Western scientific
1 7
tradition. In Canada, national heritage falls under the
purview of the Minister of the Environment. The minis-
ter is advised on the identification of national historic
significance by the Historic Sites and Monuments Board
of Canada (HSMBC), a statutory body composed of
representatives of the ten provinces, three territories,
and three national heritage agencies. Parks Canada, a
federal government agency reporting to the Minister
of the Environment, administers the program of national
historic commemoration. Historically, the history of Ab-
original peoples has been underrepresented in its Na-
tional Historic Sites system, but it is now one of the
priority themes. For a decade, an ongoing dialogue
involving many parties has been exploring ways to
address this neglected aspect of Canada's history. By
1997-98 the HSMBC had specifically identified the
need for an appropriate framework based on "nature,
tradition, continuity, and attachment to the land [. .
.] as
the defining elements in determining historic signifi-
cance" and on "considering groups for commemora-
tion [and] focusing on the importance of place to
the Aboriginal group" (HSMBC Minutes July 1998).
This paper focuses on Canada's North, but it derives
from a national context (Buggey 1 999). It situates
Aboriginal worldviews and place in relation to the
field of cultural landscapes and to national historic
site designations related to the history of Aborigi-
nal people. Various aspects were explored with about
fifty people, who include Parks Canada; provincial
and territorial staff in all parts of the country; con-
sultants with extensive experience in working with
Aboriginal communities; and Aboriginal people in
umbrella organizations and various other positions.
The paper presents guidelines that Canada has de-
veloped for the identification of Aboriginal cultural
landscapes of national historic significance.
4/ Some landscapes important to the history ofAboriginal people in Canada.
SGaang Gwaii
Yuquot
Nagwichoonjik
Edacho
Bear Rock
•Sahyoue
Deline ^
Fishery ridaa Trail
Hay River
Mission Sites
Xa:ytem
Head-Smashed-ln
Buffalo Jump
500 1000
Kilometres
Some Landscapes Important to the History
of .Aboriginal Peoples in Canada
Fall Caribou
Crossing
Enukso Point
Arvia'juaq and
'Oikiqtaarjuk
Newfoundland
and Labrador
Apitipik
Kejimkujik
18 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
Aboriginal Worldviews
To understand the northern landscape requires an
understanding of the related cosmologies. Aboriginal
cosmologies relate earth and sky, the elements, the
directions, the seasons, and mythic transformers to lands
Aboriginals have occupied since ancient times. Guided
by these cosmological relationships, many have cre-
ation stories related to their homelands, and they date
their presence in those places to times when spirit be-
ings traversed the world, transformed themselves at will
between human and animal form, created their ances-
tors, and contoured the landscape. For the Beaver
people of the subarctic, for example, the creation story
focused on Muskrat, the diver who brought a speck of
dirt from the sea bottom to the earth's surface, at a
point that represented the coming together of trails
from the four directions. It focused equally on Swan,
who flew into the sky and brought back the world
and the songs of the seasons. Transformed in vision
quest from the boy Swan to culture hero Saya, who
travels across the sky as sun and moon, he was the
first man to follow the trail of animals and thus estab-
lished the relationship between hunters and their game.
Hunters slept with their heads to the east, the direc-
tion of the rising sun, so that they might dream their
hunt along the trail of the sun before they experienced
it on the physical trail across the land (Ridington
1990:69-73, 91-3).
Certain places embody these cosmological con-
texts. The stages of the journeys and exploits of cul-
ture heroes, such as Yamoria and his namesakes of
several groups through the Mackenzie Basin of the
Northwest Territories, can be related to specific fea-
tures in the landscape (Andrews 1990). These narra-
tives vary from group to group, but their climax occurs
at the same geographical point. Bear Rock on the
Mackenzie River (Fig. 5), where the several features of
the mountain and the archaeological evidence concur
in long association. Many Dene regard Bear Rock as a
sacred site, and its symbolic importance is reflected in
its selection as the logo of the Dene Nation, which
represents the relation between the Dene and Deneneh
(Hanks 1 993). The Cwich'in cycle of stones of the trick-
ster Raven records how the hollows in the landscape
known today at Tsiigehtchic in the Northwest Territo-
ries are his camp and bed (Cwich'in Social and Cultural
Institute 1 997:800-7). In northern Quebec, sites associ-
ated with the travels of the giant beaver still in transfor-
mation mode populate the demographically vacant map
(Craikand Namagoose 1 992:1 7-2 U.
Cosmological relationships and associations with
spirit beings identif/ places of power, where the com-
bination of spirits and place creates environments fa-
vorable for spiritual communication. Identification of
sites along two trails in the Dogrib landscape in the
Northwest Territories, for example, differentiated five
categories of sacred sites to which Dogrib elders ac-
corded recognition:
—Places where the activities of culture heroes are
associated with landscape features;
—Sites inhabited by giant, usually malevolent and
dangerous, "spirit animals;"
—Locations where the dreaming activities of cul-
ture heroes intersected the landscape;
—Places where important resources, such as stone
and ochre, are found;
—Craves.
Twenty sacred sites associated with culture hero
Yamozhah and his exploits in making the land safe
were identified along the Idaa Trail (Andrews et al.
1 998:307-1 4; Andrews, this volume).
The cosmological and mythological associations
of sacred places and the continuing cultural relation-
ship to the spirits and power of these places character-
ize many landscapes important to Aboriginal people
in Canada. Traditional knowledge relates contempo-
rary cultures directly to traditional places. Social struc-
ture, economic activity, language, rituals, and spiritual
beliefs preserve cultural memory through intangible
traditions related to place. Seeing places as markers
SUSAN BUCCEY 19
of identity requires looking at them through the
worldview and experience of the peoples associated
with them. As the report Rakekee Cok'e Codi: Places
We Take Care Of states,
[o]ne of the most important themes in
understanding Sahtu Dene and Metis history
is the relationship between culture and
landscape. Virtually all of Sahtu Dene and
Metis history is written on the land. As such,
the places and sites, which commemorate this
relationship, are an integral part of Sahtu
Dene and Metis identity (Sahtu 2000:1 4).
Narratives and place names bequeathed from genera-
tion to generation relate these spiritual associations
directly to the land.
The Sahtu Dene narratives create a mosaic of
stories that envelop the cultural landscapes of
Grizzly Bear Mountain and Scented Crass
Hills. The web of "myth and memory" spread
beyond the mountains to cover the whole
western end of Great Bear Lake, illustrating
the complexity of the Sahtu Dene's landscape
tradition (HSMBC Minutes November 1996).
The complexity and intensity of Aboriginal belief and
tradition mark the continuous living relationship people
have with the land, and the concept of "land" includes
water and sky as well as earth. The interrelationships of
people, animals, and spirits—as well as kinship and lan-
guage attachments to place—are spiritual, mental, and
emotional aspects of living with a particular environ-
ment. Traditional life, rooted in intimate knowledge of
the natural environment, focused on seasonal move-
ment, which was patterned by movements of animals,
marine resources, and the hunt. Uses and activities, from
harvesting and social gatherings to rituals and ceremo-
nies, are core expressions of relation to the land. Kin-
ship, social relationships, and reciprocal obligations
linked people in this complex round sustained for cen-
turies. These defining attributes of Aboriginal peoples'
attachments to land are more important to them than
place as physical resource.
The inter-connectedness of all aspects of human
life with the living landscape— in social and spiritual
relationships as much as in harvesting—continuously
through time roots Aboriginal cultures in the land. A
working definition declares that
An Aboriginal cultural landscape is a place
valued by an Aboriginal group (or groups)
because of their long and complex relation-
ship with that land. It expresses their unity
with the natural and spiritual environment.
It 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 1 999:27).
The associated people will not necessarily be only
current occupiers or users of the land, but may also
include those who have a historic relationship still sig-
nificant to their culture, such as the Huron-Wendat of
Quebec to the territory in southern Ontario that they
left in the mid-seventeenth century. As well, other
people than the associated group (or groups) may
have used these landscapes and may attach values
to them.
Cultural Landscapes
In identifying cultural landscapes of national historic
significance, Canada follows UNESCO's approach. Af-
ter nearly a decade of debate about the nature of cul-
tural landscapes and their potential outstanding uni-
versal value, in 1992 UNESCO's World Heritage Com-
mittee, the administrative body for the World Heritage
Convention, agreed that "the term 'cultural landscape'
embraces a diversity of manifestations of the interac-
tion between humankind and the natural environmenf
(UNESCO 1996a:37). UNESCO's guidelines focus on
this interaction between societies and the natural world
that shapes the cultural landscape. In addition to this
defining characteristic, it lists a tripartite categorization
of landscapes:
—The clearly defined landscape designed and cre-
ated intentionally by man;
—The organically evolved landscape: relict or con-
tinuing;
—The associative cultural landscape.
These provide an elementary identification of types as
20 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
5/ Bear Rock, on the Mackenzie River, Northwest Territories, is the subject of important traditional teachings and
a sacred site to the Dene people.
aids in tlie identification of where values lie. The third
type, the associative cultural landscape, is justified for
inclusion on the World Heritage List "by virtue of the
powerful religious, artistic or cultural associations of
the natural element rather than material cultural evi-
dence, which may be insignificant or even absent"
(UNESCO 1 996a:39iii). Cultural landscapes associated
with indigenous peoples are most likely to fit in this
category.
Associative cultural landscapes mark a significant
move away from conventional heritage concepts rooted
in physical resources, whether the monuments of cul-
tural heritage or wilderness in natural heritage. They
also accentuate the indivisibility of cultural
and natural values in cultural landscapes. The 1995
Asia-Pacific workshop on associative cultural land-
scapes, held for UNESCO, elaborated on their essential
characteristics:
Associative cultural landscapes may be defined
as large or small contiguous or non-contiguous
areas and itineraries, routes or other linear
landscapes—these may be physical entities or
mental images embedded in a people's spiritual-
ity, cultural tradition and practice. The attributes
of associative cultural landscapes include the
intangible, such as the acoustic, the kinetic and
the olfactory, as well as the visual (Australia
ICOMOS 1995:4).
Associative cultural landscapes are, then, defined by
cultural values related to natural resources. The range
of natural features associated with cosmological, sym-
bolic, sacred, and culturally significant landscapes may
be very broad: mountains, caves, outcrops, coastal wa-
ters, rivers, lakes, pools, hillsides, uplands, plains, woods,
groves, trees. While the physical resources are largely
natural, cultural values transform these places from natu-
ral to cultural landscapes. In language, narratives, sounds,
ceremonies, kinship relationships, and social customs
SUSAN BUGGEY 21
are found cohesive evidences of cultural meanings.
The emergence of cultural landscapes as an inte-
gral part of cultural heritage coincided with interna-
tional recognition in the natural heritage community
that areas long identified as pristine wilderness and
celebrated for their ecological values untouched by
human activity are the homelands of indigenous peoples
and are shaped by long-term, sustainable human occu-
pation. Their management of those landscapes has of-
ten altered the original ecological system, but it has
equally contributed to the biological diversity that has
long been regarded as a prime value of wilderness
(McNeely 1 995). Anthropologists and Aboriginal people
working on traditional use studies and undertaking to
reestablish cultural landscapes on the West Coast have
applied this dilemma to ways of seeing west coast land-
scapes: in contrast to the visitor and the scientist, who
perceive wilderness in Cwaii Haanas (Fig. 6), the Haida
people see their homeland, Haida Cwaii, rich with the
historical and spiritual evidences of their centuries-long
occupation.
Defining cultural landscapes as "[a]ny geographical
area that has been modified, influenced, or given spe-
cial cultural meaning by people" (Parks Canada
1 994a: 1 1 9), Parks Canada overtly recognizes cultural
landscapes characterized by the intangible values that
indigenous peoples attach to landscape. According
heritage status to places with spiritual associations in
the absence of material remains acknowledges human
values crucial to the identities of these peoples. It is
also explicitly accepted that the associated peoples
identify such places and values. Most provinces have
developed an approach to cultural landscapes (e.g.,
Ontario: http://www.culture.gov.on.ca/english/culdiv/
heritage/landscap.htm and Nova Scotia: http://
museum.gov.ns.ca/mnh/nature/nhns/tl 2/tl 2-2.htm).
Both the provinces and the territories, however, have
generally used an archaeological rather than a cultural
landscape approach to the commemoration of Aborigi-
nal heritage and have not designated places as Ab-
original cultural landscapes. They recognize, though,
that some designated sites, such as Writing-on-Stone
Provincial Park in Alberta and White Mountain on Lake
Mistassini in Quebec, have cultural landscape values.
British Columbia's traditional use studies program (Brit-
ish Columbia 1 996) and Yukon's address to Aboriginal
values of place in its planning processes are examples
of other approaches to recognizing cultural landscapes.
Aboriginal decision-makers, as well, have their own
approach, including toponymy for the management of
symbolic values.
National Historic Site Designations of
Aboriginal Cultural Landscapes
During the past thirty years, the Historic Sites and Monu-
ments Board of Canada has recommended a number of
places associated with the cultures of Aboriginal peoples
for designation as national historic sites. The move-
ment from viewing objects through perspectives of art
history and archaeology, characteristic of the HSMBC's
experience in commemorating Aboriginal history from
the late 1960s through the 1980s, to seeing cultural
landscapes associated with living peoples, mirrors the
historiography of the various decision periods. As early
as 1969, the board recognized the Inuksuit at Enusko
Point, Baffin Island, Nunavut, as being of national sig-
nificance. In keeping with the perspective of the time,
it saw them primarily as archaeological artifacts, rather
than holistically as part of a multi-dimensional cultural
landscape (Stoddard 1 969). A range of other designated
sites in several parts of the country reflects this scien-
tific approach to the identification of values, which situ-
ated them within the traditional scholarly disciplines of
archaeology, history, or art history. Their scope, bound-
aries, and significance were normally described by the
archaeological investigations that had been carried out,
sometimes accompanied by professional historical or
ethnological studies; and their values were defined by
such established criteria as the exceptional or outstand-
ing example of a culture (Federal Archaeology Office
1 998a, App. B). Limited scale often characterized them,
as at the fish weir at Atherley Narrows (Mnjikaning) in
22 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
Ontario or the mysterious Cluny Earthlodge Village in
Alberta. Some sites were designated for their his-
torical significance as defined by Canadian national
history, such as Batoche for its role in the North West
Rebellion/Resistance of 1885. Other places became
national historic sites because of their cultural expres-
sion as art, for example the Peterborough petroglyphs
in Ontario or Nan Sdins, the Haida village in British
Columbia. A few large sites, such as Port au Choix in
Newfoundland and Debert/Belmont in Nova Scotia,
were identified for their culture history, which was ana-
lyzed through archaeological evidence, not through
cultural associations. The practice of designating sites
related to the history of Aboriginal peoples primarily
based on archaeological evidence reflected standard
approaches in the heritage community nationally and
internationally. Since then, while there has been no
move to diminish archaeological values, institutional
standards have moved to ensure the participation of
associated living communities in the identification of
perspectives and values, as well as in the management
of cultural landscapes.
The Perspective of the / 990s
Recognizing that the history of Aboriginal peoples
was under-represented in the National Historic Sites
system, in 1990-91 the board explored issues and a
preliminary classification of sites related to the com-
memoration of the history of Native people. That year
the board recommended that
sites of spiritual and/or cultural impor-
tance to Native peoples, generally
should be considered to be eligible for
designation as national historic sites even
when no tangible cultural resources exist,
providing that there is evidence, garnered
through oral history, or otherwise, that
such sites are indeed seen to have
special meaning to the culture in question and
that the sites themselves are fixed in
space (HSMBC Minutes February 1 990).
Background papers identified that "from a
6/ Mortuary or memorial poles in the village of Nan
Sdins on SCaang Cwaii Island, in Haida Cwaii, British
Columbia, homeland of the Haida people.
Native perspective commemorative potential seemed
to derive from one or a combination of the following:
the traditional and enduring use of the land; the rela-
tionship between the people and the land; and recent
events in a first nation's history, such as its relation-
ships with newcomers" (Coldring and Hanks 1991).
Inspired by a presentation on the Red Dog Mountain
and the Drum Lake Trail in the western Northwest Ter-
ritories, the HSMBC took particular interest in exploring
the significance of mythical or sacred sites and in the
potential of "linear sites or trails encompassing a num-
ber of tangible resources . .
.
and emphasizing linkages
between a people and the land" (HSMBC Minutes March
1 991 ). As a result of formal and informal consultations
during 1990-91 , it was apparent that any framework
for addressing Aboriginal history
—Must conform with emerging prescriptions in suc-
SUSAN BUCCEY 23
cessive northern land claims regarding heritage and
cultural sites (Lee 1 997);
—Must respect Aboriginal worldviews encapsu-
lated in the enduring relationship between people
and the land.
—To achieve the latter objective, must recognize
[w]hat distinguishes Native Peoples' understanding
... is the extent to which the human relationship
with places has ethical, cultural, medicinal, and spiri-
tual elements, which are interwoven with patterns
of economic use. Stories are told about particular
parts of the land, spiritual powers exist in certain
places that are absent elsewhere, and teachings are
annexed to specific places in ways that have little
counterpart in non-Native society. In Native cul-
tures, these attributes are often more important than
the physical, tangible remains of past human use of
land (Goldring and Hanks 1991:14).
By 1 991
,
therefore, the board had already before them
a basic outline of perceptions, issues, and structures for
approaching northern Aboriginal sites that would gradu-
ally and increasingly direct their considerations and
recommendations on the commemoration of the his-
tory of Aboriginal peoples for the rest of the decade.
The decision not to proceed with a study of petroglyphs
and pictographs and to shift resources to community-
based studies marked a key stage. In moving from a
focus in scientific knowledge to a focus in Aboriginal
traditional knowledge, from types of sites (e.g., trails,
sacred sites) to places that embody traditional narra-
tives and spiritual meaning along with economic use,
and from criteria to guidelines for directing their as-
sessments, the board began to evolve an approach to
commemorating the history of Aboriginal peoples that
is based both in Aboriginal values and in the signifi-
cance of Aboriginal places to all Canadians. The con-
cept of cultural landscapes, rooted in the interaction of
culture and the natural environment in all its dimen-
sions, epitomizes this approach.
Consultation and Participation
One of the key implications of the redefinition in
approaching landscapes in the 1 990s is the involve-
ment of associated peoples directly in the selection,
research design, designation, and management of places
of heritage significance. The 1 980s saw transition in
research strategies from culture history to ethno-archae-
ology in studies, for example, of the Mackenzie Basin
in the Northwest Territories and of St6:l6 sites in Brit-
ish Columbia (Hanks and Pokotylo 1989; Lee and
Henderson 1992). The more active involvement of
Dene and Metis in the former area reflects in part a
response to the fact that "the Dene are tired of being
simply the object of inquiry and are becoming inquir-
ers in their own right" (Hanks and Pokotylo 1 989:1 39).
The Traditional Environmental Knowledge Pilot Project
of the Dene Cultural Institute, started in 1 989, exempli-
fies participatory action research, in which indigenous
peoples have primary involvement in the direction of
studies that serve their needs, including research de-
sign and implementation, "the accepted approach to
the study of TEK" Oohnson 1995:1 16). The active in-
volvement of Aboriginal people, particularly elders, has
refocused the investigative effort from the analysis of
physical resources to recognition of the holistic and
essentially spiritual relationship of people and land.
Experience in the 1990s endorses the crucial na-
ture of this role. When the petroglyphs at Kejimkujik
National Park, Nova Scotia, were initially identified for
commemoration, they were seen as the primary cul-
tural resources of the park. Consultation with the Mi'kmaq
people reoriented the commemorative focus from the
single resource type to the whole park area. Arguing
the "strong sense of connection between people and
place," the background paper, prepared jointly by rep-
resentatives of the Mi'kmaq people and Parks Canada's
Atlantic regional office, proposed three bases for com-
memoration of the "cultural landscape" of the region:
—The 4000 year history of traditional land use in
which the archaeological resources were largely
undisturbed;
—The natural environment of the park that en-
hanced an understanding of Mi'kmaq spirituality
with the land;
24 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
—The petroglyph sites, which are a significant part
of Mi'kmaq cultural and spiritual expression (Mi'kmaq
1 994).
Equally, when Parks Canada initiated a commemora-
tive integrity exercise at Nan Sdins (Ninstints) National
Historic Site, British Columbia, consultation with the
hereditary chiefs argued for recognition of heritage val-
ues that identified not only the achievements of Haida
art and architecture represented by the village—the
focus of the National Historic Site and World Heritage
Site designations—but also "the history of a people in
a place:"
—The continuing Haida culture and history;
—The connectedness of the Haida to the land and
the sea;
—The sacredness of the site;
—Its role as the visual key to the oral traditions
of the Haida over thousands of years (Dick and
Wilson 1 998).
Both examples demonstrate Parks Canada's move to
implement three principles resulting from the National
Workshops on the History of Aboriginal Peoples in
Canada in 1992-94:
—Fundamental importance of Aboriginal traditional
knowledge to the understanding of the culture and
history of all indigenous peoples;
—Meaningful participatory consultations with
Aboriginal groups;
—Aboriginal peoples' taking a leading role in pre-
senting their history and culture (Parks Canada
1 994b).
Involvement of Dogrib elders in extensive studies along
the Idaa Trail in the Northwest Territories similarly ex-
panded the initial research design from a survey of
traditional sites and documentation of Dogrib place
names and narratives to documentation of sacred sites,
travel using traditional methods, and development of a
training program in archaeological methods and record-
ing of oral traditions for Dogrib youth (Andrews and
Zoe 1997:8-10). In the resulting six-category classifi-
cation of sacred sites, elders recognized five catego-
ries but not a sixth, which represented identifications
7/ Paallirmiutdrum dancing in traditional clothing at
Arviat Heritage Day, near the community of Arviat,
Nunavut.
of significance from outside their culture (Andrews et
al. 1998:307-8). Recent research projects submitted
to the HSMBC have consistently and actively included
involvement and consultation of local communities,
including elders.
Recently Designated Aboriginal Cultural
Landscapes, 1995-2000
Since 1 990, the Historic Sites and Monuments Board
of Canada has considered a number of Aboriginal cul-
tural landscapes. As early as 1991, Hatzic Rock, now
known as Xa:ytem, in British Columbia presented not
only archaeological evidence of potential national sig-
nificance, but also the importance of this transformer
site in terms of Aboriginal cultural values. Drawing di-
rectly on Cordon Mohs' research on the St6:l6 people,
it demonstrated the cosmological relationships that
underpinned its role as a sacred site (Lee and Hender-
SUSAN BUGGEY 25
son 1992; Mohs 1994). An agreement under the Na-
tional Cost-Sharing Programme recommended in 1 998,
following consultation with the St6:lo people, endorsed
the board's acceptance of the exceptional national
significance of sites valued primarily for their spiritual
importance to Aboriginal peoples.
The inland Kazan River Fall Caribou Crossing site
and the coastal island of Arvia'juaq with the adjacent
point Qikiqtaarjuk in the Eastern Arctic, designated in
1 995, provide exceptional illustrations of the integrated
economic, social, and spiritual values of Aboriginal
cultural landscapes (Fig. 7). Chosen respectively by the
communities of Baker Lake and Arviat to conserve and
depict Inuit history and culture in this area, these areas
"speak eloquently to the cultural, spiritual, and eco-
nomic life of the Inuit in the Keewatin region . . . and as
sites of particular significance to the respective com-
munities" (HSMBC Minutes July 1 995). The results of
—Earlier archaeological investigations,
—Mapping using a global positioning system,
—On-site visits with elders,
—Oral interviews with other knowledgeable Inuit
informants in the communities,
—Recording of traditional stories associated with
the areas
identified the traditional Aboriginal values and the
scientific values associated with these places (Keith
1995; Henderson 1995). The approved commemora-
tive plaque texts articulate the associative and physi-
cal values of these cultural landscapes:
For centuries, the fall caribou crossing on the
Kazan River was essential to the inland Inuit,
providing them the necessities of daily life
and the means to survive the long winter.
Once in the water, the caribou were vulner-
able to hunters in qajaqs who caught and
lanced as many as possible. The Inuit cher-
ished and cared for the land at crossing areas
in accordance with traditional beliefs and
practices to ensure the caribou returned each
year during their southward migration. To
inland Inuit, the caribou was the essence of
life. All parts were valuable for food, fuel,
tools, clothing, and shelter (in Harvaqtuuq
1997:2.3).
26
For centuries, the Inuit returned here each
summer to camp and harvest the abundant
marine resources. These gatherings also
provided an opportunity to teach the young,
celebrate life, and affirm and renew Inuit
society. The oral histories, traditional knowl-
edge, and archaeological sites at Arvia'juaq
and Qikiqtaarjuk provide a cultural and
historical foundation for future ge-nerations.
These sites continue to be centers to cel-
ebrate, practise, and rejuvenate Inuit culture
in the Arviat area (in Arviat 1 997:2.3).
Building on the 1990-91 Northern Native History ini-
tiative, the Keewatin area project and the Deline fish-
ery study (see below), in 1996 Christopher C. Hanks
extended the articulation of "the elemental link be-
tween . . . culture and the land" (Hanks 1 996a:887) as
the core basis for understanding the cultural landscape
of Grizzly Bear Mountain and Scented Grass Hills (Sah-
youe/Edacho) in the western Northwest Territories. With
a firm base in both local traditional knowledge and the
relevant scientific and academic literature, the back-
ground paper he prepared on behalf of the Sahtu Dene
identified three bases for national historical significance:
—These people had lived on that land since time
immemorial;
—They had evolved there as a distinct people;
—The interplay of place names and traditional nar-
ratives in Grizzly Bear Mountain and Scented Grass
Hills has characterized their relationship to the land
(ibid.:885,888).
Drawing on broad archaeological and ethnographic lit-
erature of the subarctic, as well as on extensive oral
histories of the Great Bear Lake region. Hanks judi-
ciously presented selected narratives in relation to spe-
cific landscape features and larger landscape meanings.
The narratives play important roles in sustaining Sahtu
Dene culture by transmitting language, prescribing be-
havior, and identif/ing sacred sites from generation to
generation through the association of place and story.
By linking places, names, and narratives, he success-
fully mapped them on topographical representations
of the Great Bear Lake region. Five broad periods pro-
vided a time frame that served to group the narratives
STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
S/ Nagwichoonjik, the Mackenzie River, Northwest Territories, homeland of the Gwichya Gwich 'm ofTsiigehtchic.
thematically. Dene Elder George Blondin, whose own
narratives of the region are widely read (Blondin 1 997),
concurred in the framework while at the same time
recognizing it did not come from within his culture.
Hanks himself notes that for the Dene, "thematic con-
nections of spiritual power and relationships with ani-
mals are more significant than time" (1 996a:906). The
rich historical associations between traditional Sahtu
Dene narratives and the "homes" of those stories on
two of the four headlands that physically divide the
arms of Great Bear Lake show "the land is alive with
stories which blend the natural and supernatural worlds,
defining [the Sahtu Dene] as people in relationship to
the earth" (ibid. :886, 888).
In 1 997 the Gwichya Gwich'in ofTsiigehtchic in the
western Northwest Territories presented for commemo-
ration, protection, and presentation the segment of the
Mackenzie River (Nagwichoonjik) from Thunder River
to Point Separation (Fig. 8), which they identified as
the most significant area of their traditional homeland.
Following Hanks' approach closely, a series of oral
narratives of Raven, Atachukaii, Nagaii, Ahts'an Veh,
and others were closely tied to the identified land and
its defining features (Gwich'in Social and Cultural Insti-
tute 1 997). The superimposed five period time group-
ing of the stories served to develop a
holistic understanding of history, encompass-
ing the whole of the land and assigning the
river its meaningful place within it . .
.[;] the
stories of their history and the experiences of
their lives on the land . . . [are the] fundamen-
tal cultural themes [that demonstrate] the
important place the river occupies in
Gwichya Gwich'in culture (Gwich'in Social
and Cultural Institute 1997:824).
The majority of new national historic sites designated
for historic values identified through traditional knowl-
edge and consultation with associated communities
have been in the North. However, Apitipik in Lake
Abitibi, Quebec, designated in 1 996, is the center of
the traditional territory of the Abitibiwinni and of the
water routes they used to travel through vast areas.
Their summer gathering and trading place for centu-
ries, with archaeological evidences of 6,000 years of
SUSAN BUGGEY 27
use at Pointe Abitibi, it is also a sacred site to the
Abitibiwinni (Societe MatciteSeia 1 996).
Yuquot in Nootka Sound, British Columbia, desig-
nated in 1997, is the center of the Mowachaht world.
Here the Mowachaht-Muchalaht First Nations have lived
since the beginning of time. They have hosted travel-
ers since eighteenth century imperial exploration, de-
veloped whaling power of which the Whalers' Wash-
ing House is the physical encapsulation, and have deep
spiritual bonds to the "immense natural power and
beauty" of the environment (Mowachaht-Muchalaht,
1 997). The 1 997 designation responded to the request
of the Mowachaht-Muchalaht First Nations that "ear-
lier designations be corrected so that our place in his-
tory is clear and accurate" and that "a single com-
memoration of our area [be made] which will bring all
of the history together under the name of Yuquot"
(HSMBC Minutes June 1997).
The 1 990s study of the history of Nunavut from an
Inuit perspective was based on community consulta-
tions and elders' judgments and was prepared under
the guidance of an Inuit steering committee with staff
and knowledgeable scholars' inputs. It represents an
alternative approach to the commemoration of the his-
tory of Aboriginal peoples. Rather than beginning with
the identification of places, it has established a histori-
cal and cultural framework for identif/ing places of prin-
cipal importance to the Inuit. Three principles express
the thematic priorities: enduring use, Inuit culture and
Inuit identity, and regional variation. All center on the
"close traditional relationship between culture and land
use. Many traditional dwelling sites, travel routes, re-
source harvesting sites, and sacred places have a rich
complex of associative values, combining economic,
social, and spiritual purposes in a sequence of annual
movements from place to place, with people gathering
in greater or smaller numbers according to their needs
and opportunities" (Coldring 1 998).
Concurrent with the "Inuit Traditions" study in
Nunavut, the Metis Heritage Association of the North-
west Territories played a leading role in the definition
and development of eleven themes related to their
history. Community-based oral histories in addition to
Euro-Canadian accounts incorporated the traditions of
both the Aboriginal and the Euro-Canadian cultures of
Metis heritage. "Picking Up the Threads" documents
traditional history and land use to assist in identif/ing
places significant to the Metis along the Mackenzie
River since the eighteenth century (Payment 1 999).
National Historic Sites with Potential Ab-
original Cultural Landscape Values
A number of national historic sites designated before
1990 for their archaeological, scientific, or historical
values have characteristics that identify their potential
for recognition as evolved or associative cultural land-
scapes. Commemorated primarily for their capacity
through archaeological resources to represent the sig-
nificant contribution of Aboriginal peoples to Canada
over an extended period of time, places such as Wodd
Heritage Site Head-Smashed-ln Buffalo Jump (Estipah
skikikini kots), Alberta (National Historic Site [NHS] 1 968;
World Heritage Site [WHS] 1981) are recognized and
endorsed by Aboriginal peoples in association with
their cultural heritage. These sites are almost exclu-
sively located in southern Canada (Buggey 1999: 24-
5). In the 1 990s, however, the approach was extended
to a few northern sites, such as The Hay River Mission
Sites on the Hay River Indian Reserve, NWT (NHS 1 992).
Comprising St. Peter's Anglican Church, St. Anne's Ro-
man Catholic Church and Rectory, and the two church
cemeteries with their numerous spirit houses, they were
designated for "their close association with a critical
period in Dene /Euro-Canadian relations" (HSMBC Min-
utes June 1 992). Valued by local Dene for their spiritual
role, they may be seen as part of the larger cultural
landscape of the community. More recently, the Deline
Traditional Fishery and Old Fort Franklin (Fig. 9), NWT
(NHS 1 996), identified for its significant historical asso-
ciations, was designated as a place that "speak[s] elo-
quently to the relationship which evolved in the nine-
teenth century between Aboriginal people in the north
28 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
9/ Deline fishery, a centuhes-old food source of the Sahtu Dene and Metis, at the mouth of the Great Bear River,
Northwest Territories.
and those Euro-Canadian parties who were determined
to explore it," to "the support and assistance of the
Dene and Metis people" to Sir John Franklin's second
expedition, and to the impact of Franklin's and later
expeditions on the Aboriginal people of the region,
particularly in contributing "to the emergence of the
Sahtu Dene as a distinctive cultural group." Also, "the
Sahtu Dene see the fishery at Deline as being of par-
ticular cultural significance to their occupation of the
region" (Hanks 1996b; HSMBC Minutes November
1 996). The Sahtu Dene's request for protection and
presentation of the site emphasizes the importance of
place as expression of Aboriginal history.
Relict Landscapes
A significant number of other national historic sites are
also designated on the basis of archaeological values
to commemorate the history of Aboriginal peoples that
may possess cultural landscape values and that associ-
ated peoples might choose to identify as, or within.
Aboriginal cultural landscapes in the context of their
heritage. In addition to the Inuksuit at Enusko Point in
Nunavut, these include relict village sites, other habita-
tion sites, pictograph and petroglyph sites, tipi rings,
burial places, and resource sites, such as quarries. Some
or all of the nine abandoned Haida, Citksan, and
Tsimshian villages in British Columbia, designated NHS
in 1 971 -72, for example, may have Aboriginal heritage
values similar to those identified by the hereditary chiefs
at Nan Sdins (NHS 1981; WHS 1981). Pictograph and
petroglyph sites, widely designated both federally and
provincially across the country, may be significant fea-
tures in larger cultural landscapes, such as their exami-
nation at Kejimkujik demonstrated. Tipi rings are like-
wise part of broader cultural landscapes, and designated
burial sites could be sacred sites within Aboriginal cul-
tural landscapes. Aboriginal peoples could choose to
identify as Aboriginal cultural landscapes some exist-
ing national historic sites designated for other values,
as was done by the Mowachaht-Muchalaht in reclaim-
SUSAN BUGCEY 29
ing Nootka Sound for their own history at Yuquot
(Mowachaht-IVIuchalaht 1 997). Equally, they might see
existing designations of national historic significance
currently related to events, such as battles, or Aborigi-
nal cultures, as part of their heritage that would be more
effectively commemorated through cultural landscapes.
Some landscapes related to the history of Aborigi-
nal peoples and recognizably of historic value are not
currently identified with a specific people. At Crass-
lands National Park in Saskatchewan, for example, ar-
chaeological analysis of the cultural remains provides
evidence of the diverse activities of occupation span-
ning 1 0,000 years, but one that ended in the past; cur-
rently no people claim a direct association with the
park area (Gary Adams, pers. comm. 1 998). Such land-
scapes might be addressed as relict landscapes, where
the cultural evolution ended in the past but strong ma-
terial evidences remain, rather than as Aboriginal cul-
tural landscapes, which involve the participation of as-
sociated people(s). This division between places asso-
ciated with living communities and those known only
by their scientific evidences of the past would be con-
sistent with Australia's separation of "indigenous heri-
tage places of archaeological significance" and "indig-
enous places important to the heritage of living cul-
tures" for the identification of environmental indicators
for natural and cultural heritage (Pearson et a! . 1998:1 5-
19,57-76).
Guidelines for the Identification of Ab-
original Cultural Landscapes of National
Historic Significance
How should national significance in Aboriginal cul-
tural landscapes be identified? What does "national sig-
nificance" mean in the history of Aboriginal peoples?
The HSMBC recognized that its conventional criteria,
structure, and framework for evaluation did not ad-
equately respond to the values inherent in the history
of Aboriginal people. While the Minister of Canadian
Heritage has already designated a number of Aborigi-
nal cultural landscapes, as discussed above, the search
for an appropriate framework to examine significant
places related to the history of Aboriginal peoples con-
tinued. Whether Aboriginal peoples are identified by
First Nation, language group, or traditional territory, it
is widely recognized that experiences with the land
vary enormously from place to place in Canada. His-
torical experiences also differ, as do languages. Beliefs
and practices have forms and traditions specific to indi-
vidual groups. The Report on the Royal Commission on
Aboriginal Peoples identified about sixty distinct groups
in Canada (fifty-six First Nations, four Inuit, and the Metis),
based primarily on language. This grouping provides
one approach to establishing a comparative context
within which to evaluate places of national historic
significance. Using language group as a field for deter-
mining national historic significance is evidently com-
plex. For example, the extensive movements of many
Aboriginal groups through time requires understanding
the distinctions between peoples within groups, such
as the Malecite of New Brunswick and the Malecite of
Quebec. The HSMBC also initiated discussion about
using "the traditional territory of an Aboriginal nation .
.
. as the comparative universe for the site proposed for
commemoration or designation" (Federal Archaeology
Office 1998a:21). Some pilot projects are underway
using the concept of Aboriginal nation as a compara-
tive framework (Lee 2000:5). To date, while both lan-
guage group and traditional territory are required as-
pects of background papers submitted to the HSMBC,
decisions on national historic significance have been
made primarily at the level of the individual First Na-
tion, where language, territory, and history all come
together. Aboriginal cultural landscapes are compat-
ible with these directions.
Guidelines for Aboriginal Cultural Landscapes
In the context of the HSMBC's criteria for national his-
toric significance (HSMBC 1 999), a designated Aborigi-
nal cultural landscape "will illustrate a nationally im-
portant aspect of Canadian history." The history of Ab-
original peoples is recognized to be such "a nationally
30 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
important aspect of Canadian iiistory." As a place des-
ignated by virtue of its "explicit and meaningful asso-
ciation" with this aspect, an Aboriginal cultural land-
scape will "illustrate or symbolize in whole or in part a
cultural tradition, a way of life, or ideas important in the
development of Canada." The identified elements indi-
cating integrity of a place, except setting, will not nor-
mally be essential to understand the significance of an
Aboriginal cultural landscape, and will not, therefore,
generally apply.
The following specific guidelines form the basis for
the HSMBC's examination of the national significance
of Aboriginal cultural landscapes (Buggey 1999:29-31).
1 . The long associated Aboriginal group or groups
have participated in the identification of the place
and its significance, concur in the selection of the
place, and support designation.
This guideline derives from the HSMBC's consistent
direction since 1 990 that Aboriginal peoples will be
consulted, involved, and participating in the identifica-
tion of frameworks and sites related to their history. It
is consistent with the established consultation process
for Aboriginal heritage sites and the Statement of Prin-
ciples and Best Practices for Commemorating Aborigi-
nal History (Federal Archaeology Office 1 999). It is
likewise consistent with recommendation 1.7.2 of the
Report on the Royal Commissioti on Aboriginal Peoples
(Canada 1 996).
2. Spiritual, cultural, economic, social, and environ-
mental aspects of the group's association with the
identified place, including continuity and traditions,
illustrate its historical significance.
This guideline focuses on the identification of na-
tional historic significance through the associated
group's long attachment to the territory, its endur-
ing use and activities, its social and kinship relation-
ships, its intimate knowledge of the area, and its
spiritual affiliation with it.
3. The interrelated cultural and natural attributes of
the identified place make it a significant cultural
landscape.
This guideline recognizes the integrated nature of Ab-
original relationship to place, including the insepara-
bility of cultural and natural values. Identified places,
which will likely be of widely diverse types, will illus-
trate this core interrelationship of cultural and natural
forces that characterizes cultural landscapes. The guide-
line anticipates that the identification will incorporate
diverse aspects of the group's association extended
through time. Tangible evidences may be largely ab-
sent, with the attributes rooted primarily in oral and
spiritual traditions and in activities related to the place.
There may also be tangible attributes, such as natural
resources, archaeological sites, graves, material culture,
and written or oral records. The guideline foresees that
the identification of attributes will recognize such physi-
cal components as ecosystem, climate, geology, to-
pography, water, soils, viewsheds, and dominant and
culturally significant fauna and flora in the context of
the associated Aboriginal people's relationship to the
place. The Aboriginal expression of these aspects may
occur in animal or other natural metaphors.
4. The cultural and natural attributes that embody
the significance of the place are identified through
traditional knowledge of the associated Aboriginal
group(s).
This guideline anticipates that the traditional knowl-
edge, including traditional environmental knowledge,
will likely encompass narratives, place-names, language,
traditional uses, rituals, and behavior related to the iden-
tified place. It recognizes that some knowledge can-
not be shared, but available knowledge must be suffi-
cient to demonstrate the significance of the place in
the culture of the associated group.
5. The cultural and natural attributes that embody
the significance of the place additionally may be
comprehended by results of academic scholarship.
This guideline recognizes the contribution that aca-
demic scholarship makes to the understanding of place.
History, including oral history and ethnohistory, archae-
ology, anthropology, and environmental sciences are
the most likely, but not the only, relevant disciplines.
SUSAN BUCCEY 31
Size, Scale, and Boundaries
Identification of Aboriginal cultural landscapes involves
not only understanding the historic value of the place
to be designated, but also specif/ing the boundaries
of the designated place. The size and scale of these
challenge both Aboriginal people and Parks Canada
because of their very differing contexts and views. Ab-
original worldviews focus on land rather than landscape
features, although specific sites certainly have associ-
ated cultural significance and oral traditions related to
history. However, given the holistic relationship of
Aboriginal people and the land, such places are seen
primarily not as isolated spots, but as parts of larger
landscapes. Identifiable landscapes may equally be
only parts of still larger cultural landscapes. The
Dogrib sacred sites identified along the Idaa Trail
(Fig. 1 0) illustrate this relationship of sites with the larger
landscape, while the Trail itself is part of the Dogrib
cultural landscape comprising 100,000 square miles.
The situation in the Canadian North is little different
from the context of the Navajo Nation regarding this
relationship: "the artificial isolation of important places
from the whole landscape of which they are an inte-
gral part often violates the very cultural principles that
make certain places culturally significant to begin with"
(Downer and Roberts 1993:12).
How then are boundaries to be drawn? Aboriginal
cultural landscapes might draw on experience elsewhere
with protected area management. Canada's national
parks use a zoning system to identify park areas requir-
ing different levels of protection and to guide their
management use (Parks Canada 1994a: 11.2.2). Bio-
sphere reserves also apply a zoning approach that
provides for a core area, a buffer zone, and a transi-
tion zone, focused on different levels of protection
and intervention (UNESCO 1 996b: 4). The emergence
of bio-regional planning in protected area management,
applicable to enormous areas such as the 2,000-mile
Yellowstone to Yukon corridor (http://vwvw.Y2Y.net), may
offer some potential applicability for Aboriginal cul-
tural landscapes. Downer and Roberts, who are work-
ing with the Navajo Nation in the United States, con-
sider the
"broader context . . . based on landscapes or
ecosystems rather than artificially-defined
impact zones ... is emerging from various
disciplines in environmental planning. We are
convinced that this is the only realistic
approach to meaningful consideration of
traditional cultural properties and the cultural
landscapes of which they are integral part"
(Downer and Roberts 1993:14).
Such planning frameworks and co-management ap-
proaches (Collings 1 997) may provide opportunities
for developing mechanisms to ensure commemorative
integrity of cultural landscapes such as the designated
area of Nagwichoonjik (Mackenzie River).
In Australia, many Aboriginal sites are discrete ar-
eas separated by long distances, but interconnected by
trading routes or the paths of ancestors; they are most
clearly understood when they are recognized as parts
of a network, rather than individual components
(Bridgewater and Hooy 1 995:1 68). "Anangu, whose po-
litical system is egalitarian and uncentralised, visualise
places in the landscape as nodes in a network of an-
cestral tracks. The Anangu landscape is not susceptible
to division into discrete areas" (Layton and Titchen
1 995:1 78). The American "Trail of Tears" National His-
toric Trail, a multi-route and multi-site network that com-
memorates the forced removal, march overland, and
resettlement of the Cherokee (Ani'Yun' wiya) from Geor-
gia, Alabama, and so on, to Oklahoma in 1 838-39, is a
partnership of diverse groups and diverse sites with
linked interpretive programs in nine states. Historian
John Johnston, exploring the adaptation of this con-
cept of nodes to the commemoration of Aboriginal
history in Canada, notes that it applies to "places that
tell an inter-connected story extending over time and
place," such as trails and water routes associated with
seasonal movements for food (Johnston 1 993). Nodes
within a network, each of identified importance, could
be focal points of protection and presentation in a rec-
ognized larger cultural landscape.
Noting that there is "sometimes no obviously cor-
32 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
/ 0/ Kwikati or "Fence Narrows Lake, " on the Idad Trail, Northwest Territories. Dogrib hunters would erect a fence
on the spring lake ice to lead migratory caribou to an ambush location, seen at the bottom of the photograph.
rect boundary, " the U.S. National Park Service indicates
that the selection of boundaries for traditional cultural
properties should be based on the characteristics of
the historic place, specifically how the place is used
and why the place is important (King and Townsend
n.d.). In several respects, the American approach can
be recognized in existing national historic site desig-
nations of Aboriginal cultural landscapes in Canada. At
Kejimkujik, for example, the existing national park
boundaries defined a sufficiently large and appropri-
ate area of traditional Mi'kmaq occupancy to repre-
sent the larger Mi'kmaq landscape. While in this case
administrative convenience provided the basis for ac-
cepted boundaries, it is not a recommended selection
approach. At Arvia'juaq and Qikiqtaarjuk, clearly de-
fined geographical features—an island and a point—
with strong spiritual, social, economic, and archaeo-
logical values related to the Caribou Inuit culture, iden-
tified the boundaries. Given the importance of the ad-
jacent waters to the cultural significance, future con-
sideration might be given to defining site boundaries
that include the key water areas. At Sahyoue/
Edacho (Grizzly Bear Mountain and Scented Grass Hills;
Fig. 1 1 ), where the designated sites are also two clearly
defined land areas related to water, the site analysis
and discussion of values effectively articulate the
significant cultural relationships of the larger Great
Bear Lake landscape. Also, the historic values of the
viewsheds at this site are particularly significant in
the identification of objectives for the "health" of
the site. While discrete geographical features can be
very useful in identifying boundaries, it is evident that
the values for which the place is to be designated
must dominate in establishing appropriate boundaries.
The scale of Aboriginal cultural landscapes and the
definition of their boundaries provide significant chal-
lenges to the approach of commemorative integrity,
which underlies Parks Canada's national historic sites
SUSAN BUCCEY 33
commemorative program. Securing the "health or
wholeness" of these vast areas may require close ex-
amination of the current understanding of the concept
as it applies to historic place, historic values, and ob-
jectives for large cultural landscapes.
Protection for Aboriginal Cultural
Landscapes
Protection of cultural landscapes in Canada's North
begins with respect for the values, uses, and behaviors
associated with the landscape so that enduring rela-
tionships with the land continue. Integrating manage-
ment of the cultural landscape into the life of the com-
munity and using community traditions and practices
for protection and presentation are essential to the long-
term "health" of the cultural landscape. The increased
role of communities in influencing how lands, waters
and resources are managed relates decision-making
about places more closely to those whose lives and
livelihoods are integrated with them. Land claim agree-
ments provide powers and structures which can be ap-
plied to cultural landscapes. Co-management, a well-
established approach to renewable resources, can ap-
ply equally to cultural heritage, while long-practiced
economic activities such as traditional harvesting should
be actively encouraged. Conservation and presenta-
tion objectives must be integrated with community pri-
orities, community issues, and community structures.
Protection for Aboriginal cultural landscapes needs to
be integrated with local planning, economic develop-
ment, tourism initiatives, and their associated funding
sources.
Documentation and identification are important
tools for protecting cultural landscapes. Where legisla-
tion exists, it tends to be enabling rather than prescrip-
tive and to separate natural and cultural resources in a
manner inconsistent with the values of the cultural land-
scape. When direct threats to the cultural landscape
occur, the time frame is too short to carry out the
research necessary to respond to them. Without docu-
mentation and identification derived from long-term
recording of traditional knowledge and inventory of
sites, the information base needed to apply existing
tools available within planning and environmental as-
sessment processes is missing. Designation of a Na-
tional Historic Site recognizes and commemorates the
historic value of a place, but it does not carry any legal
or protective measures for the designated place. Des-
ignation may provide access to financial and technical
assistance, such as the National Cost-Sharing Program,
however, and it may carry moral suasion which builds
public recognition and support and opens access to
the resources of granting agencies. Traditionally, the
most common protection technique for National His-
toric Sites was transfer of land to the federal crown, in
the name of Parks Canada, under the National Parks
Act; this approach is now extremely rare. In the ab-
sence of specific protective mechanisms, a number of
planning tools may be applied to the conservation of
places of recognized historic value, and management
approaches which protect the character of a cultural
landscape may be supported through various planning
processes.
One direct protective measure, which has recently
been applied to Sahyoue/Edacho (Grizzly Bear Moun-
tain and Scented Grass Hills), is land withdrawal for
conservation purposes under a federal Order in Coun-
cil. In 2000 strongly focused Sahtu Dene community
action at Deline, with coordinated activity by environ-
mental organizations such as the Canadian Parks and
Wilderness Society (CPAWS) and the World Wildlife Fund
Canada (WWF), pushed the Minister of Canadian Heri-
tage and the Minister of Indian and Northern Affairs to
withdraw land at Sahyoue/Edacho from development.
This status was accorded in February 2001 for a period
of five years to provide a period of protection while
stakeholders determine the most effective mechanism
for long-term protection of the site. The interim mecha-
nism addresses the ever-present threat to landscape
integrity from mining development by including sur-
34 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
1 1 / /A campsite at Sahyoue (Grizzly Bear Mountain), a sacred site rich in traditional narrative to the Sahtu Dene,
overlooking the western end of Great Bear Lake, Northwest Territories.
face and subsurface rights in the portion of the site
that is federal crown land and subsurface rights in the
portion of the site owned by the Sahtu Dene First Na-
tion, currently not covered by the Sahtu Dene and Metis
Comprehensive Land Claim Agreement. The interim land
withdrawal implements the Protected Areas Strategy for
the Northwest Territories, which provides for analysis
and assessment of options as basis for decision-mak-
ing (CPAWS 2001 ; Canada 2001 ). This process should
result in identification and implementation of how the
two peninsulas will be managed for long-term protec-
tion.
Recent land claim agreements in the North provide
for various integrated management structures for deci-
sion-making related to heritage places. Cooperative
management boards, regional boards, territorial heri-
tage boards, parks planning and management boards
for national parks, and joint working groups are identi-
fied mechanisms for achieving participation (Lee 1 997).
Chapters on Special Management Areas (Ch. 1 0) and Heri-
tage (Ch.l3) in the Council for Yukon First Nations'
Umbrella Final Agreement (1 993) and subsequent indi-
vidual Yukon First Nations' Final Agreements provide
for designation, management planning, and economic
opportunities in sites valued by the respective peoples.
All incorporate the values of Yukon First Nations People,
the equitable involvement of Yukon First Nations and
Government, and First Nations' ownership as key com-
ponents in managing places related to their culture and
history within Settlement Land. Some agreements in-
clude joint management of specific sites, some pro-
vide for the withdrawal of prospecting, mining, petro-
SUSAN BUCCEY 35
leum exploration, and coal rights at specified sites, and
some identify culturally valued heritage areas (Canada
1 993: Ch.l 0, 1 3). The Sahtu Heritage Places and Sites
Joint Working Croup, established under the Sahtu Dene
and Metis Comprehensive Land Claim Agreement (1 993)
to consider and make recommendations to appropriate
governments and the Sahtu Tribal Council on Sahtu
heritage places, resulted directly from the land claim
agreement (Sahtu 2000:1 1 ; see Andrews, this volume).
In Nunavut, following from the Nunavut Land Claims
Agreement (1 993), Inuit Impact and Benefit Agreements
ensure integration of the regional economy and Inuit
culture in all planning and development, including na-
tional parks.
Land use planning direction and related decisions
that affect cultural landscapes can be key components
of a protection strategy. Opportunities may lie in pro-
visions of the Yukon First Nations Final Agreements:
To identify and mitigate the impact of
development upon Heritage Resources
through integrated resource development
including land use planning and develop-
ment assessment processes. . . . [And] to
ensure that social, cultural, economic and
environmental policies are applied to the
management, protection and use of land,
water and resources in an integrated and
coordinated manner so as to ensure
Sustainable Development.
Some agreements specify that the cultural and heri-
tage significance of an identified list of trails, caribou
fences, fishing holes, gathering places, and spiritual
sites, and any impacts upon them, will be taken into
consideration in land use planning and development
assessment (Canada 1 993: Ch. 1 1 , 1 3). These resources
are largely identified as specific features rather than
cultural landscapes, and some agreements are explicit
that there is no commitment by any of the parties to
maintaining them or to guaranteeing their continued
existence in their current state. Tr'ochek Heritage Site
on the Yukon River, identified for its cultural significance
in the Tr'ondek Hwech'in Final Agreement (1 998), how-
ever, was designated a national historic site in 2002
on the basis of its value as an Aboriginal cultural land-
scape, and its management plan was completed in 2003
ar'ochek 2001
,
2002; Neufeld 2001 ).
At the Fall Caribou Crossing and Arvia'juaq National
Historic Sites, the Conservation and Presentation Re-
ports and associated data were delivered to the Nunavut
Planning Commission to ensure that information about
the importance, values and objectives of the sites was
available for use in planning processes. Inuktitut place-
names, oral traditions, and archaeological sites have
been recorded and entered into geographical informa-
tion systems (CIS); the Nunavut Planning Commission
will maintain CIS data bases for both sites. Provisions
were introduced into the Keewatin Regional Land Use
Plan to provide protection from development in the
historic site area in accordance with the objective that
"low impact land use is practised including the absence
of permanent structures". The Hamlet Councils of Baker
Lake and Arviat, the Baker Lake Hunters and Trappers,
and the Kivalliq Inuit Association all supported the
prohibition of new permanent structures to avoid
damaging archaeological resources and disturbing
movement of caribou (Harvaqtuuq 1997:7.12,7.13;
Arviat 1997:7.12,7.13). A copy of the Conservation
and Presentation Report for the Fall Caribou Crossing
was also sent to the Nunavut Water Board because of
concern about developments that might adversely af-
fect the water quality and water levels of the Kazan
River (Harvaqtuuq 1997:7.20; also Fig. 12). For the
Deline fishery, a water and fisheries management plan
was recommended (Sahtu 2000:38). In British Colum-
bia a program of traditional use studies in the Aborigi-
nal Affairs Branch of the Ministry of Forests had pro-
vided assistance to First Nations to investigate, record
and develop data bases of traditional knowledge and
places that enable First Nations to respond to plan-
ning enquiries and threats to traditional use sites on
an informed basis (British Columbia 1 996).
Aboriginal communities can also develop certain
protective mechanisms for cultural landscapes within
existing authorities such as land management pow-
36 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
/ 2/ The Kazan River at Piqqiq, a fall hunting camp in the land of the Harvaqtuurmiut, Nunavut.
ers. As Brian Reeves reports for Ninaistakis (Chief Moun-
tain), regulating non-traditional visitor activities, stop-
ping non-traditional resource use, guaranteeing free-
dom of use for traditional religious practices, complet-
ing biophysical and cultural inventories, fixing the trail
system, and coordinating land use regulation with
neighbouring authorities are among the strategies that
may be applied (Reeves 1 994:285-8). Canada can con-
tinue to learn about protective mechanisms for Ab-
original cultural landscapes from Australia's long expe-
rience such as the Northern Territory's Aboriginal Sa-
cred Sites Act (1989), which provides blanket protec-
tion for sacred sites, and its Aboriginal Areas Protec-
tion Authority, which is required to inventory any area,
if requested, to identify the existence of sacred sites in
the vicinity of proposed capital works (Ritchie 1 994:239).
Conservation planning tools may also help to pro-
tect cultural landscapes. Based on principles rather than
prescriptive actions, they can be rooted in community
values and encompass community practices. In 1996
the Harvaqtuuq Historic Site Committee and the Harvaq-
tuurmiut (Kazan River) Elders, with Parks Canada, de-
veloped a Commemorative Integrity Statement (CIS)
for the Fall Caribou Crossing National Historic Site. A
CIS describes the historic values and management ob-
jectives and, subsequently, directs the core develop-
ment of a management plan for the designated place.
The CIS for the Fall Caribou Crossing NHS identified a
number of values and measures to determine whether
the historic place and its components are unimpaired
or not under threat: Inuit traditional beliefs and prac-
tices are respected and the wishes of the elders are
respected in their treatment; oral histories and tradi-
tions are recorded, interpreted and transmitted to future
generations; archaeological remains are undisturbed by
human intervention unless related to research; low im-
pact land use is practised including the absence of per-
manent structures; and the health of the Kaminuriak
caribou herd and of the Kazan River is properly moni-
tored (Harvaqtuuq 1 996:C.2.0-2.5). A management
SUSAN BUCCEY 37
plan will elaborate how such objectives are to be
achieved. The Plan ofManagement for \J\uru-KataJjuta
National Park in Australia offers a model for managing
a site based on the values of the traditional owners. A
joint management board of Anangu people and other
Australians with relevant knowledge and expertise co-
manage the site in accordance with Tjukurpa, "the Law
which governs all aspects of Anangu life." The Tjukurpa
provides the core direction for management objec-
tives and management commitments and is integrated
in all aspects of park decision-making (Uluru 1991,
2000). While the operational scale of Uluru-Kata Tjuta
is very different from cultural landscapes in Canada's
North, the principles of its management plan, which
roots park management in the values of the Anangu
people, and the detailed translation of those principles
into objectives and actions, may prove useful for ex-
tending the directions of the Fall Caribou Crossing site's
Conservation and Presentation Report and for man-
agement planning for Aboriginal cultural landscapes in
Canada.
The 1 997 Consen/ation and Presentation Report,
prepared for a Cost-Sharing Agreement between the
Harvaqtuuq Historic Site Committee of Baker Lake and
Parks Canada for the Fall Caribou Crossing NHS, illus-
trates the attributes essential to the protection of Ab-
original cultural landscapes (Harvaqtuuq 1 997). Its strat-
egy for protecting the cultural landscape identifies goals
and actions for oral traditions, archaeological sites, arti-
fact collections, place-names, landscape, the river, and
the Kaminuriak caribou herd. It likewise addresses co-
ordination of heritage activity and cultural tourism po-
tential for the remote site. The agreement, now in ef-
fect, provides resources for implementing specific as-
pects of the strategy. Limited funding in the face of
numerous demands for assistance under the National
Cost-Sharing Program is, however, a severe constraint
on its accessibility and effectiveness for protecting
Aboriginal cultural landscapes.
Long term integrity of cultural landscapes may be
aided by careful evaluation within established environ-
mental assessment processes of the impacts of pro-
posed development on the values of the place. The
Canadian Environmental Assessment Act (CEAA) appears
to offer some opportunities for protection relevant to
Aboriginal cultural landscapes. In the definition of en-
vironmental effect, the act includes;
any change that the project may cause in the
environment, including any effects of such
change ... on physical and cultural heritage,
on the current use of lands and resources for
traditional purposes by aboriginal persons, or
on any structure, site or thing that is of
historical, archaeological, paleontological or
architectural significance (Sec.2[l]).
Given the integrated nature of natural and cultural val-
ues in cultural landscapes, inclusion of traditional knowl-
edge in the evaluation process will be critical to the
integrity of the landscape and to the determination of
actions to prevent or mitigate impacts of exploration,
extraction, and harvesting activities. Most recent land
claims agreements provide for joint federal, provincial
and territorial environmental assessment processes as
do federal-provincial harmonization agreements (Ca-
nadian Environmental Assessment Agency 1996).
Monitoring can be a useful strategy for protection
of the Aboriginal cultural landscape. At the Fall Cari-
bou Crossing National Historic Site, a Guardian Moni-
toring Program carried out by community members re-
ports on significant changes, threats or looting to the
site observed during occasional visits, including the
river, the caribou, and archaeological sites. Traditional
techniques for monitoring natural resources can also
be useful for recognizing and identifying certain
changes in Aboriginal cultural landscapes. Australia's
State of the Environment Reporting includes indicators
for monitoring indigenous places important to the heri-
tage of living cultures which concentrate on "the rec-
ognition of the expertise of Indigenous people in man-
aging and conserving their heritage places and ob-
jects and their right to be active participants in the
interpretation and management of these places and
objects" (Pearson et al. 1998:72).
38 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
Critical to protection of Aboriginal cultural land-
scapes is the continued recording of Elders' experi-
ence of the land, of its names and places, of its sacred
sites, of the traditional narratives of the culture, and the
transfer of the Elders' knowledge to youth. The impor-
tance of the people associated with the place being
active in the interpretation program and in telling their
stories in their own voices is also integral to protec-
tion of the cultural landscape and its meaning.
Looking Forward
The measures described above are all soft actions for
protecting landscapes in the North. In recent years, there
has been increasing public dismay and Ministerial con-
cern that federal designation does not imply any legal
protection for national historic sites or any on-going
Parks Canada involvement in protection and presenta-
tion of the site. The Historic Places Initiative, an un-
dertaking of Parks Canada's National Historic Sites pro-
gram and the Department of Canadian Heritage with pro-
vincial and territorial partners, is developing a strategy
with multi-purpose tools for preservation of historic places,
including consultation with Aboriginal groups and tools
for Aboriginal engagement (Canadian Heritage 2003).
The Report of the Sahtu Heritage Places and Sites Joint
Working Group observes that existing protective legis-
lation in the Northwest Territories is almost all devoted
to protecting natural landscapes and features. Although
the sites identified through the Croup's research all
include natural landscapes or features, the primary value
of these sites is their cultural significance. The report
urges the federal and territorial governments to de-
velop legislation "which will commemorate and pro-
tect cultural landscapes" (Sahtu 2000:25). The Govern-
ment of the Northwest Territories has now begun to
explore a new heritage policy and revisions to the
Historical Resources Act.
The approach outlined in this paper represents work
in progress, part of a much larger and on-going dia-
logue involving many people. This continuing explo-
ration of documentation, identification, designation.
protection, presentation, and management focuses
upon the symbiotic relationship that Aboriginal people
have with the land. These places are not relicts but
living landscapes; the cosmological, mythological, and
spiritual world of a people who have lived with them
in the enduring seasonal round of day-to-day activities
where nature and culture are inseparable. Bequeathed
through oral tradition from generation to generation.
Aboriginal traditional knowledge connects these spiri-
tual relationships through narratives, place names, sa-
cred sites, rituals, and behaviour patterns that are tied
to the spirits of the land.
Protection of Aboriginal cultural landscapes even
where there is broad agreement on significance remains
a challenge. The complex interaction of natural, cul-
tural and spiritual values that characterizes these land-
scapes lies outside most established conservation frame-
works. Recent changes are, however, beginning to
broaden these processes from "islands" to "networks".
Identifying places people value, documenting them,
defining their significance, and managing them in ac-
cordance with those values and significance are key
steps toward their protection. The powers of land claim
agreements and the emergence of collaborative pro-
cesses such as the Protected Areas Strategy for the
Northwest Territories to provide tools for community-
based action offer opportunities for broader use of ex-
isting frameworks, such as planning processes, to man-
age and protect Aboriginal cultural landscapes.
Acknowledgments
This paper draws substantially on a study prepared for
Parks Canada to assist the Historic Sites and Monu-
ments Board of Canada in recognizing place as an inte-
gral focus of its approach to the commemoration of
the history of Aboriginal peoples. I am grateful to the
numerous people in many programs and organizations
who generously shared their knowledge, perspectives,
and experiences on various aspects of this subject. I
would like particularly to acknowledge insights shared
in conversations and writings by Thomas D. Andrews,
SUSAN BUCCEY 39
Christopher HanksJoann Latremouille, Ellen Lee, George
MacDonald, Isabel McBryde, Sheryl Smith, and Josie
Weninger.
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Appendix 1
Recommendations by the Historic Sites and
Monuments Board of Canada Related to Des-
ignated Aboriginal Cultural Landscapes (As
of 1 999)
Abitibi, Quebec [Abitibiwinni] (November,] 996)
"Both a traditional summering area and a sacred
place for the Algonquin;
importance not only to the Pikogan community,
whose origins predate the meeting of the Abitibi
and the French in the 1 7"" century, but also by
the Wahgoshing community of Ontario;
vestiges of various periods of occupation by the
Abitibi Algonquin dating as far back as 6,000 years.
. .numerous trading posts which operated there from
the 1 7'^ century onward."
Arvia'Juaq and Qikiqtaarjuk, Nunavut [Inuit]
(July, 1995)
"Speaks eloquently to the cultural, spiritual, and
economic life of the Inuit in the Keewatin region . .
. focusing on . . . coastal activities carried out by
the communit[y] of Arviat . . .site of particular sig-
nificance to the community."
Fall Caribou Crossing Hunt site, Kazan River,
Nunavut [Inuit] (July, 1995)
"Speaks eloquently to the cultural, spiritual, and
economic life of the Inuit in the Keewatin region . .
. focusing on the inland or caribou hunt . . . carried
out by the communit[y] of Baker Lake . . . site of
particular significance to the community."
GrizzlyBearMountain andScented Grass Hills, North-
west Territories [Sahtu Dene] (November, 1 996)
"Associative cultural landscapes of national historic
significance;
cultural values expressed through the interrelation-
ship between the landscape, oral histories, graves,
and cultural resources, such as trails and cabins, help
to explain and contribute to an understanding of
the origin, spiritual values, lifestyle and land-use of
the Sahtu Dene."
42 STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
Mi'kmaq Cultural Landscape ofKeJimkuJik National
Park, Nova Scotia [Mi'kmaq] (November, 1994)
"The cultural landscape of Kejimkujik National Park
which attests to 4000 years of Mi'kmaq occupancy
of this area, and which includes petroglyph sites,
habitation sites, habitation sites, fishing sites, hunt-
ing territories, travel routes, and burials."
Nagwichoonjik [Mackenzie River]from Thunder River
to Point Separation, Northwest Territories [Cwichya
Gwich'in](June, 1997)
"Its prominent position within the Gwichya Cwich'in
cultural landscape;
flows through Cwichya Cwich'in traditional home-
land, and is culturally, socially, and spiritually sig-
nificant to the people;
importance of the river through their oral histories,
which trace important events from the beginning of
the land to the present.. .names given along the river,
stories associated with these areas, and the experi-
ence drawn from these stories;
transportation route, allowing Gwichya Cwich'in to
gather in large numbers . . . during the summer;
archaeological evidence . . . extensive precontact
fisheries and stone quarries, ensuring Cwichya
Cwich'in survival through the centuries."
Xd.ytem (Hatzic Rock), British Columbia [Sto.lo First
Nation] (November 1 997; February, 1992)
Cost-sharing recommended
"The age of the Hatzic Rock site and its close as-
sociation to a transformer site of clear importance
to the St6:l6 people."
Yuquot, British Columbia [Mowachaht-Muchalaht
First Nations] (Ji^f^e, 1997)
"The ancestral home of the Mowachaht and the
centre of their social, political and economic
world;
continuously occupied for over 4,300 years, the
village became the capital for all 1 7 tribes of
the Nootka Sound region;
also the area where Nuu-chah-nulth whaling origi-
nated and developed and the site of the Whaler's
Washing House, the most significant monument
associated with Nuu-chah-nulth whaling;
"focal point of diplomatic and trading activity
of Canada's west coast in late 18"' century."
Appendix 2
Recommendations by the Historic Sites and
Monuments Board of Canada Related to Po-
tential Aboriginal Cultural Landscapes (As of
1999)
Deline Traditional Fisheryand OldFort Franklin, North-
west Territories [Sahtu Dene] (1 996)
"The traditional Dene fishery at Deline. ..its use
over time and the long history of sharing its re-
sources, as well as the remains of Fort Franklin,
the wintering quarters of Sir John Franklin's sec-
ond expedition;
they speak eloquently to the relationship which
evolved in the ]9^^ century between Aboriginal
people in the north and those Euro-Canadian par-
ties who were determined to explore it;
impact of the Franklin expedition and those
which were to follow on the Aboriginal people
of the region contributed to the emergence of
the Sahtu Dene as a distinctive cultural group
and the Sahtu Dene see the fishery at Deline as
being of particular cultural significance to their
occupation of the region."
Hay River Mission Sites, Hay River Indian Reserve,
Northwest Territories (1992)
"Close association with a critical period in Dene/
Euro-Canadian relations;
two churches, rectory and two cemeteries with
numerous spirit houses—significant features in a
cultural landscape, rather than the landscape itself."
Head-Smashed-ln Buffalo Jump [Estipah
skikikini kots]. Alberta [Niitsitapi/Blackfoot]
World Heritage Site (1981);
"Bison jump representing communal way of hunt-
ing for thousands of years (1 968)."
Appendix 3
Designations/Other Recognitions by Terri-
torial Governments Related to Aboriginal
Cultural Landscapes (As of 1 999)
British Columbia
No designations of Aboriginal cultural landscapes
as such;
SUSAN BUGGEY 43
multi-agency Land Use Coordination Office plays
coordinating role for protected areas, including strat-
egy, communications, land use planning;
provincial parks created with historical importance
to Aboriginal groups; some co-managed through
planning processes;
program of traditional use studies under the Ab-
original Affairs Branch of the Ministry of Forests; no
designation, but inventory and recording activities
of traditional knowledge and places that enable First
Nations to develop information bases from which
to respond to planning inquiries and threats to tra-
ditional use sites.
Newfoundlandand Labrador
No designations or commemorations of cultural
landscapes where the heritage values are primarily
associated with Aboriginal peoples.
Northwest Territories/Nunavut
No designations of Aboriginal cultural landscapes
as such;
extensive inventory and mapping programs have
recorded locations and traditional knowledge re-
lated to places of significance to Aboriginal
peoples;
Sahtu Heritage Places and Sites Joint Working Group
established under Sahtu Dene and Metis Compre-
hensive Land Claim Agreement, sec. 26.4, to con-
sider and make recommendations to the appropri-
ate governments and the Sahtu Tribal Council on
Sahtu heritage places; report Rakekee Cok'e Codi:
Places We Take Care of(2000);
Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre website
with school programs focused on traditional knowl-
edge and an 1 1 ,000-entry geographical names da-
tabase ( http://pwnhc.learnnet.nt.ca).
Quebec
No designations of Aboriginal cultural landscapes
as such;
1 1 3 archaeological sites classified under the Loi
sur les blens culturels have at least one occupation
by Aboriginal people; most (84) are identified in
category 3 (site, bien ou monument historique ou
archeologique) with many (24) in category 5 (dans
un arrondissement historique);
provincial law provides for designations and pro-
tection under municipal rather than provincial juris-
diction; federal ownership precludes provincial des-
ignation on reserve lands;
White Mountain, Lake Mistassini was classified as
an archaeological site under the provincial law
when it was first in effect; designation and protec-
tion apply to the whole mountain, and the cultural
value of the area as a sacred place is acknowl-
edged although the classification applies specifi-
cally to archaeological significance;
other places, such as the sacred mountain in
Monteregie, are known to have significance to Ab-
original peoples;
Yukon
No designations of Aboriginal cultural landscapes
as such;
authority exists under the Yukon Historic Resources
Act;
identification of Special Management Areas under
the Yukon Land Claim, such as Old Crow Flats and
Fishing Branch (Vuntut Gwich'in) or Scottie Creek
wetlands (White River First Nation), answer in part
the need to recognize landscape areas that are in
need of special protection/ management by vir-
tue of their historical/cultural and present signifi-
cance to a First Nation;
First Nations have identified trails to be of heritage
interest; awareness also exists of some other land-
scapes of particular significance to Aboriginal
peoples, e.g. Dalton Trail, Beaver House Mountain
on the Dempster Highway;
land use planning and development awareness re-
view may address development, land use, or other
planning issues that involve landscapes of signifi-
cance to First Nations.
STATE POLICIES/ CANADA
Protecting; th nog;rap hie
Landscapes in /\las!<:a:
(_J.^. poiicies and practices
RACHEL MASON
Alaska, the "Last Frontier" according to its state motto,
is a special case in the United States perspective on
ethnographic landscapes. Alaska is different from other
states, both in the ways people are tied to the land and
in the laws and policies affecting land uses. Three themes
unique to Alaska characterize the contrasting perspec-
tives on its landscape: subsistence, wilderness, and fron-
tier opportunity.
Subsistence, in Alaska, refers to the traditional har-
vest, processing, and distribution of wild plants and ani-
mals, activities with cultural significance beyond their
nutritional value. The older generation passes down
traditional knowledge about subsistence to younger
people, including geographic information about loca-
tions of animals and their migration routes. Native Alas-
kan subsistence activities began thousands of years
before Western contact.
Frontier opportunities were launched when the first
Europeans came to Alaska. Beginning with the estab-
lishment of a Russian fur-trading colony in the eigh-
teenth century, non-Native people have rushed to Alaska
to reap profit from its abundant natural resources. In
addition to fur harvests, other extractive industries have
included fishing, mining, timber, and oil development.
Non-Natives have also come to Alaska to enjoy
recreational adventures such as fishing, hunting,
kayaking, or hiking in its vast wilderness. The scale
and remoteness of the Alaska landscape continue to
awe visitors and faraway admirers. The Western con-
cept of wilderness is related to the idea of the frontier.
since both are considered untouched, uncharted terri-
tories. The difference is that wilderness is to be appre-
ciated in its pristine state, while a frontier must be con-
quered.
Denali Landscapes
Denali National Park and Preserve (NPP), the state's
most popular tourist attraction, illustrates both the ap-
peal of Alaska's large-scale landscapes and the com-
plex problems of protecting and managing them. The
different uses of the Denali landscape evoke the three
themes of the Alaska landscape—subsistence, wilder-
ness, and frontier opportunity (Fig. 1 3). The park, cen-
tered on the highest peak in the Alaska Range, until
1 980 was called Mt. McKinley National Park.
Alaska Natives traditionally used the park area for
many subsistence activities. They concentrated on
moose and caribou hunting on the lower elevations of
the region and did not usually have a reason to climb
the big mountain now called Mt. McKinley. Archaeo-
logical evidence shows that the Dry Creek site, north-
west of the park near the present-day community of
Healy, was a specialized sheep, bison, and elk hunting
camp as much as 1 1,000 years ago (Brown 1991:4).
Like the original users of this site, Athapaskans in the
historical period traveled in small family groups in sum-
mer, and gathered in larger bands in winter. Their eco-
nomic unit was a two-family household, and the local
band was made up of two to five such households.
Fishing was secondary to hunting in their seasonal
45
round. Moose became more important than caribou in
the late precontact period (Brown 1 991 :8-l 0).
Speakers of five Athapaskan languages used the
park: Tanana, Koyukon, Upper Kuskokwim (Kolchan),
Ahtna, and Dena'ina. Koyukon Athapaskans lived in
the northwest part of the area. Tanana Athapaskans in-
habited the northern part of what is now the park; the
park's mountains were the southern limit of their tradi-
tional hunting areas. An Upper Kuskokwim subgroup
traveled in the Lake Minchumina and Kantishna River
areas to the west of the park. Ahtna and Dena'ina use
areas were south of the park.
The Athapaskans who lived in the region did not
have much reason to climb the big mountain, although
they did hunt on its lower parts and on other moun-
tains. When Judge James Wickersham attempted to as-
cend Mt. McKinley in 1 903, he encountered a group of
Tanana people hunting in the foothills. The Tanana
hunters shared fresh meatwith Wickersham's party and
showed them how to get to the base of the moun-
tain. Another group of Athapaskans showed the ex-
plorers how to get to the glaciers below Mt. McKinley's
summit (Brown 1 991 :32-3).
Before the park was founded in 1917, the Mt.
McKinley area experienced a brief gold rush. After gold
was discovered in the Kantishna Hills, prospectors be-
gan to work there in 1905. Later in the same year
stampeders from outside Alaska arrived by boat and
dog sled. Most became discouraged enough to leave
by early 1 906. Like other frontier profit seekers, miners
had no particular attachment to the land they were work-
ing and moved on when the hope of profit was gone
(Catton 1997:103,96).
During the same period big game hunters began a
campaign to set aside a national park to preserve Mt.
McKinley's remarkable hunting opportunities. A report
on the first official exploration of the mountain in 1 902
interpreted the abundant bear, sheep, moose, and cari-
bou populations there to be a result of the area's inac-
cessibility. The sport-hunter-conservationists who pro-
moted the park thought that northern animals, such as
those around Mt. McKinley, were of mythically large
proportions. Although they objected more to market
hunting than to subsistence hunting, the sport hunters
lumped both together as "pot hunters." They despised
those who looked for the easiest and most efficient
way to hunt, and thought pot hunters selfishly ignored
the long-term effects of their hunting on animal popu-
lations (Catton 1 997:90-4).
The supporters of establishing Mt. McKinley Na-
tional Park wanted it to be a sportsman's hunting para-
dise, but they also sought to protect the area's thriving
animal populations. They did not want masses of visi-
tors each year. They testified before Congress in 1 916
that the park would benefit from its proximity to the
Alaska Railroad, but they had to admit the park was
thirty miles away from the railroad. The sport hunters
had to explain to the Senate committee why they wanted
to protect the park's wildlife while only a few miners
would have access to hunting there (Catton 1 997:1 04).
Finally, with the National Park Service (NPS) director's
backing. Congress created the park in 1 91 7, although it
would be four years before the NPS hired the first su-
pervisor (Brown 1 991 :1 35).
Most of the non-Natives who hunted in the newly
established Mt. McKinley National Park were miners. In
1 921 , new park regulations required that hunters keep
records of the game they killed and obtain permits in
order to kill game for dog food (Brown 1 991 :1 47). The
miners' strong dependence on wild meat for food Justi-
fied their "pot hunting" (Catton 1997:98) in the sport
hunter's eyes. Presumably, Athapaskans' hunting for food
was also acceptable.
At first the sport hunters who supported the park
believed the presence of gold miners was compatible
with conserving the area's abundant game. Poaching—
by miners, railroad workers, and construction crews-
became a terrible problem in the park's early days
(Sellars 1 998:71 ). Soon, the park lobbied to ban miners
from living within its borders (Catton 1 997:1 1 7). Never-
theless, some miners still pursue claims today.
Prospectors, Native Alaskans, and wild animals were
46 STATE POLICIES/ U.S. ; ALASKA
/ 3/ View ofDenali Mountain (Mt. McKinley), in Denali National Par\< and Preserve.
all part of the popular image of America's Last Frontier.
The long controversy over the wolf populations of Mt.
McKinley is relevant to landscapes because it shows
contrasting perceptions of humans' role in nature. The
sport hunters' desire to engineer better hunting oppor-
tunities, and the conservationists' reluctance to con-
trol wolf populations, have seemed in turn compatible
and incompatible. Athapaskans' traditional hunting was
not even part of the picture. Plainly, visitor enjoyment
conflicted with upholding conservation principles
(Sellars 1998:1 55-9).
The NPS wanted to build roads to attract visitors in
automobiles. Some early supporters of wilderness
thought the NPS was too enthusiastic about building
roads in parks because of the lure of tourist dollars at
park concessions (Catton 1 997:1 44). After the NPS lob-
bied aggressively, construction of the Mt. McKinley Park
Road began in 1 923 (Sellars 1 998: 1 07). It was not com-
pleted until 1938. While it did provide access to the
mines at Kantishna, it was built primarily for the benefit
of park administration and visitors. The park wanted to
give visitors to Mt. McKinley NP a frontier experience,
but they also wanted to make it easier for them to visit.
Even the first hardy visitors began to demand more
refined accommodations than tents and platforms. The
NPS preserved the feel of the frontier by constructing
rustic-looking log buildings at the park headquarters.
The construction of the Alaska Highway in the 1 940s
made it possible to drive from the contiguous forty-
eight states through Canada to Alaska. Automobile tour-
ism was even more encouraged under the NPS's Mis-
sion 66, a ten-year (1956-1966) national campaign to
improve park infrastructure. At Mt. McKinley NP, Mis-
sion 66 projects included a visitor center, campgrounds,
interpretive waysides, and scenic pullouts. The most
controversial project was a plan to widen and pave the
road into the park. National conservation groups, such
as the Sierra Club, fought against road improvement
because they believed this would destroy the wilder-
ness character of the park. The compromise solution
RACHEL MASON 47
was to "telescope" the road (Fig. 14), paving the first
few miles but keeping the upper portion of the road
unimproved—a "wilderness road," as the NPS director
called it(Sellars 1998:192).
Today, unlike most of the National Parks in Alaska,
Denali National Park—renamed at the same time it was
expanded under the 1 980 Alaska National Interest Lands
Conservation Act— is accessible by road. Motorhomes
or RV campers carrying summer travelers are common
sights along the Parks Highway to Denali. The north-
south railroad between Seward and Fairbanks also goes
through the park. Since 1972, visitors have not been
allowed to drive beyond the end of the paved road
into the park, except with special-use limited permits.
They must schedule a time to be shuttled up and down
the road in shuttle or camper buses, stopping briefly
to watch any wild animals that appear. The buses take
their passengers to Eilson Visitor Center (eleven hours
/ 4/ Eilson Road in Denali National Park and Preserve.
round-trip) or farther along the dirt and gravel road to
Wonder Lake (eight hours round-trip) for up to an hour
stop, then turn back toward the visitor center in the
entrance area of the park.
Contemporary park visitors see very little of its ab-
original residents, some of whom have now settled in
villages outside the boundaries of the park. In the past,
the Athapaskan people who lived in the park area trav-
eled over a broad territory. Small bands separated into
families during the summer for subsistence pursuits and
came together during the long cold winters (Fig. 1 5).
Potlatches, ceremonial occasions for feasting and gift-
giving, also included several days of singing, dancing,
speeches, and storytelling.
Athapaskans were expert storytellers and en-
thusiastic listeners to stories. If the listeners did
not seem appreciative enough, the teller might
punish them by telling a pointless story (de La-
guna 1995:286). Other stories, however, offered
moral lessons about proper behavior in a spiritual
world that included both humans and animals. Ex-
perienced storytellers usually knew intimately the
places and animals they mentioned and added their
own experiences to the narratives.
A popular kind of story among interior
Athapaskan groups was the "Traveler" cycle, such
as the Koyukon "The One Who Paddled Among
the People and Animals" (Attia 1990; Thompson
1 990). These stories center around a culture hero
who starts by building a canoe, then goes from
place to place and adventure to adventure, en-
countering people and animals from mythical and
modern times. In different versions of the Tanana
story, "The Man Who Went Through Everything,"
the traveler visits Otter, Wolverine, Rabbit, the
Gnats, Frog, Mouse Woman, and the Giant, among
other characters (de Laguna 1995:96-104, 121-34,
326-33).
The Athapaskan storytellers contrast with the
contemporary interpreters hired to tell non-Native
bus passengers about the Denali wildlife. Inter-
48 STATE POLICIES/ U.S. ALASKA
preters are typically seasonal employees from
outside Alaska, hired not for their knowledge of
the park's flora and fauna, but because they are
able to establish good rapport with visitors and
maintain a fairly knowledgeable patter. The buses
migrate up and down the road, as visitors peer out
the windows for glimpses of the "Big Five" spe-
cies: bear, caribou, moose, sheep, or wolf (Pratt
2002). While almost all the visitors see wildlife at
some point in their round-trip journey to the visi-
tor center, considerably fewer get to see the moun-
tain during their visit through the clouds obscur-
ing it.
Mount McKinley, at 20,320 feet (6,1 94 meters)
the highest peak in North America, is a favorite
objective for expert climbers. It symbolizes the
difficulties of the frontier. Each year during the
brief spring climbing season, expert climbers from
all over the world attempt to reach the top. Many
failed ascents have ended in rescue or the climb-
ers' deaths. Non-Native visitors and Alaska resi-
dents alike are awed by the difficult ordeal of
climbing to its top.
The mountain, however, has different meanings
for the Alaska Natives who lived in its shadow.
The mountain named after President McKinley was
called Denali, "the tall one" by the Koyukon.
Athapaskans rarely name landmarks after people.
They treat the tall mountain with reverence and
avoid talking about it (Kari 1999:7). They would
not climb Denali or other high peaks for recre-
ation or competition. In the far northern part of
the park, Chitsia Mountain, named for its resem-
blance to a moose heart, is the site of a Tanana
origin myth (Brown 1 991 :33).
Denali NPP is just one example of the inter-
sections and clashes between understandings of
cultural landscapes. Today, Alaska's federal poli-
cies are the subject of continuous struggle among
subsistence, wilderness, and commercial resource
extraction. Advocates of each of these views and
practices worry that the other two may override
their interests. The situation comes under the pur-
view of federal managers in Alaska because so
much of the land is publicly owned.
Subsistence management in Alaska has been
contentious for decades. The Federal Subsistence
Management Program was instituted in 1991 to regu-
late subsistence uses of wildlife in Alaska on federal
public lands. The federal takeover occurred after the
landmark 1 989 McDowell decision in the 9* District
Court declared that the State of Alaska's failure to pro-
vide a hunting priority to rural subsistence users was
out of compliance with federal law. Following the
1995 Katie John decision' with its subsequent ap-
peals and delays, and the ensuing failure of the State
of Alaska to enact legislation that gave subsistence
priority to rural residents, the federal government also
assumed management of Alaska subsistence fisheries
in 1999.
Unlike "subsistence," the term "wilderness" reso-
nates strongly outside Alaska. Despite the popular West-
ern view that wilderness represents untouched nature,
the opposite of culture, the concept of wilderness is
itself a Western cultural construct. It is perhaps more
important to visitors and outsiders than it is to Alaska
residents, particularly Alaska Natives, to preserve na-
ture in a pristine condition. Toward that goal, wilder-
ness advocates may prefer non-consumptive recre-
ational pursuits such as catch-and-release fishing to sub-
sistence uses. While some wilderness supporters can
accept subsistence uses of natural resources as "hunt-
ing to live," few can accept commercial development
at the expense of untrammeled wilderness.
Commercial development began in Alaska with the
Russian colony's lucrative trade in sea otter furs. Later,
gold prospectors, fish processors, and oil developers,
among others, flocked to Alaska for a series of extrac-
tive industry booms. Like the idea of wilderness, the
concept of development comes from outside Alaska,
although many Alaskans have embraced one or the
other of these concepts. The frontier developers had
RACHEL MASON 49
no intrinsic ties to the land itself. They appreciated the
vastness of the landscape, but largely in terms of the
vast potential profits that could be reaped from the
land and sea.
Laws and Policies Affecting Ethnographic
Landscapes
In the U.S.
Cultural landscapes are a relatively new concept in
United States resource management. Ethnographic land-
scapes are newer still, so it is no surprise that govern-
ment agencies disagree about what they are, how they
relate to cultural landscapes, and how they should be
protected. The NPS, the lead government agency in
cultural resource protection and preservation, initiated
its Cultural Landscapes Program in 1 990 after several
decades of work on historic landscapes. The NPS's
Applied Ethnography Program, which coordinates cul-
tural anthropology work in regions throughout the
United States, began only a few years earlier, in 1 981
.
Both NPS programs take interest in "ethnographic land-
scapes," yet the two programs define these phenomena
differently. This is partly because while the Cultural
Landscapes Program operates under historical preser-
vation laws, the Ethnography Program has no similar
constraint.
NPS policies define a cultural landscape as "a geo-
graphic area, including both cultural and natural re-
sources and the wildlife or domestic animals therein,
associated with a historic event, activity, or person, or
exhibiting other cultural or esthetic values" (NPS
2001:129). Ethnographic landscapes are one of four
overlapping types of cultural landscape in the NPS clas-
sification (NPS 1 997:88):
—Historic designed landscapes, deliberate artistic
creations reflecting recognized styles. Engineers
may also design them. Examples in Alaska are Denali
NP's historical headquarters district, created as an
attempt to provide visitors with a frontier experi-
ence, or the Denali road corridor.
—Historic vernacular landscapes, which illustrate
peoples' values and attitudes toward the land and
reflect patterns of settlement, use, and develop-
ment through time. They can evolve independently
of deliberate human design. Alaska historical ver-
nacular landscapes include the Kennecott Mine
complex in Wrangell-St. Elias NPP, as well as other
mines. Seward's red light district, researched for
Kenai Fjords NP as part of a historical compliance
study for a new visitor center, is another example.
—Historic sites, significant for their association with
important events, activities, and people. The Moore
homestead, at Klondike Cold Rush National His-
torical Park, is a rare Alaska example of the type of
historic site normally found outside the state. The
new Aleutian World War II National Historic Area is
another example, although its scale is larger than
what is typically called a "site."
—Ethnographic landscapes, which have contem-
porary salience to groups the NPS calls tradi-
tionally associated people, those who continue
to use the landscapes in the present day. Typi-
cally, these landscapes are used or valued in tra-
ditional ways, lyat (Serpentine Hot Springs) in North-
west Alaska is a sacred and therapeutic site for
Inupiaq residents of the area. In Southeast Alaska,
Dundas Bay contains both prehistoric and historic
remains and is a seasonal subsistence site forTlingits
from the village of Hoonah. Bartlett Cove, also in
Southeast Alaska and part of Clacier Bay NPP, has
mythical significance because of its connection to
the Hoonah Tlingits' creation myth.
Unlike other kinds of cultural landscapes, ethnographic
landscapes typically contain both natural and cultural
resources (Hardesty 2000:169), possibly including plants,
animals, structures, and geological features, as well as
human structures and artifacts. Those who use and value
landscapes may consider them purely natural, when in
fact there is a strong cultural component. The cultural
modification of the natural landscape may be symbolic
rather than material. Moreover, there may be compet-
ing cultural interpretations of the same landscapes:
in California, for example, the Timbisha Shoshone tra-
ditionally associated with Death Valley NP object to
the portrayal of their vital homeland as bleak and dead
(Hardesty 2000:1 78-9, citing Fowler et al. 1 995's origi-
nal research).
Many people may believe their very survival as a
50 STATE POLICIES/ U.S. ALASKA
/ 5/ Chief Deaphon and his band, 1919. This Athapasl<an group was one of those traditionally associated with
Denali National Park and Preserve.
group depends on the continued vitality of ethno-
graphic landscapes. This applies, for example, to the
cultural values Alaska Native peoples associate with
subsistence hunting and fishing. Many feel that the sur-
vival of their culture is predicated upon their continued
opportunities to han/est, process, and share wild foods.
Non-Native supporters of the wilderness also feel
strongly about their attachment to the land. They might,
however, think of the entire human race as a reference
group, or a beleaguered ecosystem, rather than a single
cultural group.
Nationwide, the NPS Cultural Landscapes Program
has focused primarily on historic preservation of non-
indigenous peoples' structures and activities. Examples
of NPS-recognized cultural landscapes include presi-
dential homes and historic ranches, old mines and dams,
missions, roads, prisons, and even tenement buildings.
The developers of the NPS Cultural Landscapes Pro-
gram have taken more inspiration from archaeology
than from ethnography, perhaps because archaeolo-
gists and historical architects share an interest in struc-
tures, material remains, and the past. Many NPS his-
toric landscape projects include a prehistoric compo-
nent, but fewer encompass contemporary activities.
In the United States, as elsewhere, historical sites des-
ignated because of archaeological evidence tend to
be treated as a set of discrete entities, rather than as
part of an integrated landscape (Buggey, this volume).
On the national level. United States government
policies toward ethnographic landscapes come from
several important laws designed to protect cultural re-
sources. Most of these laws require consultation with
the associated peoples affected by management de-
cisions. The National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA)
of 1 969, which requires an environmental impact state-
ment or environmental assessment for any proposed
work with potential environmental effects, was enacted
to protect both natural and cultural resources.
The National Historical Preservation Act (NHPA) of
1 966, as amended in 1 992, requires that places signifi-
cant to Native Americans be conserved with other cul-
turally significant sites that are part of a diverse na-
RACHEL MASON 51
tional heritage. The NHPA criteria that determine eligi-
bility for the National Register of Historic Places are:
—The quality of significance in American history,
architecture, archaeology, engineering, and cul-
ture present in districts, sites, buildings, struc-
tures, and objects that possess integrity of loca-
tion, design, setting, materials, workmanship, feel-
ing, and association, and:
—that are associated with events that have made
a significant contribution to the broad patterns
of our history; or
—that are associated with the lives of signifi-
cant people, present or past; or
—that embody the distinctive characteristics of
a type, period, or method of construction, or
that represent the work of a master, or that pos-
sess high artistic values, or that represent a sig-
nificant and distinguishable entity whose com-
ponents may lack individual distinction; or
—that have yielded or may be likely to yield,
information important in history or prehistory
(NPS 1997:2).
Clearly, these restrictions eliminate many culturally
significant ethnographic landscapes used in contem-
porary times. A property less than fifty years old meets
the criteria only if it is deemed extraordinarily impor-
tant. Moreover, no cemetery, birthplace, grave, com-
memorative property, religious property, structure moved
from its original location, or reconstructed historic
building is ordinarily eligible for the National Reg-
ister. The NHPA focuses on structures and other alter-
ations of the landscape, rather than on the ways
people interpret it. Because an ethnographic land-
scape may lack material artifacts or written documenta-
tion, its value for preservation can be more difficult to
determine than a historical structure (Evans and Rob-
erts 1 999).
To address this gap, the NPS has taken steps to
make Traditional Cultural Properties (TCPs) eligible for
the National Register. The NPS developed a bulletin
in 1 994 to help archeologists and ethnographers iden-
tif/ and interpret TCPs (NPS 1 994). While this has been
an effective way to recognize individual properties, it
has been less helpful in understanding the interrela-
52
tionship of sites within a landscape.
Another area of legislation affecting ethnographic
landscapes deals with protection of and access to
sacred sites. Over the past twenty-five years, the United
States has built up a unique "legislative package" di-
rectly related to Native Americans' freedom to practice
traditional religion. The American Indian Religious Free-
dom Act of 1 978 (AIRFA) affirms Native Americans'
rights to worship; but it does not have any implement-
ing regulations; and therefore relies primarily on the
goodwill of landowners or managers to grant worship-
pers access to sacred sites. However, a later Executive
Order (1 3007), issued in 1 996, more explicitly protects
Native Americans' access to sacred sites. Less directly
relevant to ceremonial uses, the Archaeological Re-
sources Protection Act of 1 979 (ARPA) requires federal
land managers to determine whether potential excava-
tion sites have cultural significance to associated
peoples. The Native American Craves Protection and
Repatriation Act of 1 990 (NAGPRA) requires that hu-
man remains and funerary items discovered on federal
lands be repatriated to associated tribes (Hardesty
2000:1 82). These laws, special to Native Americans, all
protect specific components of ethnographic landscapes.
In Alaska
Government management regimes frequently conflict
with indigenous people's ties to the land, and Alaska
has been no exception. Before Western contact. Native
Alaskans managed the land and its resources accord-
ing to their own practices and requirements. Today,
harvests of wild foods are subject to a complex set of
formal regulations that include both federal and state
authorities in different contexts, since more than half
of all lands in the state are federally managed (Fig. 1 6).
Subsistence uses—hunting, fishing, and gathering wild
resources for personal and family consumption and dis-
tribution—also co-exist and compete with commercial,
recreational, and wildlife conservation uses of land.
Until recently, most NPS cultural landscape projects
in Alaska did not focus on subsistence landscapes, but
STATE POLICIES/ U.S. : ALASKA
on historical structures and non-Natives' activities. The
current focus on ethnographic landscapes sets NPS
cultural landscapes work in Alaska apart from the other
regions. Some examples of such work in Alaska are:
—Chilkoot Trail and the Dyea Townsite Cultural
Landscape Inventories (NPS 1999a and 1999b).
Both sites are located in Klondike Gold Rush Na-
tional Historical Park—headquartered in Skagway,
Alaska, near the Canadian boarder—and relate to
the routes taken by non-Native stampeders headed
north to the Yukon territory in the 1 898 Gold Rush.
They describe the Native groups who lived in the
area and refer to their participation in historical
events, but do not address the contemporary im-
portance of the sites [see Horton, this volume].
—The cultural landscapes report for Kennecott Mill
Town in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Pre-
serve (Gilbert et al. 2001). Kennecott was a non-
Native community that grew up around a copper
mine in the early twentieth century. It is now aban-
doned. The report emphasizes developing plans
to restore and preserve the historic buildings and
structures at the site.
The ethnographic landscape report is one of the
NPS Applied Ethnography Program's standard types
of reports:^
This is a limited field survey to identify
and describe the names, locations,
distributions, and meanings of ethno-
graphic landscape features. . . . Commu-
nity members will be involved in site
visits and ethnographic interviewing.
Studies will be coordinated with the
cultural landscape program, which has
primary responsibility for cultural
landscape identification and manage-
ment (http://www.cr.nps. gov/aad/
studies.htm).
At the time of this writing, the Alaska region of NPS
has not produced any ethnographic landscape reports.
However, many earlier ethnographies are eloquent state-
/ 6/ Federal lands in Alaska. Shaded areas are federal public lands.
RACHEL MASON 53
merits of Alaska Natives' attachments to place (e.g.,
de Laguna 1 972; Nelson 1 969, 1 983; Ellannaand Balluta
1 992; Burch 1 981 , 1 994, 1 999; Coldschmidt and Haas
1998). Recent examples of NPS-contracted work that
focus on ethnographic landscapes of specific value to
Native Alaskans include:
—The Shared Beringian Heritage Program's study
of Ubiasaun, a past reindeer herding community
and subsistence settlement near the village of
Shishmaref in Northwest Alaska was published in
1996 (Schaaf 1996). Other NPS-sponsored studies
of the same region include Simon and Cerlach (1 991
)
and Fair and Ningeulook (1994). The abandoned
settlement at Ubiasaun is a "memory landscape, " a
once-vital place that remains in people's hearts and
minds (Fair, this volume).
—Place-names studies around Denali National Park
and Preserve (Cudgel-Holmes 1991; Kari 1999).
These reports are based on linguistic and oral his-
tory work with Athapaskan language speakers.
Special circumstances in Alaska affect NPS and other
federal agencies. Indirectly, they affect ethnographers'
interests. The Alaskan ethnographers' focus on subsis-
tence harvests, use areas, means of access and place
names derives in part from the 1971 Alaska Native
Claims Settlement Act (ANCSA),^ but most importantly
from the 1 980 Alaska National Interest Lands and Con-
servation Act (ANILCA)." ANCSA and ANILCA set guide-
lines for managing federal lands in Alaska and set the
standard for government recognition of ethnographic
landscapes there.
ANCSA, by creating thirteen regional Native cor-
porations and allotting certain lands to sharehold-
ers, superimposed Western property and business
concepts, along with political territories, upon Alaska
Natives' ties to the land. An indirect product of
ANCSA was the Bureau of Indian Affairs' 1 4(h)(l ) Pro-
gram,^ an office of the agency which oversaw the
collection of more than 2,500 taped or written in-
terviews with Alaska Natives about significant sites
throughout Alaska (Pratt 2002). The records, stored
in the BIA office in Anchorage, represent an impor-
tant archive of Alaska Native traditional knowledge.
/// Game Management Units in Alaska. The Alaska Department of Fish and Came divided the state into 26
geographical units to facilitate management of hunting and trapping.
54 STATE POLICIES/ U.S. : ALASKA
The impetus for settling Alaska Native claims in
1971 came from the biggest frontier opportunity of
all, the discovery of oil at Prudhoe Bay. ANCSA extin-
guished all current Native claims, but it left the door
open for ANILCA to establish priority for subsistence
harvesting for qualified users. Originally, Title VIII of
ANILCA gave subsistence hunting priority to Native
rural residents. As a last-minute compromise with the
State of Alaska's interests, however. Congress approv-
ed a version of ANILCA that gave subsistence priority
to all qualified rural residents, both Native and non-
Native. Other portions of ANILCA set aside 32.4 mil-
lion acres (131,118 square kilometers) of land in Alaska
as wilderness, not to be touched for development.
ANILCA focused more directly than ANCSA on
land conservation. ANILCA created six new national
parks, along with several monuments, preserves, wild-
life refuges, and wild and scenic rivers. This new law
also brought the lands used by Alaska Native cor-
porations created under ANCSA, under federal man-
agement and protection (Hardesty 2000:182). ANILCA
was groundbreaking legislation because it also cre-
ated a new management model for protected lands
that recognized contemporary subsistence uses by
living Native cultures. Robert Arnberger (2001 :1 -2), MPS
Alaska Regional Director, wrote that because of
ANILCA, "Alaska is serving as a laboratory of how in-
digenous peoples and their cultures remain and are
joined with the landscape—inseparable from it."
By creating a subsistence priority for rural residents
on federal public lands. Title VIII of ANILCA eventu-
ally led to the establishment of the Federal Subsis-
tence Management Program in 1 991 . This interagency
program includes representatives of five federal agen-
cies. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is the lead
agency; the others are the National Park Service, the
Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and
the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Government management of subsistence focuses
more on uses of particular resources than on read-
ing the landscape. Established in 1978, the State of
Alaska's subsistence research branch, the Alaska De-
18/ The ten Alaskan regions represented by Federal Subsistence Regional Advisory Councils. The geo-
graphical regions are roughly separated along cultural lines.
RACHEL MASON 55
partment of Fish and Game Division of Subsistence
has documented subsistence harvests and mapped
traditional use areas. Because of the practical need to
resolve management concerns, the government agency
perspective also de-emphasizes the cognitive aspects
of the cultural landscape. State and federal manage-
ment of resources for subsistence, commercial, and rec-
reational uses cut up the landscape in peculiar ways,
by creating several conflicting networks of manage-
ment units.
Dual management by state and federal subsis-
tence programs further re-organized the Alaska land-
scape in a new and foreign way. To minimize confu-
sion, the federal program adopted the state's system of
twenty-six Game Management Units, designating them
"Wildlife Management Units" (Fig.l 7). Game or wildlife
management units are not traditional territories, any
more than it is traditional for Native Alaskans to have
harvest seasons and catch limits. In addition, the fed-
eral program established ten federal subsistence regional
advisory councils (Fig. 1 8). The composition of the
regional councils, whose members are appointed by
the secretaries of interior and agriculture, is intended to
reflect the cultural groups and the different interests of
subsistence users in each rural area. Both Natives and
non-Natives are eligible to be on the councils, in keep-
ing with ANILCA's insistence on including non-Native
subsistence users.'
The 1 999 addition of fisheries to the federal subsis-
tence management of wildlife heightened subsistence
users' Interest In the landscapes created by rivers.
Athapaskan groups living in Interior Alaska have a par-
ticular focus on rivers. Some Athapaskan languages
render directions as "uprlver" or "downriver" (Kari 2000),
in addition to "toward the water" or "away from the
water" (Tilley 1994:57), instead of using the Western
cardinal directions. At a fall 1999 meeting of the fed-
eral Southcentral Regional Advisory Council, an Ahtna
Athapaskan resident of the area proposed that wildlife
management units be replaced by river drainages as
the main units for subsistence fisheries management.
Such a focus would be closer to the traditional man-
agement already in use in rural Southcentral Alaska.
Although the regional council found the suggestion
appealing, this practical and culturally appropriate sug-
gestion did not advance any further in the regulatory
channels than that discussion.
Subsistence management regimes in Alaska have
contributed to two significant recent developments in
scientific research and natural resource management.
One is the need to treat traditional ecological knowl-
edge on an equal footing with Western science. Along
with scholars' heightened interest In traditional knowl-
edge, scientific research has become more of a col-
laboration between Western scholars and tribal groups.
Traditional ecological knowledge frequently centers
on landscapes. Landscapes are an integral part of tradi-
tional worldviews (Buggey, this volume) where animals
and humans belong to the same spiritual world. Geo-
graphic features may also play a part. In Southeast
Alaska, for example, some Tlingit clans are named after
nearby mountains. Kawagley's study of world-views of
the Yup'ik people of Western Alaska begins with a cre-
ation myth about humans emerging at the Yukon-
Kuskokwlm delta (1 995:1 3). Many other Alaska Native
creation myths tell how the first humans were placed in
their landscape.
The second and related development, influenced
by progress toward shared power in resource manage-
ment decision making In Canada, is the movement in
United States government agencies toward co-manage-
ment by stakeholders, including users and managers.
Both in Canada and the U.S., efforts to institute co-
management regimes have focused on specific natural
resources, not landscape preservation. In both coun-
tries, however, indigenous people have become more
involved in managing historical or cultural sites (Buggey,
this volume). Research involving Native peoples or
their lands must now be conducted in consultation with
and with formal approval of tribal entities.
Since its inception in 1 991 , the Federal Subsistence
Management Program has made progress toward
56 STATE POLICIES/ U.S. : ALASKA
co-management, in the sense that subsistence users
participate meaningfully in wildlife management deci-
sions affecting them. The Federal Subsistence Board is
obligated to follow the recommendations of the Re-
gional Advisory Councils, except under special circum-
stances. Community residents participate and have in-
fluence in Regional Council meetings, which are often
held in rural Alaska. Other examples of shared decision
making include the development of user-manager
groups to make regulatory decisions on caribou hunt-
ing and the introduction of community quotas for cari-
bou in the Southern Alaska Peninsula herd. In areas
outside the purview of the Federal Subsistence Pro-
gram, legislation affecting oversight of marine mam-
mal and migratory bird hunting has made specific al-
lowances for local users' involvement in management.
In Alaska as elsewhere in the U.S., government
management agencies and their scientific advisors have
begun to pay more attention to local knowledge and
concerns. Despite the movement toward co-manage-
ment, by their very existence land managing govern-
ment agencies represent the dominant non-Native cul-
ture, not the indigenous people. The concept of land
management imposes a legal and political system that
may contradict indigenous views of land use rights.
Ethnographic Landscapes
In the U.S.
In the United States, much of land management agen-
cies' interest in attachment to place, and hence in eth-
nographic landscapes, comes from efforts to protect
Native Americans' sacred places (Evans and Roberts
1999:1). Federal land policies, intended to prevent or
restrict access to public lands, have incidentally pre-
vented Native Americans and others from visiting sa-
cred or meaningful sites (Hardesty 2000:180). On the
other hand, Native Americans may wish to prevent out-
siders from disturbing sacred sites or visiting them dur-
ing ceremonies.
Those accustomed to Western religious concepts
may not easily understand why Native Americans view
some sites as sacred. Instead of recognizing a few
discrete sacred shrines. Native Americans may imbue
a more broadly defined landscape with meaning. The
journey itself may be more sacred than the landmarks
along the way. Sacredness can also be temporary; a
site's sacredness may not outlive a specific use.
There is a connection between sacred sites and those
important for subsistence uses. Hunting and gathering
have spiritual as well as economic and political as-
pects. Research on the social impacts of the 1 989 Exxon
Valdez Oil Spill showed significant differences between
Alaska Natives and non-Natives in the spiritual mean-
ings attached to the environment (Callaway, this vol-
ume; Jorgenson 1995). The value non-Natives placed
on their favorite hunting and fishing sites differed from
the culturally based spiritual significance Natives iden-
tified.
Place-names are another arena of conflict between
indigenous people and politically dominant manag-
ers. Ethnographic landscapes, as constructed by the
people who use them, may clash with the dominant
group's vision of the same area. Fair (this volume) re-
views the literature on toponymy in Alaska and out-
side the state. In Alaska, substantial NPS ethnographic
work focuses on Native attachment to place (Cudgel-
Holmes 1991; Kari 1999; Fair and Ningeulook 1994;
Fair 1 996). Collecting this knowledge adds critical de-
tail to ethnographic documentation of a world-view.
For example, indigenous place-names in Denali NPP
grow scarcer as one travels upland, since Atha-paskans
had little reason to hunt in the snowy mountains (Kari
1999:16). Alaska Native people's efforts to return to
place-names previously used (e.g., changing Mt.
McKinley's name to Denali) recognize that naming the
landscape expresses sovereignty and identity.
Some anthropologists and historical architects work-
ing in federal agencies have experienced institutional
pressure to develop inventories of sites. In the NPS, for
example, all programs have been tasked to develop
measurable goals and to document progress toward
meeting them. The Ethnographic Resource Inventory
RACHEL MASON 57
(ERI), Archaeological Sites Management Information
System (ASMIS), and the Cultural Landscapes Inven-
tory (CLI) databases were created with that charge
in mind. All carry the potential danger of merely list-
ing sites, instead of explaining the relationships be-
tween them.
The Ethnographic Resource Inventory is still, in 2004,
in its initial stages and not yet fully operational. The
only nationwide ethnographic goal in the NPS Perfor-
mance Management Data System* measures the num-
ber of ethnographic resources parks add to the ERI
each year. The ERI is expected to become the main
measure of work accomplished in the agency's Ap-
plied Ethnography Program. Eventually, it is hoped, the
ERI will produce much more information than a list of
resources. At present, however, the ERI does not ad-
equately convey the relationships between ethno-
graphic resources. The Archaeological Sites Manage-
ment Information System, which serves the NPS archae-
ology program, has similar problems. The Cultural Land-
scapes Inventory has the advantage of listing whole
landscapes instead of individual resources and of docu-
menting landscape as a process (Norton, this volume).
However, inventories have a way of making things con-
crete and discrete that might better be considered con-
tinuous. As Smith and Burke (this volume) point out in
reference to Australian indigenous views on time and
space, ethnographic landscapes are not a collection of
dots but the connections between the dots.
Another approach to U.S. natural and cultural re-
source management is the ecosystem model embraced
in the last decade by some federal programs, including
the Fish and Wildlife Service and the Forest Service.
The Bureau of Land Management has not so explicitly
supported the ecosystem concept, but has adopted
some of its features. These steps reflect not only an
interest in the interrelated parts of ecosystems, but an
admission that humans are part of the natural landscape.
Unfortunately, each agency has encountered some dif-
ficulties using the ecosystem model. Biologists who
favor species-by-species analysis and management
have opposed the ecosystem approach. Other prob-
lems relate to the bottom-up decision making and
focus on partnerships that accompany ecosystem man-
agement initiatives. It is not easy to change an agency's
hierarchical power structure.
In Alaska
Ethnographic landscapes are not static; they eventu-
ally change across a geographical area. Cultural groups
need varying amounts of space to make full use of
their landscapes. In the past, some Alaskan hunters
and gatherers followed migrating animals and trav-
eled seasonally within the designated group territory.
Sedentary groups had intimate knowledge of a broad
territory because of their journeys for trade or warfare.
Today some Alaska Native groups continue to
honor "traveling landscapes." Athapaskan, in par-
ticular, are very mobile people and have many travel
stories (Mishler 1995). Dena'ina Athapaskan living
around Cook Inlet used and traveled over a wide-rang-
ing territory (Kari and Fall 1 987). As noted above in the
discussion of Denali NPP, some Athapaskan stories
focus on a character named Traveler, who dreamed
in advance about the places he would visit (de La-
guna 1995:330). Nelson (1983:242-3) describes how
Koyukon people view the human imprint on the en-
vironment:
This imprint can be illustrated by describing
the cultural and personal means with which
Koyukon people vest places on the land-
scape. Some of these are founded in the
domain of recent human events; others are
ancient and more spiritual than human.
Traveling through the wildland, a Koyukon
person constantly passes by these places,
and the flow of land becomes also a flow of
the mind.
Ahtna Athapaskans, too, often tell travel narratives.
They describe remembered hunting and fishing jour-
neys, emphasizing survival in the face of hardship. Up-
per Ahtna travel stories also demonstrate kinship con-
nections across regions (Kari 1986:1 53-215).
Inupiat people in Northwest Alaska share stories
58 STATE POLICIES/ U.S. ALASKA
19/ Telida, an Upper Kuskokwim Athapaskan village and a Subsistence Residence Zone communtiy for Denali
National Park and Preserve.
of traveling, some of them about journeys by sea or
along the coast (Fair and Ningeulook 1994). In regard
to social dimensions of land use in Point Hope, an
Inupiaq community, Burch (1981) tells of individuals'
mobility between settlements, as well as movements
of whole settlements. Both supernatural factors (par-
ticularly fear of ghosts) and practical quests for ease of
access influenced settlement choices.
The sea dominated the landscape on Alaska's
southern coastlines, and Aleut and Alutiiq people were
fearless travelers by water. They also traveled over land
and knew every landmark of certain trails. On Kodiak
Island, at the beginning of the twentieth century, it was
common for men from the village of Akhiok to under-
take a walk of several days to Kaduk, on the island's
west side (Rostad 1 988).
In addition to their geographic aspect, the temporal
dimension of traveling landscapes marks a difference
between Western and non-Western ways of thinking.
While this is often seen as the contrast between linear
and cyclical thinking, non-Western temporal views of
the landscape may be more accurately described as
"the past living in the present" (Norton 2002, this vol-
ume). The Australian Dreamtime famously exemplifies
a view of moving landscapes, since some Australian
Indigenous people see a group's totemic history em-
bodied in landmarks. Alaska Native traveling stories
also show how past deeds and adventures still exist in
today's landscape.
Before Western contact, Alaska indigenous people
developed complex economies built upon sophisti-
cated exploitation of local plant and animal resources.
No group was isolated from other groups; all were trad-
ers and travelers who knew varied landscapes by water,
coast or on land. It is not too surprising that Alaska
Natives find it difficult to accept an imposed Western
landscape, or that Western managers would fail to rec-
ognize the ethnographic landscapes that co-exist with
management regimes.
Nationwide, the NPS formally acknowledges some
RACHEL MASON 59
traveling landscapes in the form of routes, rivers, and
conceptual units, such as the Underground Railroad,
the Cherokee Trail ofTears, and Historic Route 66. These
monuments or historical trails honor travel and move-
ment instead of discrete sites. The Underground Rail-
road represents the network of helpers runaway Afri-
can-American slaves encountered as they traveled north
to freedom. The Cherokee Trail of Tears recognizes the
forced relocation of Cherokees from their homeland in
the Southeastern U.S. to Oklahoma. Historic Route 66
commemorates the route Dust Bowl farmers took from
the Central Plains to California during the Great De-
pression in the 1 930s.
For non-Native Americans, preserved historical
landscapes tend to celebrate the conquest of nature
(Melnick 2000:26). This adds to the ongoing alienation
of Native American values from the existing system
of historical landscape management. At Alaska's Klon-
dike Gold Rush National Historical Park, for example,
visitors are shown the travails of Gold Rush prospec-
tors as they navigated the Chilkoot Trail. Native Ameri-
cans, however, were not until recently a significant part
of the NPS interpretation of the Klondike story.
Native American ethnographic landscapes tend to
be more inclusive and more geographically widespread
than those defined by NPS cultural landscape guide-
lines. A landscapes approach is a better way to show
how cultural sites and resources are interrelated than
the Traditional Cultural Properties approach, which looks
at landmarks in a piecemeal fashion (Stoffle and Evans
1990). Unfortunately, cultural resource managers con-
tinue to be skeptical of Native Americans' statements
about holistic conservation and their attachments to
sacred places and activities.
Policy Implications
To explore the implications for policy, we now return
to the originally posed three-way struggle among sub-
sistence, wilderness, and frontier opportunities. From
the government management standpoint, all three cat-
egories represent competing user groups. There tends
to be little interest in overlapping views, despite rec-
ognition that there is much overlap between them.
Land and resource managers tend to assume that
indigenous foragers had minimal effect on the land-
scape. For both the early conservation movement and
for more recent conservationists, the opposite of wil-
derness was development (Sellars 1 998:2 1 1 ). Both gov-
ernment agencies and conservationists viewed Euro-
American management as the only form of manage-
ment (Callaway, this volume). Native Americans' uses
of the landscape were not part of the equation. Today,
while a particular site or area may seem to non-Native
visitors and scientists to preserve nature or commemo-
rate historical events, it may also represent a homeland
to Native people (Buggey, this volume).
Cultural resource managers have embraced the con-
servation goal of preserving the integrity of the natural
landscape and have applied this goal to preserving
historical landscapes (Howett 2000). Indeed, integrity
is an important criterion for National Register of His-
toric Places eligibility. Resource managers have not
so wholeheartedly supported preserving the integrity
of ethnographic landscapes. They tend to manage each
species separately, rather than preserve an entire land-
scape and the activities it incorporates.
An area's designation as wilderness confounds sub-
sistence users as much as do the artificial boundaries
of the federal or state game management unit system.
In non-Native understanding, wilderness land is unin-
habited, unused, and untouched. Indigenous people's
subsistence uses are tolerated or ignored largely as
long as they do not seem to modify the landscape.
Consumptive human uses, even for subsistence or for
religious ceremonies, threaten the integrity of non-
Natives' perceived wilderness.
NPS examples of ethnographic landscapes in Alaska
are mainly those used by Native Alaskans, just as eth-
nography in Alaska has focused upon the aboriginal
inhabitants of the state. In Alaska, ethnographic land-
scapes tend to remain hidden from public view, while
the cultural landscape exemplified in historical monu-
60 STATE POLICIES/ U.S. : ALASKA
ments and artifacts left by Western culture is widely
displayed and interpreted to visitors. Western histori-
cal landscapes are also actively promoted to encour-
age tourism, public awareness, and commercial rev-
enues coming from increased visitorship. Therefore, the
spiritual values Native Alaskans attach to their land-
scape are neither presented nor properly understood
by most of the non-Native residents and visitors.
Most current ethnographic research in Alaska, in-
cluding landscape studies, involves collaboration be-
tween Western scholars and Alaska Natives (e.g., Kari
1986; Fair and Ningeulook 1994; Mishler 1995; Ellanna
and Balluta 1992). Anthropologists' heightened inter-
est in traditional ecological knowledge has a parallel
in historical architects' growing interest in the cogni-
tive aspects of landscape. The significant disciplinary
difference may be methodological: anthropologists
learn about ethnographic landscapes using the meth-
ods of face-to-face interviews and participant observa-
tion, while landscape architects look at features of land-
scape—particularly man-made structures—before inter-
preting the values embedded in cultural resources.
NPS study of ethnographic landscapes is still in
beginning stages, but it has progressed further than in
other government agencies. Recognition of diverse
contemporary cultural views of the landscape, and of
values placed on landscapes, is gradually making its
way through the layers of the U.S. federal land man-
agement system. The Forest Service and the Fish and
Wildlife Service have both regarded landscape diver-
sity as axiomatic to the ecosystem approach they have
embraced. Consequently, these agencies have come
closer to appreciating the cultural context of ethno-
graphic landscape and have moved away from a spe-
cies-by-species or site-by-site approach to biota and
landscapes. The Forest Service has taken special inter-
est in past human roles in altering landscapes, particu-
larly Native Americans' past practices of purposely set-
ting fires to control the landscape (MacCleary 1994).
The Fish and Wildlife Service also acknowledges that
humans are active participants in ecosystem change.
The Bureau of Land Management and the Minerals Man-
agement Service, both in the U.S. Department of Inte-
rior, have developed programs to manage visual land-
scapes for the protection of scenic values. The Depart-
ment of Interior agencies and the Forest Service in the
Department of Agriculture have all endeavored to in-
corporate traditional knowledge along with data col-
lected by the methods of Western science in federal
decision making (Burwell 2001).
Traditional knowledge is typically tied to a specific
place or locality. An important policy implication is
that managers must reconcile their need to find broad,
one-size-fits-all management (for efficiency, enforce-
ment, or personnel training purposes) with the goals of
co-management and use of local knowledge. While
many in the NPS believe that landscape protection is
best accomplished by the people who use the land, the
NPS and other federal agencies also have a national
and international constituency. Political pressures on
the management agencies may prevent them from
wholeheartedly adopting local knowledge as a guide.
Conclusions
United States government policies to designate and
protect cultural landscapes are primarily driven by his-
toric preservation laws, particularly the 1 966 National
Historical Preservation Act. In NPS usage, ethnographic
landscapes are a specific type of cultural landscapes,
incorporating both natural and cultural elements. They
are significant to contemporary, traditionally associated
peoples. The American Indian Religious Freedom Act
(1 978) and Executive Order 30007 (1 996), which pro-
tect Native Americans' access to sacred sites, and Na-
tional Register Bulletin 38 (1994), providing guidelines
for documenting Traditional Cultural Properties have,
to a lesser extent, also influenced management of eth-
nographic landscapes.
Both the Cultural Landscapes Program and ethnog-
raphers in the NPS have had to contend with an institu-
tional interest in considering distinct sites rather than
ethnographic landscapes as a whole. Pressure on gov-
RACHEL MASON 61
ernment agencies to produce measurable results con-
tributes to a practice of merely listing sites, rather than
describing their interconnectedness. The common goal
of seeing landscape as a process, or a work-in-progress,
instead of just buildings or trees, is a reason for agen-
cies and programs to work together.
Until now, government-sponsored ethnographic or
cultural landscape work in Alaska has had little explicit
reference to ethnographic landscapes. Implicitly, how-
ever, ethnography and cultural landscape work in this
region has done much to address Alaska Native peoples'
attachment to landscape. In state and federal land man-
agement regimes, management deliberations and deci-
sions impose a Western regulatory vision upon the in-
digenous system of land use. Government agencies'
increased reliance on traditional ecological knowledge,
along with increased support for co-management re-
gimes, brings resource managers closer to understand-
ing and working with indigenous worldviews.
Acknowledgments
Janet Cohen, Tonia Horton, Igor Krupnik, and James
Mason provided helpful comments on a draft of this
paper. Cari Goettcheus and the late Miki Crespi kindly
sent an early paper they wrote together addressing col-
laboration between the NPS Applied Ethnography and
Cultural Landscapes programs.
Notes
1 . Katie John, an Ahtna Athapaskan elder from
the village of Mentasta, Alaska, was one of the plain-
tiffs in the Johm v. State of Alaska case. She and her
co-plaintiffs sued for the right to fish for subsistence
at her family's site.
2. The others are Rapid Ethnographic Assess-
ment Procedure, Ethnographic Overview and Assess-
ment, Traditional Use, Cultural Affiliation, Ethno-
history, and Ethnographic Oral and Life Histories
(http;//www.cr.nps.gov/aad/appeth.htm).
3. ANCSA's goal was to extinguish aboriginal
land claims in Alaska. The discovery of oil reserves
in Alaska, and the federal freeze on state land se-
lections, made it more urgent to find a quick resolu-
tion to Native land claims (Case 1984:14).
4. Following up on certain provisions of ANCSA
regarding unreserved lands, ANILCA enabled the U.S.
Department of Interior to withdraw and classify lands
in the public interest (Case 1 984:298).
5. This program takes its name from the section
of the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act, which au-
thorizes the Secretary of the Interior to withdraw
unreserved and unappropriated Native cemetery sites
and historical places located on public lands, and to
convey them to regional corporations.
6. A list of technical reports, and abstracts from
the reports, are listed on the Alaska Department of
Fish and Game website: http://wvw.state.ak.us/lo-
cal/akpages/fishgame/subsistence/geninfo/
publictns/subabs.htm.
7. By the terms of ANILCA, the NPS manages
subsistence uses on its lands a little differently from
the other federal landholding agencies in Alaska. In
certain Alaska parks, such as Glacier Bay National
Park, subsistence uses are not allowed. ANILCA es-
tablished a Subsistence Resources Commission, com-
prised of local rural residents, for each park that al-
lows subsistence activities. It makes recommenda-
tions to park managers and works with the NPS to
develop a comprensive subsistence management
plan for the park. Under NPS regulations, a person is
eligible to harvest subsistence resources in a park if
he lives in a designated Resident Zone Community
for that park or has an individual subsistence eligi-
bility permit.
8. This goal is optional for national parks.
9. Ethnographic resources are "subsistence and
ceremonial locales and sites, structures, objects, and
rural and urban landscapes assigned cultural signifi-
cance by traditional users" (NPS 1997:160).
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1 990 Holistic Conservation and Cultural Triage:
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64 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
wnting Ethnographic History:
j^istonc preservation, (Cultural Landscapes,
an d Trad itionai (Cultural properties
TONIA WOODS HORTON
In a report released in July 2001, the National Park
Advisory Board articulated its concerns that the na-
tional parks "actively acknowledge the connections
between native cultures and the parks, and assure
that no relevant chapter in the American heritage
experience remains unopened" with this recommen-
dation:
[T|he National Park Service should help
conserve the irreplaceable connections that
ancestral and indigenous people have with
the parks. . . . Parks should become sanctuar-
ies for expressing and reclaiming ancient
feelings of place. Efforts should be made to
connect these peoples with parks and other
areas of special significance to strengthen
their living cultures (National Park Service
2001:3,8).
Reinforcing this idea, the report asserted,
"America's national parks were places of human
feeling long before they became parks. They are
ancestral homelands" (ibid.:8, emphasis added).
Without referring to Native Americans in particu-
lar, this seemingly commonsensical observation
actually presents a formidable challenge to ways
in which park histories are written and interpreted.
It also highlights the cultural parallax in which the
issue of heritage production resides: the differ-
ences in knowledge between parks as homelands
and as uninhabited places in which historical sig-
nificance is imposed and interpreted "from the
outside," the institutional framework of the Na-
tional Park Service (NPS). Although the use of the
word "homelands" is an enormous advance in
policy rhetoric, the implications for heritage con-
struction as well as the subsequent implementa-
tion and management of these "sanctuaries" are
much less clear.
From the Braudelian perspective of the iongueduree,
the "long view," this brief statement is a tentative over-
ture toward accepting the contingent and provisional
nature of the past as an accretion of many layers, physi-
cal and symbolic, illustrating human interaction with
the landscapes that are now parks. The act of writing
history as an interpretation of the past, then, becomes
both text and texture for an alternative knowledge of
place, a middle ground where the view from within
tempers the view from without, negotiating uncertain
terrain. Embedding this imperfect and arguably subjec-
tive model of history within a landscape is even more
challenging: there is no stasis, historical or ecological,
possible in a dynamically evolving environment. Land-
scapes are, at their most essential, compositions of per-
petual change.
The historical imperative for parks to include "people
with long and deep connections with our parklands
and cultural landscapes" suggests, in effect, a reorder-
ing of heritage preservation priorities to evoke and
interpret the lived experience and cultural association
with American lands as they have been inhabited and
shaped rather than from the perspective of the visitor.
65
"discoverer," or scientist. The invisible tracery of ideo-
logical paradigms has negated, misrepresented, or ig-
nored the complexity of Native American history, ob-
scuring not only their landscape presence, but their
very cultural survival. If "history is the essence of the
idea of place," then the translation of history into heri-
tage is indelibly etched with the cultural conservation
of place (Classie 1982:664).
Writing history and constructing heritage from this
vantage point will be an arduous and painstaking task
occurring at a number of levels. It entails, necessarily,
the confluence of social and environmental histories,
of multiple stories, of mosaics of belief and practice
that shift, like a kaleidoscope, depending on the indi-
vidual and communal experiences in these landscapes
called parks. As a result, writing history in the land-
scape vein is profoundly ethnographic in method; it
is culture inscribed, nature adapted. One without the
other is incomplete. And nowhere is this potential
to understand and interpret "ancestral homelands"
more integral than in the NPS' attempt to document
and preserve the "ethnographic landscape," defined
as a distinctive resource environment representing
the heritage values associated with a historical cul-
tural group.'
By examining the National Park Service's institu-
tional approach to historic preservation and cultural
landscapes—particularly ethnographic landscapes—this
essay examines the rather convoluted process of docu-
menting and preserving landscapes through the Na-
tional Register of Historic Places administered by the
NPS. This exploration is important because it begins to
illuminate the shortcomings of a historical paradigm
applied not only to cultural groups, such as Native
Americans, but to cultural landscapes as a whole genre
of heritage. The essay concludes with a reflection on
how a recovery of landscape as a language and critical
practice can transform heritage production. It hints at a
sweeping revision that holds promise for not only the
ways in which Native American histories of place are
written but, in the larger context, for a more sophisti-
cated and integrated interpretation of national parks as
landscapes of heritage.
An Uneasy Fit: The National Register and
Emerging Cultural Landscape Methodology
In her compelling argument, Anne Whiston Spirn
(1 998:1 6, 22) eloquently articulates the profound rela-
tionship between humans and land as an active pro-
cess in which "reading" and "speaking" landscape as a
landscape inherently associates people with place. Most
importantly, Spirn's description of landscape as an evo-
lutionary process one developed, lost, recovered, re-
shaped, or forgotten through time— is intrinsically linked
to cultural survival: "The language of landscape uncov-
ers the dynamic connection between place and those
who live there." Learning to read landscapes is "relearn-
ing the language that holds life in place." Thus, a dia-
logue between people and place is intimate and re-
vealing; conversely, a "loss of fluency in the language
of landscape . . . limits our celebration of landscape as
a partnership" (Spirn 1 998: 1 6,22).
Thus defined, landscape is essentially a dialogue
between humans and place, articulated in multiple
realms: the artful shaping of land, the active use and
management of resources, the embeddedness of cre-
ation stories, and the shapes of enduring heritage. Land-
scapes are synthetic, integrative, encompassing pro-
cesses of evolution, mind-boggling in scale. But can
the concept of landscape be institutionalized as a way
of seeing, of reading land and place in ways that con-
tinue traditions of land protection and ensure cultural
conservation? How can it transform static histories of
place into a vibrant heritage that not only reflects the
past, but also the future, as a model of cultural knowl-
edge?
In its role as the steward of heritage places, the
National Park Service's responsibility is, first of all, to
comprehend, or read, its own landscapes as complex
historical and ecological entities in which valuable re-
sources are to be protected. This, of course, is far easier
said than done, in part due to the complicated history
66 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
of the NPS as an institution whose sense of heritage, a
common past, is splintered between an array of depart-
ments charged with resource protection along the prob-
lematic faultlines of "natural" and "cultural." Chiefamong
these departments are the various divisions of cultural
resource management, including archaeology, history,
ethnography, historic architecture, and cultural land-
scapes. Segregated from this mix is the division of in-
terpretation, a key element in bridging the gap between
documented histories and the articulation of places
as repositories of heritage. Additionally, the separa-
tion of natural resource management into its own
heritage and conservation model adds to the com-
partmentalization of landscape values, by now be-
reft of their cultural origins.-^
The inception of the cultural landscape paradigm in
the NPS gathered momentum beginning in 1981 with
the recognition that parks were composed of landscapes,
a resource type to be inventoried and preserved as part
of the agency's mission. This acknowledgment proved
to be not only a major definitional shift for the parks,
but an ideological and operational one as well. Be-
fore implementing the cultural landscapes program,
cultural resource studies and management policies
in the NPS were constructed along disciplinary lines;
history, historic architecture, and archaeology. In the
process, the legibility of the historic landscape and its
critical role in shaping the nature of its embedded re-
sources (such as structures and archaeological sites)
often fell through the cracks. Certain landscape char-
acteristics, such as land use, topography, and veg-
etation, were generally noted, but not seen as es-
sential determinants for the historic scene. Archaeo-
logical relics and monuments, battlefields and sites,
were not located in an active field of engagement,
but rather seen as static tableaux that preserved and
interpreted physical vestiges related to central themes
of American nationalism.
The ideological framework for identifying historic
resources for preservation relied on museum-dominated
theories of American material culture embodied in the
original impetus for historic preservation on a national
scale, the Historic Sites Act of 1 935. This critical piece
of legislation capped years of active lobbying and ne-
gotiation by the NPS, especially under the leadership
of Horace Albright and, later, the new chief of the His-
tory Branch, Verne Chatelain, to move beyond the early
twentieth century legacy of preserved public lands
focused on archaeological ruins (almost exclusively
Native American, such as Casa Grande and Mesa
Verde) and battlefield sites designated under the aus-
pices of the Antiquities Act and the Department of
War mandates.^
The language of the Historic Sites Act focused on
"historic sites, buildings, and objects" that illustrated a
thematic American history through physical preserva-
tion akin to outdoor museums. It also instituted a cen-
sus approach toward identifying historic properties
worthy of preservation, implying a process that was
both curatorial and prescriptive, and most importantly,
defined by federal standards. With the consolidation of
archaeological sites and battlefields, Director Albright's
vision that NPS would "go rather heavily into the his-
torical park field" and that it was "in business" as a
dominant force in historic preservation set the agenda
for the agency as the heritage institution of the na-
tion.'^ More than thirty years later, the creation of the
National Register of Historic Places within the provi-
sions of the National Historic Preservation Act (1 966)
further institutionalized national preservation planning
by structuring historic pasts according to strictly de-
fined artifactual typologies within broad thematic defi-
nitions of American history, namely the National Reg-
ister for Historic Places.^
Continuing the initial Historic Sites Act's emphasis
on guiding a national survey of "sites, buildings, and
objects," the National Register reinforced the idea of
interpreting a national history through identifying, docu-
menting, and preserving discrete resources, the "his-
toric properties," as artifacts. As the locus of heritage
construction at its broadest scale, e.g., the federal gov-
ernment, the National Register continues to represent
TONIA WOODS HORTON 67
the dominant historical paradigm in American historic
preservation, dramatically influencing how "cultural"
resources are defined, and subsequently included in or
excluded from, the histories, interpretation, and man-
agement of parks as heritage places.
The impress of the National Register, its ability to
express a unique character of place in terms of cultural
association is highly subject to the degree of fit be-
tween its fixed template of themes, contexts, and rec-
ognizable (largely tangible) relics of the past. As a "na-
tional census of historic properties," the National Reg-
ister functions as the prime arbiter of the historical value
of resources ranging in scale from "objects" to "dis-
tricts." Its conception of the historical "significance" and
material "integrity" of these resources viewed as "prop-
erty types" relies on an evaluation process consisting
of various levels of scrutiny, which in turn reflects criti-
cal relationships that must be addressed in order for a
property to be considered eligible for listing. First, the
property must be designated as a property type, whether
object, structure, building, site, or district. The property
type relates directly to a prescribed thematic context,
which sets up a determination of historical signifi-
cance due to the property's association with histori-
cal events, personages, styles, or its ability to poten-
tially yield meaningful research or information, fac-
tors otherwise known as "criteria for evaluation" (Na-
tional Register 1997).
Within the National Register system, then, construct-
ing the history of a site or district depends on a particu-
lar codification of the three-dimensional world as his-
tory that:
—Patterns the physical environment into precon-
ceived categories of form;
—Adheres to a typological hierarchy of historical
events and individuals; and
—Most importantly, determines its future by assign-
ing heritage values.
As a result of its function as a census, the Register's
necessity to draw tight boundaries and strict interpreta-
tions are more the exception than the rule. Eschewing
the unique process of evolution that characterizes the
history of particular landscapes, the essential foci of
the National Register are physical vestiges, the artifac-
tual remains, a limitation that obscures, in many ways,
the real efficacy of landscapes as heritage resources
(especially in the case of homelands and cultural
memory).
Discrete themes, bounded sites, and periods of sig-
nificance with prescribed beginning and end dates au-
gur to some unavoidable consequences when consid-
ering cultural landscapes. Before the emergence of a
cultural landscape framework in the past few decades,
historic preservation professionals in the NPS faced
the dilemma of defining historic resources through the
formulaic rigor of the National Register, thus distilling
historic character and values to discrete entities, the
artifacts, supporting a thematic national history. While
helpful in identif/ing elements of historic fabric, this
approach rendered the larger context, the cultural land-
scape, unrecognizable, if not altogether invisible.
Particularly absent was the interconnection with the
natural environment in which these historic resources
not only resided, but by which they were shaped,
sited, constructed, and influenced through time. The
problem of nature, particularly ecological relation-
ships, constitutes a virtually insurmountable obstacle
in the National Register's static view of history (cf.
Cook 1995).
The establishment of the NPS cultural landscapes
program was a response to the inadequacies of na-
tional presen/ation policies and laws in acknowledg-
ing the totality of resource environments within park
lands. Building on a legacy of cultural landscape dis-
course originating with Carl Sauer, and incorporating
the vernacular perspectives of landscape historians such
as J.B. Jackson, the NPS now defines a cultural land-
scape as "a geographic area, including both cultural
and natural resources and the wildlife or domestic ani-
mals therein, associated with a historic event, activity,
or person or exhibiting other cultural or aesthetic val-
ues" (Birnbaum 1 994:1 ). Cultural landscapes are identi-
68 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
fled and documented as resources integral to park plan-
ning and management. Their importance, according to
federal law and NPS Management Policies, lies in the
statement that:
[A]ll cultural landscapes are to be managed
as cultural resources, regardless of the type
or level of significance. Cultural landscape
management focuses on preserving a
landscape's physical attributes, biotic
systems, and use that contributes to its
historical significance. Research, planning,
and stewardship are the framework for the
program (National Park Service 1998:97).
A genuine handicap for cultural landscapes as an
institutionally defined category of resource is the
fact that they are subject to the criteria of the Na-
tional Register, an administrative decision that is
apparently irrevocable.''
The process by which cultural landscapes are
identified, documented, analyzed, and evaluated—
literally, how their history is written as landscapes-
has wide-ranging consequences for their interpreta-
tion and management.' In a fairly prescribed path,
NPS landscape histories focus on an interdiscipli-
nary account of the landscape's natural processes
and built forms and their evolution through time,
including a thorough documentation of existing con-
ditions. They conclude with an analysis and evalua-
tion based on "landscape characteristics, " largely tan-
gible elements ranging in scale from natural sys-
tems and features defining a river corridor to small-
scale site features such as stone steps. ^ A glaring
disjuncture exists in the relegation of "cultural tradi-
tions" and "ethnographic information" to the level
of a definable characteristic, in deference to National
Register typological description. In reality, these are
the bulwarks of interpreting landscapes as cultural
in the first place (Page 1 998:53).
However flexible and adaptive the documentation
process may be according to the historical circumstances,
its analysis and evaluation rest on a common theme:
the level of change and disruption between a deter-
mined "period of significance" based on the legibility
of "contributing" or "non-contributing" resources with
the landscape's present "condition." According to
the National Register, a particular landscape's physi-
cal history is primarily a linear chronology in which
a period of significance is established as the bench-
mark by which all landscape change can be mea-
sured. This evaluation of the degree and level of change
between a landscape's period of significance and its
present condition culminates in a determination of "in-
tegrity," or its ability to reflect historical values through
the surviving physical resources, and thus its viabil-
ity in National Register terms. This, in turn, leads to
a statement of significance setting forth heritage
values based on an interpretation that may or may
not fully correspond to the panoply of meanings in
any particular landscape.
In spite of the philosophical questions posed by
the cultural landscape paradigm to the National
Register's template of American history, the artifactual
underpinnings of this methodology remain, begging
the still unanswered question: how relevant is a deter-
mination of national significance when cast in a largely
predetermined structure of census? In many respects,
this institutional process creates its own alternative land-
scape history, one that represents an artificial, exter-
nally driven typology.
This tethering of cultural landscape work in the na-
fional parks to the rigid methodology of the National
Register has distinct implications for understanding land-
scapes as heritage, particularly those with deep ties to
Native American history. It presents, at best, a frail
compromise between incorporating some themes of
Native American history (in terms of archaeology, Euro-
American settlement contact, and battlefields) and not
including them at all. What the National Register has
not provided is a framework within which Native Ameri-
can history is not only actively written, but commemo-
rated in terms of associated peoples' homelands,
memory-places, and as fields of encounter where land-
scape is ethnographically constructed as cultural
place—in a word, heritage. This cumbersome alliance
TONIA WOODS NORTON 69
creates and represents histories of place to fit a physi-
cal template that is inherently unequal and incomplete
in its understanding of the processes (read: worldviews)
of non-Euro-American cultures and their landscapes.
Despite the policy that all cultural landscapes are to be
managed as cultural resources, regardless of significance,
programmatic ties between the cultural landscapes pro-
gram and the National Register heavily influence the
way that landscapes are perceived in the National Park
Service. It is an uneasy fit, primarily because of the
juxtaposition between the National Register standards
and the fluid complexity of landscapes as evolution-
ary processes.
Despite the restrictive conventions, however, deci-
phering cultural landscapes in the national parks has
broadened the scope of the National Register. While
there is gradual acceptance of cultural landscapes in
the Register formats, the ambiguities inherent in a mul-
tidimensional resource, such as a landscape, present
substantial challenges to a typological construction of
history and place; change is slow in coming.'^ As an
example, the inclusion of landscape characteristics in
National Register terminology, however peripheral, does
begin to contextualize cultural landscapes as assem-
blages of artifacts, especially at the scales of land use
and spatial arrangement. In other ways, elements such
as circulation and vegetation, and topography now
describe and document salient aspects of physical
landscapes alongside more traditionally associated
material features such as archaeological sites, build-
ings, and structures. Clearly, the construction of heri-
tage shaped by cultural landscapes is one in which
newer definitions of landscape as cultural process,
for example, can play a larger role. But, such defini-
tions clearly threaten the ideological structure of
the National Register as a heritage department be-
cause of their very nature as ambiguous, subjective,
and contingent.
The difficulty ensues in the latitude of interpreta-
tion and the hierarchy of importance with which certain
characteristics may possess integrity, while others, such
as cultural traditions and ethnographic features, which
clearly continue to have an influence over the con-
temporary landscape, do not. Characteristics such as
topography and natural systems can be only documented
to a certain degree during the various periods of any
landscape history, especially when pictorial evidence,
such as aerial photographs, are unavailable. However,
the rate and scale of change in these characteristics is
far different than for a set of buildings or, for that matter,
the cultural traditions associated with land use. How,
then, is a standard of integrity for these characteristics
to be measured in a period of significance and beyond,
when incredibly differing sets of variables are in play?
The Register's delineation of property types as "ob-
ject," "site," or "district" do not reflect basic landscape
processes, which are more appropriately defined in an
ecological context of patch, edge, corridor, and mosaic
(Dramstad et al. 1996:14-6). This is even more the
case when dealing with the processes of cultural for-
mation, identity, and belonging, and how they shape
landscapes in terms of heritage and commemoration,
issues that cannot be simply reduced to a few bulleted
paragraphs.
In other words, what may be significant in the his-
toric value structure of the National Register is more
than likely not as significant when considering the in-
herent, site-specific qualities of cultural landscapes.
Codification of heritage values in the National Regis-
ter plays an important role in the protection of historic
properties, but as a method by which history is written,
its internal semantics and syntax do not reflect the di-
verse richness and the interpretive opportunities, a lit-
eracy if you will, that a less culturally exclusive read-
ing of landscapes can offer. The recalling of history in
memory-places, whether in mythic or linear terms, re-
shapes each landscape in a distinctly cultural footprint
depending on who is telling the story, and how it is
told. Battlefields and territorial trails become the loci
of wildly variant cultural interpretations: conquest or
defeat, survival or extinction, sustenance or loss. All
are heritage.
70 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
Consider, for instance, a definition of landscape as
a mosaic of ecosystems reflecting different degrees of
anthropogenic change, one that critically alters the his-
torical perception of place as it is contextually explored
at different scales and with different vocabularies. The
inherent morphology of landscapes is the one histori-
cal constant that we can potentially discern; how it
affects the course of history is a matter open for inter-
pretation. Utilizing environmental history as the me-
dium in which a site history is forged, for example,
radically changes the landscape story of historic and
cultural events. In this scenario, battlefields become
ecotones, where the patterns of open fields and
woodlots, hedgerows and an internal rhythm of irriga-
tion ditches heavily influence the strategies and out-
comes of battlefields. In other places, wildernesses are
hunting grounds, berry-picking patches, sacred healing
sites reflecting a millennial occupation and accretion
of ecological knowledge.
This recognition is particularly salient when con-
sidering the potential of cultural landscapes methodol-
ogy to address ethnographic—in this case Native Ameri-
can—histories of place in the national parks. The case
of Glacier Bay National Park explored later in this
volume (see Norton, part 3) reflects the vulnerability of
Euro-American worldviews that frame and interpret land-
scapes as consensual heritage. Challenging current
interpretation of the park as a wilderness, the land-
scape history of Glacier Bay reveals the persistence
of traditional knowledge, association, and use of these
lands as homelands and places of cultural signifi-
cance.
As with much of the landscape history research tied
to the National Register, the transposition of a gener-
ally perceived Eastern mindset (e.g., design-oriented)
to the Alaska and the American West is problematic
because of the scale and dispersed settlement patterns
in these vast landscapes. Adding to this complex brew
is the general bias against acknowledging cultural land-
scapes in which the material cultural remains are barely
legible, if at all, in physical terms, a prejudicial conse-
quence of the dominance of artifactual typology. This
discrepancy is especially telling in the case of most
historic Native American cultures that were predomi-
nantly nomadic or non-agrarian, again particularly rel-
evant to Alaska Natives. Their landscape histories are
ones of cyclic movements in large subsistence territo-
ries, thus affording little opportunity or need for creat-
ing permanent settlements and cultural traces typical
of Euro-American landscapes. It also diminishes the
importance and interconnectedness of traditional sites
considered integral to cultural maintenance and sur-
vival, such as sacred and mythological places within an
overall territorial landscape.
But map is not territory, or not at least, as Wendell
Berry opined, "the territory underfoot" (Ryden 1 993:208).
Landscape history, although speciously articulated
through generic templates defining, analyzing, and
evaluating somewhat discrete characteristics, has a
greater potential than the conventional documentation
proponents will admit at present. What is needed is a
contextual reading of landscape dimensions that have
remained heretofore virtually invisible, uncovering the
patterned complexities, site-specific configurations that
direct our perception of landscape as a repository of
heritage-in-process, rather than the flawed static history
of an artifact assemblage.
As we have seen, part of the problem is definitional
in character. The greatest vulnerability of cultural land-
scapes lies in the institutional mandate to articulate
and preserve "resources," in this case, environments
dramatically different in scale and composition from
the more architecturally and archaeologically derived
"sites, buildings, and objects." In delineating the "four
general types of cultural landscapes," as "not mutually
exclusive . . . historic sites, historic designed landscapes,
historic vernacular landscapes, and ethnographic land-
scapes" (Birnbaum 1 994: 1 ), the fundamental difficulties
in defining landscapes by external categories are clear.
One cultural landscape, potentially, could be perceived
as a historic site, a historic vernacular landscape, and
an ethnographic landscape depending on how the
TONIA WOODS HORTON 71
landscape context was developed from tangible, and
sometimes intangible, resources. In many respects, the
least ambiguous cultural landscape type is that of the
historic designed landscape, one in which intention
and execution of a formalized plan can be pegged,
without much ado, to a time period, style, master de-
signer, and craftsmen. Historic sites and vernacular land-
scapes are, by contrast, subject to a greater range of
interpretation, especially when considering multiple
periods of significance in the case of long periods of
settlement history, for example.
The idea of the "ethnographic landscape" in this
range of landscape definitions is much more compli-
cated. Defined as "a landscape containing a variety of
natural and cultural resources that associated people
define as heritage resources," this type of landscape is
also within the purview of the NPS ethnography pro-
gram. The key distinguishing element between the two
programs is often explained as the determination of
historical significance according to National Register
standards and criteria, as opposed to the more purely
ethnographic conception of landscape intrinsically tied
to a particular culture's association, practices, and rec-
ognition of valuable resources. In addition, the man-
date that all cultural landscapes are to be managed as
cultural resources regardless ofsignificance is a compli-
cation that is rarely argued within the cultural land-
scapes program itself. Without the ability to identify
and document landscapes as ethnographic in Alaska,
for instance, many cultural landscapes in its national
parks would be overlooked, and silences in the histori-
cal record multiplied.
In truth, it is difficult to argue the difference be-
tween "ethnographic" and "cultural" when applied to a
more holistic and evolving concept of landscape
rather than the staid institutional definitions (Spirn
1998:16; Corner 1999:5). Regardless of the seman-
tic baggage, the inclusion of ethnographic landscapes
as a unique venue of study is critical to the cultural
landscapes program and to the parks as a whole. It
portends recognition, ethnographically conceived in a
landscape model, of the traditional values and associa-
tions of a particular community for a certain place. In
the case of the national parks, notably many in the
Southwest and Alaska regions, ethnographic landscapes
are most commonly associated with Native American
people; however, the range of ethnographic designa-
tions is not limited to indigenous groups. '° The key
question here is whether or not the definition of
ethnographic landscapes reflects a viable portrait of
landscape as heritage from the "bottom up." The sheer
weight of Native American historical involvement
with the lands that are now national parks speaks to
the exigency in understanding these landscapes as
cultural places, especially when considering the mat-
ter of "ancestral homelands" (National Park Service
2001:8).
Even with the antiquarian context of the Na-
tional Register and its implications for writing his-
tories of place, the documentation and manage-
ment of park lands as cultural landscapes is cen-
tral, albeit imperfectly defined, to the mission of
heritage preservation. The cultural landscape para-
digm continues to prove elusive of quantification
primarily because it represents a resource base in
flux. The implications for landscape as heritage,
then, depend on how the landscape is perceived
as a dialogical process between people and envi-
ronment, its internal discourse revealed through
stories not bound by external strictures. The more
inclusive and interdisciplinary the landscape his-
tory, the more complicated and richly embroidered
the cultural stories told and preserved. In attempt-
ing to reveal the scale and complexity of heritage
resources in the resilient landscape paradigm, how-
ever, it becomes clear that history, apparently, is a
messy business.
Traditional Cultural Properties: The Prom-
ise of Ethnographic Landscape Histories
If National Register property types and criteria for
evaluating significance prove an uneasy fit with cul-
72 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
tural landscape preservation in general, the typo-
logical miscasting is even more apparent when con-
sidering ethnographic landscapes, especially those
generally associated with Native Americans. In the
NPS, the differing objectives of the cultural landscapes
and ethnography programs with respect to ethnographic
landscapes can hinge not only on the identification of
these landscapes and the construction and significance
of their histories, but also on the means by which
they can be preserved. While National Register eli-
gibility is a thorny issue for both programs, one as-
pect is clear: it provides some degree of account-
ability, i.e., legal protection from adverse impacts, in
the typological recognition of certain ethnographic
landscapes as "Traditional Cultural Properties," com-
monly referred to as TCPs."
In an attempt to increase the diversity of historic
property types, the National Register developed the
designation of traditional cultural property, a category
in cultural associations are "(1) rooted in the history of
a community, and (2) important to maintaining the con-
tinuity of that community" (Parker 1993:1). The goal
was to expand the definition of significance to include
"traditional cultural significance," thereby setting the
stage for recognition of ethnographic landscapes as
protected heritage resources. By the National Register
definition, the term "traditional" was not meant to be
evocative, but rather to refer to a body of knowledge
specific to a contemporary culture:
"Traditional" in this context refers to those
beliefs, customs, and practices of a living
community of people that have been passed
down through the generations, usually orally
or through practice. The traditional cultural
significance of a historic property, then, is
significance derived from the role the prop-
erty plays in a community's historically
rooted beliefs, customs, and practices
(National Register 1994:1).
Thus, the central determinant of a property's heritage
value, the assertion of significance, shifted from an ex-
ternally driven paradigm (e.g., formulas of theme and
context) to one that is communally based, providing
the initial guidance for historic preservation professionals
to acknowledge alternative versions and constructions
of history and its importance as heritage. For example,
privileging oral history as evidence, concepts of tradi-
tional time and chronologies of events, and the au-
thentication of place value from within a traditional
community's perspective all represent distinctly differ-
ent methodologies from the standard National Regis-
ter process.
Perhaps the most striking difference between the
National Register's approach toward traditional cultural
properties and other historic properties centers on a
reformulation of the concept of historic significance
with relationship to time. The significance of a tradi-
tional cultural property is predicated on its association
with a community that maintains traditional knowledge.
In other words, that knowledge is integral to the preser-
vation of a unique identity, its heritage, in which the
past, present, and future are all inextricably bound
through stories, songs, genealogy, and most importantly,
places.
This condition of continuity and association with a
contemporary culture is essential. It allows the prop-
erty to be identified, documented, analyzed and evalu-
ated, ostensibly, from the consensual perspective of
the community, or an emic perspective that conflates
the categories of past and present. Here, the past is
never really past, but part of the present. While some
have described this difference as one between linear
and cyclic conceptions of time, it is probably more the
case that, instead of a concatenation of events spread
through time, a traditional community is more apt to
view the present as a series of layers in which pri-
mordial time and everyday, quotidian reality are in-
distinguishable, defying David Lowenthal's (1 988) de-
scription of the past as a "foreign country." Using
J.B. Jackson's analogy, there is no Golden Age pe-
riod of significance or linear chronology in which
resources must reside (Jackson 1 980:1 00-1 ). Instead,
the resources are as integral today as they were at
any point in the past. In a traditional cultural prop-
TONIA WOODS NORTON 73
erty, at least theoretically, the past and present con-
verge in the awareness that heritage is an active
process of construction. The maintenance and pres-
ervation of traditional cultural properties ensure the
survival of essential knowledge. Without them, the
community's history would be impoverished and cul-
tural survival in jeopardy.
And while this represents a significant advance in
broadening the scope of protection afforded to cul-
tural places, in many ways it creates more questions
than it answers. Analogous to the uneasy fit between
landscapes and National Register property types, con-
texts, criteria, and significance evaluations, the argu-
ments for the creation of TCPs are also convoluted,
limited by terminology, and not fully expressive of the
heritage values at stake. '-^ Take, for example, the idea
of place embodied in an ethnographic landscape. First,
the place must be defined as a physical "property." For
many traditional cultures, the definition of an impor-
tant place is a measure of its significance in bringing
the present world into being, a compelling difference
from mere physical description. Place history cannot
be described solely by geomorphology, natural sys-
tems, land use patterns, or, even less, its dates of dis-
covery, exploration, and settlement. In other words, the
sense of history in traditional terms seen through
landscape is a radically different model of the past;
its definition of authority, time, and space flies at
odds with an arguably antiquarian definition of na-
tional heritage embodied by the National Register
(cf. Griffiths 1996:1-2).
In the case of traditional cultural properties, the term
"traditional history" is particularly appropriate, suggest-
ing that "the history that members of an ethnic or other
community tell about themselves in their own terms" is
not only associative—in effect, its claim by a contem-
porary community—but historically legitimate as well.
However, the implications of a traditional history en-
tail a sweeping revision, or at least a restructuring, of
historical values and, ultimately, heritage construction
when fully explored:
A traditional history can encompass beings,
acts, and events that are (in an analytic
sense) plainly mythical or legendary, as well
as oral tradition, oral history, and conven-
tional history. The test of validity of a
traditional history is not whether the recount-
ing of events is accurate when taken literally. . .
but whether a particular reconstruction is
culturally valid and accurate. If a society
accepts the mythic and legendary elements
either literally or symbolically and the
reconstruction is culturally valid (that is,
consistent with appropriate cultural stan-
dards), then it must be accepted as a valid
reconstruction of the past, no matter what
literally impossible or fantastic beings or
events it incorporates (Downer et al.
1994:42-3).
This entails a heady mix of tangible and intangible ele-
ments which begins to turn the neatly prescribed world
of the National Register on its head. Writing a history
of place as landscape always involves a cultural re-
construction. In the case of ethnographic landscapes
or traditional cultural properties, however, generally
accepted categories of definition become suspect. Who
determines the "integrity" or critical mass of tangible
and intangible resources and associated values that
can be materially ascribed to a cultural place so that it
can be read as distinctive? Who, in essence, has the
authority, the authentic voice to write this history, con-
struct this heritage among groups competing for own-
ership of a particular landscape? Traditional history, as
defined above, relies on a completely different histori-
ography, a genealogy of place with origins in both
physical and spiritual worlds that inform its significance.
What, for instance, constitutes a "property"? How
are its boundaries drawn? More often than not, a sweep
of the hand while a story is being told, rather than a
line drawn on a map, is more indicative of the cultural
delimitations of a traditional place. Mainstream land-
scape histories rely heavily on the legal concept of
property ownership based on survey and deed, seen
as an objective, quantifiable standard of measurement.
This is not to say that ideas of property did not exist in
the traditional worldview. In fact, acknowledged terri-
torial rights were key to the functioning of resource
74 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
procurement regions and large trade networks, and
the source of centuries of war among tribes through-
out much of indigenous America. However, attempt-
ing to determine where an ethnographic landscape,
as a traditional cultural property, begins and ends
can be the grounds for serious contention and di-
vergent interpretations.
How is the concept of "integrity" applied to tradi-
tional knowledge of place? The matrix of natural and
cultural resources—the interconnectedness of landforms,
watersheds, corridors, habitats and ecosystems with the
cultural evolution of a people— is, in many ways, a
distillation of the core of cultural ways of knowing and
experiencing place as homelands. It involves preser-
vation of larger narratives, of languages and customs,
embodied in the physical container of landscape, not
just those resources that reflect a certain period of his-
torical time and that have survived to an appropriate
degree of recognition.
And, ultimately, issues of information, confidential-
ity, and intellectual property become paramount in the
identification of traditional cultural properties. If sites
are identified as sacred, for example, this becomes a
matter of public record. The access to and release of
information, even with the goal of protecting traditional
values in a community's heritage is often, if not more
than likely, at odds with the very public act of designa-
tion to the National Register.
Questions abound. In the case of ethnographic land-
scapes, how is an evolutionary dialogue of people and
place captured in a template such as a TCP nomina-
tion? Is the character of the place itself, as defined by
the "associated people," revealed in this process, en-
suring that an appropriate definition of "heritage re-
sources"? Are the standards of the National Register
and NFS management policy elastic enough to address
the sophisticated, alternative visions of history and sig-
nificance that emerge from the perspectives of associ-
ated peoples? Is there a common ground for under-
standing parks as negotiated terrain in which the layers
of a particular cultural landscape can be integrated rather
than juxtaposed as mutually exclusive?
Landscape as Heritage
Certainly one of the most impressive international ef-
forts to deal with the documentation and commemora-
tion of ethnographic landscapes is that of Parks Canada
(Buggey 1999, see also Buggey, this volume). Poten-
tial applications of the Parks Canada model within the
National Park Service and the National Register of His-
toric Places would advance the emerging issues of
Native American homelands and the significance of
writing their landscape histories from an ethnographic
perspective.
Tackling the complex issues of aboriginal world-
views and landscape values from an interdisciplinary
perspective, Buggey's landmark study (1999) was not
an academic exercise, but a pragmatic advance in heri-
tage discourse. As a prototype, the study incorporated
international efforts underway to recognize indigenous
history and heritage by reiterating the indivisibility of
natural and cultural place significance. In other words,
places recognized for natural significance were also
significant in terms of the process of cultural associa-
tion and identification, not relying on static physical
remains as the prime determinant.
Buggey proposed the designation of "aboriginal
cultural landscapes" as away of conceiving indigenous
heritage that could be rigorously documented, evalu-
ated, and protected in terms of culture-specific values
while contributing to Canadian history as a whole:
An Aboriginal cultural landscape is a place
valued by an Aboriginal group (or groups)
because of their long and complex relation-
ship with that land. It expresses their unity
with the natural and spiritual environment.
It 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 1999:35).
The language bears some similarity to the National
Register's designation of Traditional Cultural Property
and the NPS definition of ethnographic landscapes; but
TONIA WOODS NORTON 75
the underlying argument represented a major change
toward constructing heritage from a landscape per-
spective, with or without the critical matrix of physical
remains. In doing so, it reformed preservation discourse
by emphasizing the intangible basis of an emplaced
cultural identity. The idea of aboriginal cultural land-
scapes rested on the crucible of a sense of belonging,
whether in memory of historic events or in evoking
homelands, as a result of longstanding ties to particu-
lar environments regardless of their protected status
as parks. The concept of aboriginal cultural landscapes
recontextualized the production of history as heritage.
It expanded the parameters of how history is con-
structed, its cultural authenticity, and its physical loca-
tion in a landscape, portraying a highly unique geogra-
phy of time, formation, and belief.
Implicit in this reformulation is the process by which
landscapes would be evaluated for their historical sig-
nificance in terms of aboriginal history's ability to "il-
lustrate or symbolize in whole or in part a cultural tra-
dition, a way of life, or ideas important in the develop-
ment of Canada," including their cartographic determi-
nation ("boundaries") and the interrelated character of
the heritage values, natural and cultural. Perhaps the
most dramatic change toward a landscape-based heri-
tage was the assertion that the concept of "integrity,"
the lynchpin for a site's eligibility for the American
model of a National Register of Historic Places based
on physical resources, "will not normally be essential
to understand the significance of an Aboriginal cultural
landscape, and will not therefore generally apply"
(ibid.:38).The implications of this deconstruction of in-
tegrity are enormous.
By developing the concept of the "aboriginal cul-
tural landscape" as distinct from other commemorative
landscapes related to Euro-American history, the unique-
ness and applicability of this model cannot be under-
stated. While the process may appear, on the surface,
as a reassembling of bureaucratic definitions, the
implications of the new guidelines proposed for
Canada's aboriginal cultural landscapes are, in real-
ity, point toward a radical departure from the ways in
which history is constructed as heritage in national parks
based on the American model of preservation. Quite
simply, the concept of aboriginal cultural landscapes
as proposed by Parks Canada holds great promise for a
new model in the National Park Service, one that would
institute a more sophisticated historical sensibility
with respect to Traditional Cultural Properties. In their
current delineation, the TCPs still respond to the Na-
tional Register's overall ideological framework of in-
tegrity-based significance resting predominantly on
physical evidence recognized with categorical distinc-
tions. Specifically, the ability to determine the histori-
cal significance of these indigenous landscapes sug-
gested by the Parks Canada definitions, either in
parks or as commemorative sites in themselves, rep-
resents a critical leap in thinking because it acknowl-
edges the legitimacy of alternative history, the abil-
ity of the landscape paradigm to represent that his-
tory as heritage, and by implication, the need to
develop preservation and conservation mandates
to protect this unique heritage.
This restructuring of heritage domains suggested
by Parks Canada and its potential for the TCP nomina-
tions in the NPS and its National Register process is no
mean feat. It holds incredibly rich prospects for under-
standing the process of landscape as both text and
texture constructed by the people for whom it holds
historical meaning, the essence of the idea of home-
lands. It is also a cultural project directed toward the
preservation of place knowledge by incorporating in-
digenous values into the federal purview of preserva-
tion in several key ways. First, the proposal of com-
memorating history by designating "aboriginal cultural
landscapes" eliminates the rather vague conceptual
application across ill-defined and indeterminate cul-
tural groups suggested by the NPS cultural landscape
version of "ethnographic landscapes." The designation
of "aboriginal cultural landscape" focuses specifically
on the heritage of First Nations (Native Americans), the
repatriation of cultural knowledge and its validation of
76 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
indigenous worldviews of a given landscape as, for
example, a homelands or memory-place. A new em-
phasis that establishes Native American cultural land-
scapes as distinctive will profoundly influence the ways
in which this heritage is documented, preserved, and
interpreted as integral to its institutional mission. This
is particularly crucial at a time when new park units are
created to commemorate Native American history, such
as Washita and Sand Creek battlefields, as well as the
emerging recapitulation of long-standing ideologies of
exclusion at places like Mesa Verde and Little Bighorn.
In addition, pitched legal battles over resource use are
increasing the need for histories to reveal the rich as-
sociations and legacy of Native American ironically
enough, because indigenous traditional ecological
knowledge may be the keystone bolstering legal argu-
ments for natural resource protection in the parks. If
the recent Environmental Impact Statement address-
ing vessel quotas in Glacier Bay National Park is
any indication, the controversies endemic to a con-
flict of interest between the "pleasuring grounds" of
national parks and the stewardship of the vital re-
sources are far from resolution (National Park Ser-
vice 2003).
Secondly, writing traditional histories of Native
American cultural landscapes accords the oral traditions,
stories, and beliefs held by associated communities as
the standards by which these landscapes are deemed
significant. This methodology relies on intimate famil-
iarity with forms of traditional knowledge about land-
scapes, reestablishing cultural geographies and their
implicit values regardless of park boundaries or visible
traces of cultural association. The authenticity of land-
scape histories, from this perspective, could influence
park planning and management decisions on the ground
floor. Examples could include, for instance, a new un-
derstanding of the integrity of ecological processes
(such as the maintenance of previously off-limits natu-
ral resource areas as cultural grounds of resource har-
vesting, e.g., the Tlingit berrying grounds at Dundas
Bay—see Norton, this volume), redefining individual
archaeological properties within a larger landscape con-
text, revising wilderness designations in places where
cultural associations clearly indicate traditional habita-
tion and use, and transforming definitions of historic
"property" and "boundary" into a matrix of interpen-
etrating zones of interaction and encounter that shift
eventually, such as tribal and clan territories. The com-
memoration of Native American history adds a pal-
pable richness and depth to the visited landscapes,
opening an experiential realm that strengthens a sense
of place, even in its most contentious and conflicted
manifestation.
And finally, the transformation of the existing eth-
nographic landscape definition and National Register
paradigm within NPS requires the revision of an artifac-
tual model of historic preservation to one that incor-
porates a more fluid construction of heritage as cul-
tural difference. Analogous to the recasting of muse-
ums as active "keeping places" rather than collection
centers with culture on display, abandoning the object-
based curation of a historical landscape creates the
opportunity to understand parks as critical proving
grounds (Griffiths 1996:219-36). And resonating the
policy statements in "Parks for the 2P' Century," this
transformation embodies an imperative of cultural con-
servation by restoration in the truest sense of the word,
re-storying place with seamless histories of environ-
ment and people, nature and culture.
Notes
1 . The NPS defines an ethnographic landscape
as "a landscape containing a variety of natural and
cultural resources that associated people define as
heritage resources. Examples are contemporary settle-
ments, religious sacred sites and massive geologi-
cal structures. Small plant communities, animals, sub-
sistence and ceremonial grounds are often compo-
nents" (Birnbaum 1 994:2). Similarly, the NPS ethnog-
raphy program defines ethnographic landscapes as
"a relatively contiguous area of interrelated places
that contemporary cultural groups define as mean-
ingful because it is inextricably and traditionally
linked to their own local or regional histories, cul-
TONIA WOODS HORTON 77
tural identities, beliefs and behaviors. Present-day
social factors such as a people's class, ethnicity, and
gender may result in the assignment of diverse mean-
ings to a landscape and its component places" (Evans
and Roberts 1999:7).
2. Examples include the idea of "wilderness"
and "wilderness planning" along with "habitat res-
toration." Such paradigms often insist upon their
scientific rationale as a proof validating manage-
ment approaches, disallowing their own historic-
ity as theories of nature which have, themselves,
been subject to change (Griffiths 1996; Nelson
1998; Reich 2001).
3. The use of the Antiquities Act waned after
its heyday in the years of the New Deal, but its util-
ity as a way of designating heritage areas continues
to the present day. In 2000, President Bill Clinton
invoked the Antiquities Act to create the Canyons
of the Ancients National Monument in southwest
Colorado, consisting of 1 64,000 acres of the highest
known archaeological site density in the United
States, www.co.blm/gov/canm/html.
4. A number of battlefields, mostly related to
the Civil War, were transferred from the War Depart-
ment to the Department of the Interior in 1 933.
5. "The National Register is the official Federal
list of districts, sites, buildings, structures, and ob-
jects significant in American history, architecture,
archaeology, engineering, and culture. These con-
tribute to an understanding of the historical and cul-
tural foundations of the Nation. The National Regis-
ter includes: All prehistoric and historic units of the
National Park System; National Historic Landmarks,
which are properties recognized by the Secretary
of the Interior as possessing national significance;
and Properties significant in American, State, or
local prehistory and history that have been nomi-
nated by State Historic Preservation Officers, Fed-
eral agencies, and others, and have been approved
for listing by the National Park Service" (National
Register 1 991 :i). See also Murtagh 1 997; Tomlan
1997.
6. NPS policy on the relationship of cultural
landscapes to the National Register of Historic
Places, and the enforcement of Register standards
and criteria for these landscapes is outlined in
Director's Order 28. The administrative conflict of
interest between the Cultural Landscapes Program
and the Ethnography Program's joint interest in
documenting ethnographic landscapes is under-
played in the discussion of their separate roles
and responsibilities (National Park Service 1998:87-
91, 160-70).
7. The two basic research avenues for cultural
landscape study within NPS are the Cultural Land-
scape Inventory (CLI) and Cultural Landscape Re-
ports (CLR). Both develop landscape histories to dif-
fering degrees. The basic difference between the CLI
and CLR is that the Inventory is used as baseline
identification and evaluation of the cultural land-
scape as it can be documented. Utilizing much of
the same data and process, the CLR is a manage-
ment document intensively geared toward preser-
vation treatment in light of resource degradation,
loss, threat, or proposed changes to the landscape
fabric.
8. Landscape characteristics specific to cultural
landscape histories in NPS include spatial organiza-
tion, land use, cultural traditions, cluster arrangement,
circulation, topography, vegetation, buildings and
structures, views and vistas, constructed water fea-
tures, small-scale features, and archaeological sites
(Page 1998:53).
9. For the National Register's institutional re-
sponses to defining landscapes as historic resources
eligible for listing see National Register 1 984, 1 987,
1992a, 1992b, 1992c.
1 0. The term "ethnographic landscapes" typi-
cally refers to a wide range of cultural landscapes
of regional origin, including places associated with
African American slave culture, urban Chinese
settlements in Los Angeles and San Francisco, nine-
teenth-century European immigrant farmsteads in
the mid-West, and Puerto Rican barrios on the East
Coast (see Alanen and Melnick 2000; Hardesty
2000).
1 1 . By the terms of the National Historic Pres-
ervation Act, Section 106 in regard to Traditional
Cultural Properties, "federal agencies. State Historic
Preservation Offices, and others who conduct activi-
ties pursuant to environmental and historic preser-
vation legislation are responsible for identifying,
documenting, and evaluating them [TCPs] in plan-
ning" (cf. Parker 1993:3).
12. Consistent with the National Register des-
ignations, the guidance in NRB 38, Traditional Cul-
tural Properties, does not recognize landscapes as
a property type, much less ethnographic landscapes.
78 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
In fact, the word "landscape" does not appear in
the entire document (ibid.: 1 -22).
References
Alanen, Arnold, and Robert Melnick, eds.
2000 Preserving Cultural Landscapes in America.
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Birnbaum, Charles
1 994 Protecting Cultural Landscapes: Planning,
Treatment and Management of Historic Land-
scapes. Preservation Brief 36. Washington, DC:
National Park Service.
Buggey, Susan
1 999 An Approach to Aboriginal Cultural Land-
scapes. Ottawa: Historic Sites and Monuments
Board of Canada, Parks Canada.
Cook, Robert
1995 Is Landscape Preservation an Oxymoron?
Paper delivered at the National Park Service con-
ference. Balancing Natural and Cultural Issues in
the Preservation of Historic Landscapes, http://
www.icls.harvard.edu/ecology/cook2.html.
Corner, James, ed.
1995 Recovering Landscape: Essays in Contem-
porary Landscape Architecture. New York:
Princeton University Press.
Downer, Alan, Alexandra Roberts, Harris
Francis, and Klara B. Kelley
1994 Traditional History and Alternative Con-
ceptions of the Past. In Conserving Culture: A New
Discourse on Heritage. Mary Hufford, ed., pp. 39-
55. Urbana: University of Illinois Press.
Dramstad, Wenche, James D. Olson, and
Richard T. T. Forman
1 996 Landscape Ecology Principles in Landscape
Architecture and Land-Use Planning. Washington,
DC: Island Press.
Evans, Michael, and Alexa Roberts
1 999 Ethnographic Landscapes. Unpublished pa-
per delivered at the 59"^ Annual Meeting of the
Society for Applied Anthropology. Tucson, Ari-
zona.
Glassie, Henry
1 982 Passing the Time in Ballymenone: Culture
and History of an Ulster Community. Philadel-
phia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982.
Griffiths, Tom
1 996 Hunters and Collectors: The Antiquarian
Imagination in Australia. New York: Cambridge
University Press.
Hardesty, Donald L.
2000 Ethnographic Landscapes. Transforming Na-
ture into Culture. In Preserving Cultural Landscapes in
America. A.R. Alanen and R.Z. Melnick, eds., pp. 1 69-
185. Baltimore and London: John Hopkins Univer-
sity Press
Hosmer, Charles
1 981 Preservation Comes ofAge. Charlottesville:
University Press of Virginia.
Jackson, J.B.
1 980 The Necessity for Ruins, and Other Topics.
Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.
Lowenthal, David
1 988 The Past is a Foreign Country. Cambridge,
UK: Cambridge University Press
Murtagh, William
1 997 Keeping Time: The History and Theory of
Preservation in America. New York: John Wiley
& Sons, Preservation Press.
National Park Service
1 998 Director's Order 28: Cultural Resource Man-
agement Guidelines. Washington, DC: National
Park Service.
2001 Rethinking the National Parks for the 2 1 st
Century. National Park System Advisory Board.
http://www.nps.gov/policy/report.htm,
2003 Clacier Bay National Park and Preserve En-
vironmental Impact Study. Anchorage:National
Park Service.
National Register
1984 Guidelines for Evaluating and Document-
ing Rural Historic Landscapes. National Register
Bulletin 30. Washington, DC: National Park Ser-
vice.
1987 How to Evaluate and Nominate Designed
Historic Landscapes. National Register Bulletin 1 8.
Washington, DC: National Park Service.
1991 How to Complete the National Register
Registration Form. National Register Bulletin 1 6A.
Washington, DC: National Park Service.
1992a Guidelines for Identifying, Evaluating, and
Registering America's Historic Battlefields. Na-
tional Register Bulletin 40. Washington, DC: Na-
tional Park Service.
1992b Guidelines for Evaluating and Registering
Cemeteries and Burial Places. National Register Bul-
letin 41 . Washington, DC: National Park Service.
1992c Guidelines for Identifying, Evaluating, and
Registering Historic Mining Properties National
Register Bulletin 42. Washington, DC: National
Park Service.
1994 Guidelines for Evaluating and Document-
ing Traditional Cultural Properties. National Reg-
ister Bulletin 38. Washington, DC: National Park
Service.
1997 How to Apply the National Register Cri-
teria for Evaluation. National Register Bulletin 1 5.
Washington, DC: National Park Service.
TONIA WOODS HORTON 79
Nelson, Michael P.
1998 An Amalgamation of Wilderness Preserva-
tion Arguments. In The Great New Wilderness De-
bate.]. Baird Callicott and Michael P. Nelson, eds.
Pp. 1 54-98. Athens: University of Georgia Press.
Page, Robert
1 998 A Guide to Cultural Landscape Reports: Con-
tents, Process, Technique. Washington, DC: Na-
tional Park Service.
Parker, Patricia
1993 Traditional Cultural Properties: What You
Do and How We Think. Cultural Resource Man-
agement 16. Washington, DC: National Park
Service.
Reich, Justin
2001 Re-Creating the Wilderness. Environmental
History 6(1):95-1 1 7.
Ryden, Kent C. Ryden
1993 Mapping the Invisible Landscapes: Folklore,
Writing, and the Sense of Place. Iowa City: Uni-
versity of Iowa Press.
Spirn, Anne Whiston
1998 The Language of Landscape. Cambridge:
MIT Press.
Tomlan, Michael A., ed.
1 997 Preservation of What, For Whom? A Criti-
cal Look at Significance. Ithaca: National Council
for Preservation Education.
80 STATE POLICIES/ UNITED STATES
M^n^Bging the ^aami
(Cultural l^'ientage in {\]orwa
~y~he L,ega! Landscape
INCEGERD HOLAND
Like many, perhaps even most, other countries, Nor-
way has over the last ten-to-fifteen years tried to imple-
ment a cultural heritage management system that pre-
serves not only objects, but also their contexts. This
includes cultural landscapes where no single object
may deserve preservation on its own, but where the
whole landscape does. The theoretical criteria for con-
sidering landscape preservation are very much the same
as those used by other countries. Since these are pre-
sented in some detail by other contributors to this pub-
lication, this article will concentrate on how such prin-
ciples have been incorporated into Norwegian cultural
heritage legislation and to what extent this has changed
practices, with special regard to the Sami cultural heri-
tage.
The Sami [also spelled as Saami, Sami, or Same]
have, since 1 990, been recognized as an indigenous
people within the state of Norway. The estimated num-
ber of Sami in Norway and elsewhere today varies from
publication to publication. Aarseth et al. (1 990) assume
that there are about 30 to 40,000 Sami living in Nor-
way, while another 1 7,000 live in Sweden, about 5,700
in Finland and about 2,000 in North-Western Russia.
Most of the Norwegian Sami live in the two northern-
most counties, Finnmark (25, 000) andTroms (1 2,000),
but there are also more or less distinct pockets of Sami
settlements further south, in the counties of Nordland,
Nord- and Sor-Trondelag, and even in Hedmark in
Southern Norway (Fig. 20). Historically, these should
probably be seen as the remnants of a more continu-
ous Sami settlement and population, that has either
been integrated into the majority Norwegian culture or
left to occupy niches that were of little interest to a
predominantly agricultural Norwegian population.
Linguistically, the Sami speak a Finno-Ugric lan-
guage, or rather, several varieties of such a language.
These are usually called dialects, but the differences
between the southernmost and north-easternmost dia-
lects are, in fact, so great that their speakers do not
understand each other, and they ought therefore to
be classified as different languages. This also prob-
ably indicates that they became separated a long
time ago.
The Norwegian cultural heritage manage-
ment system
Organizational Framework
Organizationally, the present Norwegian heritage man-
agement system is based on a three-tier administrative
structure, consisting of national, regional, and local au-
thorities. The national level consists of the Ministry of
the Environment, which is responsible for defining and
issuing national policies and guidelines concerning
heritage protection and management, as well as pro-
viding the legal framework.
Some of the goals of Norwegian cultural heritage
management, as laid down by the Ministry, are that:
—The distinctive character and variety of cultural
monuments, environments and landscapes (be pro-
tected), to ensure that information about them is
collected, safeguarded and disseminated,
81
—Cultural monuments and cultural environments
are safeguarded as a resource and basis for experi-
encing historical continuity, cultural history and ar-
chitectural diversity, recognition and belonging in
everyday life in keeping with sustainable develop-
ment.
The practical implementation of these policies is the
primary task of the Directorate for Cultural Heritage
(Riksantikvaren), which is the executive arm of the Min-
istry. The Directorate is thus responsible for the man-
agement of all protected archaeological and architec-
tural monuments and sites, including those that are part
of valuable cultural environments, in accordance with
the relevant legislation. The work includes
—the practical implementation of the objectives
laid down by the Norwegian Parliament and the
Ministry of the Environment,
—advising the Ministry as well as other parts of the
cultural heritage management system, the public
and industry on matters relating to cultural heritage
management and protection,
—ensuring that cultural heritage considerations are
taken into account in all planning processes,
—that the interests of cultural heritage are safe-
guarded at all levels in the same way as the inter-
ests of society as a whole,
—that a representative selection of monuments
and sites is preserved for present and future
generations,
—and helping to increase awareness among the
general public of the value of their cultural
heritage.
The regional level consists of county heritage officers
dealing with Norwegian remains, while the Department
of Environmental and Cultural Heritage within the Sami
Parliament is responsible for Sami remains. This depart-
ment has four sub-offices, covering all parts of the coun-
try with a Sami population. The regional level is the
main level for supervising and controlling the day-to-
day interaction between developments of all sorts and
the principles of the cultural heritage laws.
Finally, the local level consists of the municipali-
ties, which have the main responsibility for planning
and structuring developments in such a way that the
principles of the Cultural Heritage Act are followed.
They also have the opportunities and means to imple-
ment protection orders according to other laws, in par-
ticular the Planning and Building Act (see below).
Norwegian Cultural Heritage Legislation: A
Historical Overview
Before concentrating on the present legislation, a brief
overview of the history of cultural heritage legislation
in Norway will serve to put the existing Cultural Heri-
tage Act into context. The earliest law protecting Nor-
wegian cultural remains was the Church and Church-
yard Act, which was introduced in 1897. In 1903-04,
the discovery and excavation of the Oseberg Viking
ship and the fact that the Norwegian authorities had to
negotiate a deal with the landowner in order to buy
and secure this important archaeological find for the
nation, highlighted the problem of the existing private
ownership of cultural remains on somebody's land. In
1 905, which was also the year when the political union
between Sweden and Norway came to an end and
Norway regained national independence, the first
Norwegian Ancient Monuments Act was passed. This
Act provided automatic legal protection for cultural
remains older than the Reformation, i.e. 1 537 A.D., and
was primarily intended to protect grave mounds. It was,
however, not the monuments themselves that were the
main concern of the Act, but rather the objects they
contained; in fact, work that necessitated excavations
of interesting grave mounds should not be prevented.
The Act also applied to publicly owned medieval
buildings, but neither to those that were privately owned,
nor to post-Reformation buildings. In 1 920, therefore,
the Listed Buildings Act was introduced, providing a
legal basis for the listing (designation) of buildings and
building parts over one-hundred years of age, or even
younger. Approximately 1 ,200 buildings were quickly
listed during the 1 920s, and they still form the core of
Norwegian listed buildings.
In 1 951 , the two acts were incorporated into a new
82 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
and revised Ancient Monuments Act, which provided
automatic legal protection for all monuments and build-
ings older than 1 537 A.D., and also the right to desig-
nate monuments, historic places, old roads, bridges and
other technical remains, irrespective of age. In addi-
tion, it introduced the concept of "disfiguring" (i.e., de-
velopments having a negative visual impact on monu-
ments), and gave the authorities the right to schedule
an area of land around any monument in order to pro-
tect its visual impact in the landscape.
In 1963, boats and ships over 100 years old were
included in the Act as the property of the Norwegian
state and, in 1 965, a new Planning Act was introduced,
which simplified the inclusion of conservation areas in
public planning, in order to protect valuable building
environments.
None of these early laws addressed the question
of Sami remains separately from the Norwegian ones.
However, with the changing political climate of the
20/ The number ofSdmi living today (Hcetta 1996:6)
The darker area represent the densest concentration of
Sdmi settlements.
1950s and 1960s came a greater awareness and ac-
ceptance of minority rights and state duties toward
minority populations. Among the international conven-
tions that Norway signed in this period, and which
also had an impact on the national cultural heritage
legislation, was the UN Covenant on Civil and Political
Rights, 1966 Article 27:
In those States in which ethnic, religious or
linguistic minorities exist, persons belonging
to such minorities shall not be denied the
right ... to enjoy their own culture, to profess
and practice their own religion, or to use their
own language.
It was incorporated into Norwegian legislation in 1 988
through Amendment 11 Oa to the Norwegian Constitu-
tion:
It is the responsibility of the Norwegian state
to ensure favorable conditions to enable the
Sami people to maintain and develop its
language, culture and social structures.
In the late 1 960s, another revision of the Ancient Monu-
ments and Building Acts was initiated, resulting in rec-
ommendations in 1970-71, from the committees on
ancient monuments and buildings respectively, for a
new and revised law. It took until 1 978, however, be-
fore the current Cultural Heritage Act was introduced,
and with it came the first specific legal protection of
Sami cultural remains in Norway. The Act has since
been amended several times, a new version was, for
instance, introduced on January 1 , 2001 , but the basic
provisions have remained unchanged.
Since 1 978, Norway has also ratified several inter-
national treaties relating particularly to the recognition
of minorities and indigenous peoples, thereby accept-
ing the basic principles laid down in these with regard
to the protection of minority cultures. The most impor-
tant of these international treaties are:
—ILO Convention No. 1 69 concerning indigenous
and tribal peoples in independent countries, 1 989,
ratified by Norway on June 20th, 1990, Article 2:
Governments shall have the responsibility
for developing . . . measures [which
promote] the full realization of the social.
INGECERD HOLAND 83
economic and cultural rights of these
peoples with respect for their social and
cultural identity, their customs and
traditions and their institutions.
—Agenda 21 from the World Conference on Envi-
ronment and Development, Brazil 1992: Chapter
26.3, Objectives:
(a) Establishment of a process to em-
power indigenous people and their
communities through measures that
include (ii) Recognition that the lands of
indigenous people and their communities
should be protected from activities that
are environmentally unsound or that the
indigenous people concerned consider to
be socially and culturally inappropriate.
—Convention on Biological Diversity, 1992, rati-
fied by Norway on July 9, 1 993, Article 8(j):
Subject to its national legislation, respect,
preserve and maintain knowledge, innova-
tions and practices of indigenous and
local communities embodying traditional
lifestyles relevant for the conservation
and sustainable use of biological diversity
and promote their wider application with
the approval and involvement of the
holders of such knowledge, innovations
and practices and encourage the equitable
sharing of the benefits arising from the
utilization of such knowledge, innova-
tions and practices.
—The Council of Europe's Framework Convention
for the Protection of National Minorities, 1995, rati-
fied by Norway on June 18th, 1998, Article 5.1:
The Parties undertake to promote the
conditions necessary for persons belong-
ing to national minorities to maintain and
develop their culture, and to preserve the
essential elements of their identity,
namely their religion, language, traditions
and cultural heritage.
Norwegian Cultural Heritage Legislation:
The Present Legal Framework
Today, there are three main groups of Norwegian laws
and regulations that govern the work of the local, re-
gional and national agencies and authorities that deal
with cultural heritage management in Norway. Each
group contains a number of different laws covering
specific areas, the main ones being:
—Specialized cultural heritage management legis-
lation, including The Cultural Heritage Act (1978)
with later amendments.
—Planning legislation of importance to cultural heri-
tage management, including The Planning and Build-
ing Act (1 985) with later amendments.
—Legislation regulating the conduct of state agen-
cies and the rights of the public, including The Pub-
lic Agency (or Administration) Act (Forvaltnings-
loven) (1 967/83), and The Freedom of Information
Act (Offentlighetsloven) (1 970/89).
The first two groups contain a number of regulations
and more specialised laws, which have not been in-
cluded here. The Cultural Heritage Act, however, is the
most important piece of legislation, in that it sets out
the basic goals and means of Norwegian cultural heri-
tage legislation. The Planning and Building Act func-
tions as the main tool for reaching some of those goals
through active use of planning regulations at the local
level, while the last group lays down the formal rules
for how the work is conducted, as well as the rights of
the public to access any relevant information.
In addition to the national legislation, Norway is
also a signatory to a number of international conven-
tions and recommendations that provide a general le-
gal basis for the protection of cultural heritage. Among
them are for instance:
—The European Convention on the Protection
of the Archaeological Heritage (revised). La
Valette, 1 992 which states:
[The member States of the Council of
Europe acknowledge] that the European
archaeological heritage, which provides
evidence of ancient history, is seriously
threatened with deterioration because of
the increasing number of major planning
schemes, natural risks, clandestine or
unscientific excavations and insufficient
public awareness.
—The European Landscape Convention, 2000,
which states:
The member States of the Council of
Europe [are] aware that the landscape
84 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
contributes to the formation of local
cultures and that it is a basic component
of the European natural and cultural
heritage, contributing to human well-
being and consolidation of the European
identity.
The 1 978 Cultural Heritage Act and its Provisions
The main principles behind the present Cultural Heri-
tage Act are the concepts of jurisdiction and age;
that is, the Act applies to monuments of a certain
age within Norwegian territory. The general age limit
is the year 1 537 A. D., the year of the Protestant
Reformation, which historically marks the end of the
Middle Ages in Norway.
The same principles also apply to Sami remains.
However, since the minority Sami culture was per-
ceived as being more vulnerable than the majority
Norwegian one, and also perceived to have gone
through a different set of chronological changes, the
line was drawn at 1 00 years, at the time meaning about
1880, instead of 1 537. This distinction, however, also
necessitated the introduction of a third principle into
the law, i.e. the concept of ethnicity, since only Sami
remains dating to between 1 537 and 1 880 were to be
automatically legally protected. In other words, all
monuments from this period had to be ethnically de-
fined as Sami in order to be automatically protected
by the Act.
The purpose of the Cultural Heritage Act as stated
in Section 1 is:
To protect archaeological and architectural
monuments and sites, and cultural environ-
ments in all their variety and detail, both as
part of our cultural heritage and identity and
as an element in the overall environment and
resource management. ... It is [seen as] a
national responsibility to safeguard these
resources as scientific source material [in
particular] and as a permanent basis for the
experience, self-awareness, enjoyment and
activities of present and future generations.
Monuments and sites are defined as "all traces of hu-
man activity in our physical environment, including
places associated with historical events, beliefs or tra-
ditions." This means that both material remains of hu-
man activity, as well as natural features and places
with an associated oral or written tradition, are auto-
matically protected if they fulfil the age criterion. Be-
liefs and traditions will usually be of a religious or mytho-
logical nature, which means that, for instance, Sami
holy sites and landscapes are covered by the Act.
The automatic legal protection means that, "no
person shall . . . initiate any measure which is liable
to damage, destroy, excavate, move, change, cover,
conceal or in any other way unduly disfigure any
monument or site that is automatically protected by
law or to cause risk of this happening" (Sec. 3).
Consequently, when any public or large private de-
velopment is being planned, "the person or administra-
tive agency in charge of the project is under obliga-
tion to find out whether it will affect an automatically
protected monument or site in the manner described in
Section 3" (Sec. 9). This means submitting the plan to
the relevant authority, i.e. the Department for Environ-
mental and Cultural Heritage within the Sami Parlia-
ment for Sami remains and the county heritage offic-
ers for Norwegian remains. If the authority finds that
the plan will affect legally protected monuments or
sites, but the developer still decides to proceed with
the plan, the developer must apply to the Directorate
for Cultural Heritage, which decides "whether and, if so,
in what way the measures may be carried out" (Sec. 8),
for instance whether the monument(s) may be removed
by excavation, and how extensive such excavations
should be. Excavations have to be carried out by one
of five authorised archaeological museums or one par-
ticular research institute for medieval remains of cer-
tain kinds.
The costs involved at all levels "in investigating
automatically protected monuments or sites or in imple-
menting special protective measures on account of
projects as described in Sections 8 and 9 shall be borne
by the initiator of the project" (Sec. 1 0), i.e. the "user or
polluter pays" principle. Only investigation costs in-
curred for minor private projects are covered fully or
partly by the authorities.
INCECERD HOLAND 85
The provisions described above give automatic le-
gal protection to certain monuments, when found ei-
ther alone or in smaller groups. They are, in other words,
primarily object-centered. In addition, however, the Act
allows the designation of larger areas by one of two
different procedures. Since 1 978, Section 1 9 of the Act
gives the Ministry of the Environment the right to
protect an area around a protected monu-
ment or site . . . insofar as this is necessary to
preserve the effect of the monument in the
environment or to safeguard scientific
interests associated with it.
Section 20 of the Act allows "a cultural environment
[to] be protected by the King in order to preserve its
value to cultural history." Cultural environments are
defined as "any area where a monument or site forms
part of a larger entity or context" and is thus analo-
gous to the term "cultural landscapes" as used by the
U.S. National Park Service (Evans et al. 2001:53). The
provision to schedule such landscapes has only been
contained in the Act since 1992 (Miljovernde-
partementet 1992a, b).
In practical terms, the outcome of using the two
paragraphs may seem much the same, in that they give
the authorities the right to "prohibit or otherwise regu-
late any activity or traffic within the protected area which
may run counter to the purpose of the protection. The
same applies to dividing the land or leasing it out for
the purpose of such activity." However, the underlying
legal principles, as well as the legal procedures, are
very different. Protection after Section 1 9 is in reality
based on the existence of objects that are already pro-
tected by other paragraphs of the Act and is applied in
order to preserve their surroundings from disturbing
elements (Finne and Holme 2001:168). It is a protec-
tion order that can be implemented relatively easily by
the Ministry of the Environment, either to an area with
archaeological remains or to a built environment. The
level of restrictions applying to objects within the area
follows either from the Act itself, for those that are
automatically protected by other paragraphs of the
Act, or they are laid down by the Directorate for other
objects (ibid.: 1 72).
Section 20 preservation of "Cultural Environments,"
on the other hand, is not dependent on already pro-
tected objects within the area, although such objects
may exist, but may be introduced in order to protect a
landscape that is seen as eligible for protection be-
cause of its overall impact and value (ibid.: 173). This
means that its value must be thoroughly documented
and defined, while the scheduling procedure itself is
slow and complicated, including thorough consultations
with landowners, local authorities and state agencies,
and leading eventually to a preservation order being
confirmed by the King, i.e. the Norwegian government.
The procedure means that preservation according to
Section 20 is normally only afforded to landscapes
considered to be of national importance and, so far,
only four landscapes in Norway have been preserved
in this way.' The purpose of the restrictions imposed is
to preserve the overall qualities of the area that led to
its scheduling in the first place.
For both types of preservation, an administrative
authority is appointed according to already existing
legal regulations. The role of the authority is to uphold
the restrictions imposed by the scheduling order, to
deal with future maintenance and presentation of the
area, as well as with applications for developments or
changes of any sort within the area. This authority will
be either the county heritage officer (for Norwegian
remains) or the Sami Parliament (for Sami remains).
While these are the only two procedures for pro-
tecting cultural landscapes contained in the Cultural
Heritage Act, there are other Norwegian laws that offer
opportunities for landscape protection. The Planning
and Building Act gives local municipalities the means
for protecting valuable local environments if they so
wish (Verdifulle kulturlandskap:l 14), while the Nature
Conservancy Act also allows the preservation of valu-
able cultural landscapes, even if valuable in this con-
text primarily means "biologically valuable" (ibid: 1 1 6).
However, since cultural landscapes by definition mean
86 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
landscapes that have developed through the interven-
tion of man, they are also likely to contain material
cultural remains of the sort normally dealt with by the
cultural heritage authorities. For example, a study con-
ducted in the early 1990s (Direktoratet for natur-
forvaltning 1994) identified twelve "valuable cultural
landscapes" in the County of Finnmark based on bio-
logical/botanical as well as culture historical criteria.
One of these landscapes was Skoltebyen in Neiden,
which in 2000 was scheduled through a Section 20
preservation order, based on the religious and cultural
historical importance of the site.^
Overall, however, local municipalities are reluctant
to apply protection orders to areas of any size, while
protection according to the Nature Conservancy Act
(for instance, as National Parks) is sometimes vehemently
opposed since it places restrictions on traditional use
even by local people in order to protect the flora and
fauna of the area. Such restrictions may be even more
strongly felt in Sami areas where the use of natural
resources in a traditional way is seen as a basis for
maintaining the Sami culture and economy, such as
was demonstrated in a couple of recent cases in North-
ern Norway.
This makes the ongoing work of implementing The
European Landscape Convention, which Norway signed
on October 20, 2000, as a joint venture between the
Directorate for Cultural Heritage and the Directorate for
Nature Conservancy, even more important when it
comes to future landscape conservation work in Sami
areas. A preliminary strategy document from the two
Directorates (Direktoratet for naturforvaltning and
Riksantikvaren 2001) was presented on December 1,
2001, marking the start of Norway's participation in a
four-year project to implement the Convention in
Scandinavia. In it, the two Directorates acknowledge
the "need to develop an understanding of the varying
cultural importance of the landscape, depending on
cultural and social perceptions," and that one of the
tasks must be to "contribute to a better understanding
locally for a multi-ethnic landscape perception and
importance." This should be done by "developing and
implementing procedures and undertakings based on
contributions and participation from indigenous and
minority groups . . . using for instance experiences
from other countries." Acknowledging the need for a
multi-cultural approach to landscape preservation in
Norway, and hopefully also in Scandinavia as a whole,
at such an early stage of implementation, should en-
sure that these aspects are incorporated into the na-
tional and Scandinavian strategies for future work.
Ethnographic Landscapes
The term "ethnographic landscapes ' as used by the U.S.
National Park Service (Evans et al. 2001:53) has not
hitherto been an active part of the legal or manage-
ment language in Norway. However, it may well be
seen to exist as a theoretical concept in the practical
work done by the Sami Parliament when fulfilling its
role in the cultural heritage management system of
Norway. Unlike the archaeological surveys carried out
according to Section 9 of the Cultural Heritage Act by
the Norwegian county authorities in order to establish
whether developments may interfere with protected
cultural remains, the Sami Parliament and its predeces-
sor, the Sami Cultural Heritage Council, have always
insisted on establishing the broader context of any
Sami remains within a planning area, the Sami tradi-
tions connected with them or the area itself, and the
history of any Sami involvement with the area. This has
meant carrying out not only a traditional, visual survey
of the area, but also interviewing local people and re-
cording oral traditions and "invisible" knowledge. In
this way, many landscapes have probably been de-
fined as "ethnographic landscapes" by the local inhab-
itants or users, such as the migrating reindeer herders
and their flocks. It is as yet not clear how these differ-
ent narratives are being, or should be, incorporated
into the management of both Sami as well as other
cultural remains and landscapes, especially when there
are competing narratives constructed by different user
groups and even different ethnic groups about the
INCECERD HOLAND 87
same landscape. The task of safeguarding Sami remains
is formally placed with the Sami Parliament, albeit in
cooperation with the Norwegian authorities both at
regional and central level. At present, however, there is
probably a tendency towards mutual exclusivity at
the regional level when attempting to establish an of-
ficial narrative about an area, be it small or large. This
can be seen to originate from the wording of the law,
with its requirement for an ethnic definition of cultural
remains and the ensuing division of responsibility be-
tween two different authorities. Inevitably, this leads
to a certain polarization where any multicultural narra-
tive tends to lose out.
When it comes to divulging traditional knowledge,
many Sami communities prefer to keep such knowl-
edge secret from those who are considered outsiders,
and this may well include the central heritage agencies
as well as the regional Norwegian ones. The choice of
secrecy is made either because the knowledge tradi-
tionally has been sacred and therefore available to only
a few, or because of fears about the consequences of
divulging the location of sites (Husby 2001:179). Al-
though such a view must obviously be respected, it
creates its own problems with regard to the legal pro-
tection of Sami remains, since the law, although in
theory affording automatic legal protection to all Sami
remains more than one-hundred years old, whether
known or unknown, in practice may require monuments
to be known in order to successfully prosecute any
violation of this protection. For Norwegian remains,
this requirement will soon be met by a new national
register of both archaeological and architectural monu-
ments, as well as protected areas and landscapes,
through work that is currently being finalised by the
Directorate for Cultural Heritage. This register will
contain information from a number of smaller data-
bases, but access to the information will be graded
according to the questioner's status. The fact that
a monument is listed in the register will, however,
count as making it "known." The Sami Parliament
has so far chosen not to incorporate its own da-
tabases for reasons described above.
Protection of Sami Remains in Particular
The basis of the management of cultural remains in
Norway can be seen as a legal landscape, where the
articles of the law constitute the physical landscape. In
this landscape, the concepts ofjurisdiction and age are
normally objectively verifiable and thus undisputable.
The added provision of ethnicity as a criterion for Sami
remains, however, introduces a cognitive and subjec-
tive concept, which the law has difficulties dealing with
in an adequate manner. This difficulty is therefore of-
ten transferred to those maintaining the law and cre-
ates a fertile ground for negotiations and sometimes
even conflicts when the legal landscape is perceived
in a totally different manner by the Norwegian and
Sami authorities.
In many ways, this situation mirrors the way in
which the geographical landscapes of Northern
Scandinavia have been seen and described by the
different ethnic groups. The Norwegians have tended
to see them as wild and untouched landscapes con-
sisting only of geological, botanical and faunal fea-
tures, which could be mapped and described rela-
tively accurately in scientific terms. For the Sami liv-
ing there, however, the same landscapes functioned
at a very different level, as an economic as well as a
cultural and mythological framework for their life
and work. Translating these two opposing percep-
tions of the same landscapes into an easily appli-
cable legal framework has proved difficult, unless a
great degree of pragmatism is exercised when main-
taining the principles of the law. This article is an
attempt to describe some of these difficulties.
The Norwegian Cultural Heritage Act and Sami
Remains
The Norwegian Cultural Heritage Act is often described
as particularly beneficial to the protection of Sami re-
mains because of the one-hundred year limit for auto-
matic legal protection of such remains, while Norwe-
88 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
2 1/ The old Coastal Saami communities ofSorstraumen (in the foreground) and Nordstraumen in the municipality
ofKvcenangen, Northern Troms. The landscape contains settlement remains from the Ice Age to the present day,
place-names, Saami and Christian religious sites, folklore and stories.
gian remains must be four to five hundred years old in
order to benefit from the same sort of protection. The
reasons why a limit of one-hundred years was chosen
for protected Sami remains are contained in the origi-
nal committee recommendations from 1 970, which
passed more or less unchanged into the new law it-
self. In the recommendations, the committee described
certain Sami cultural remains, such as sacrificial sites,
large pitfall systems for hunting reindeer, burial grounds,
etc., as "non-functional" elements in a modern Sami
culture, in the same way as such ancient elements are
in the majority Norwegian culture. The difference was
that these elements became non-functional at widely
differing times, since "the development involving a
change to Christian cult, the establishment of Christian
cemeteries and the end of the hunting society is greatly
retarded in the Sami areas," as the recommendations
put it. In other words, cultural elements that were aban-
doned in the Middle Ages or even earlier in Norwegian
areas were perceived to have survived so long in the
Sami areas that it was necessary to draw the line at
one-hundred years instead of 1537 A.D. in order to
protect similar remains.
Later government publications from the 1 980s (e.g.
Miljoverndepartementet 1 987, 1 988) expanded on the
reasons by describing Sami remains as
—Representing a different culture and adaptation
from that evidenced by Scandinavian archaeology
and ethnology,
—Being part of a still living tradition, but perhaps
not for much longer,
—Identity markers for a people with a special need
for such markers,
—Widespread but modest,
—Prone to being overlooked and destroyed, espe-
cially since it takes knowledge of the Sami culture
to recognize them, and since they are mostly lo-
cated in harsh environments.
The main objectives for Sami cultural heritage man-
agement were therefore seen as 'locating and protect-
ing' Sami cultural remains; objectives that still remain
INCECERD HOLAND 89
valid, since our knowledge of where legally protected
Sami remains are located, how many there are, and
what state they are in, is still patchy.
However, while the intentions may have been the
best, the introduction of the concept of Sami ethnicity
into a legal framework had two consequences:
—Any monument dating between 1 537 (in excep-
tional cases 1 650) and the present minus one-hun-
dred years must be defined as Sami in order to be
protected by the Act,
—On the other hand, all monuments olderthan 1 537
are automatically protected irrespective of ethnicity.
This means that only monuments younger than 1 537
need the ethnic label "Sami" in order to be legally pro-
tected, and it has more or less unwittingly led to a
perception of the term "Sami" applying only to monu-
ments younger than 1 537. The problems are thus how
to define monuments as Sami, and also what to do
about the monuments that are not defined as Sami in
the present Sami areas.
What is a Sami Monument?
The immediate need—once the 1 978 Cultural Heritage
Act had been introduced—to define Sami monuments
as such does not seem to have been realized by the
law makers, since neither the law, nor the documents
associated with it made any serious or stringent at-
tempt at defining what constitutes a Sami monument,
as opposed to the other monuments covered by the
Act. For a number of years after the introduction of the
Act, Sami remains and monuments were therefore de-
fined as more or less restricted to those left by the
reindeer herding Sami. On the whole, these remains
were younger than 1 537, they occurred in areas not
occupied by Norwegians or any other non-Sami eth-
nic group, they took a form that clearly set them apart
from Norwegian remains, and were not of particular
interest to Norwegian archaeologists or historians.
It is easy to see, however, that this narrow defini-
tion of Sami remains left scope for an eventual expan-
sion to all sides. As soon as you include the Coastal
Sami and the Sami inland farmers in the definition of
"Sami," you literally move into territories which for a
long time have been occupied by several ethnic groups:
Norwegians, Sami, and Qvens (Finnish immigrants
mainly from the eighteenth century and later). The law,
however, treats the remains of these groups very differ-
ently, necessitating ethnic labels in order to establish
whether a house site is Norwegian (and therefore
only protected if it is olderthan 1 537), Sami (and there-
fore protected when it is one-hundred years old) or
Qven (not protected by the law).
About ten years after the introduction of the Act,
the discussion about Sami cultural heritage manage-
ment was mainly focussed on administrative problems:
how a future dedicated Sami cultural heritage man-
agement system should be organized (e.g. Marstrander
1 987); and the required educational and cultural back-
ground for those working within the system (Fjellheim
1 991 ; Rauset 1 990). Both subjects were, of course, im-
portant, but—just like the law itself—the discussion
seems to have assumed that a general consensus as to
what constituted a Sami monument existed. For in-
stance, Marstrander (1987:4) defines "ancient monu-
ments" as "stationary monuments which are protected
by the law," and includes Sami monuments in the defi-
nition. He then goes on to define Sami monuments as
"material remains left by Sami ways of life."
By this time, however, the difficulties should per-
haps have been realized on the basis of trying to
define Sami in a politically meaningful way. With the
establishment of the Sami Parliament in 1989 and
the ensuing elections to choose its members, a formal
electoral register had to be established which gave
selective voting rights to the Sami. This meant identi-
fying who the Sami were, i.e. who would be allowed
to register. The accepted definition of a Sami (Helander
1999) according to the Sami Act (1987) thus became
someone who:
—Speaks Sami as their first language, or had one
parent or grandparent who did so
—Considers himself or herself a Sami,
90 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
22/ Reconstructing the frame for a traditional Saami turf Inouse (gammed at Nordstraumen in Kvcenangen,
Northern Troms.
—Lives in entire accordance with the rules of the
Sami society,
—Is recognised by the representative Sami body
as Sami,
—Has a parent who satisfies these conditions.
The official legal definition of a Sami thus places the
greatest importance on the use of the Sami language.
This, however, is problematic since perhaps half the
Norwegian Sami today do not speak the language
any more. The Sami Act therefore had to acknowl-
edge this historical development by extending the use
of the language back to a parent or even a grandparent.
Today, approximately 10,000 people have registered
for the right to vote in elections to the Sami Parlia-
ment, but any publication on the Sami will tell you that
there are at least as many as 35,000 Sami in Norway
(Aarseth et al. 1990; Haetta 1996), more likely 40 to
45,000 (Helander 1 999), or perhaps as many as 60,000
or even 1 00,000 (Lorenz 1 981 ). The discrepancies be-
tween these figures may also say something about
the difficulty of ethnic definitions, be they self-applied
(subjective) or imposed (objective).
An example from the municipality of Kvaenangen
in Northern Troms^ (Fig. 21) shows the gap between
a self-confessed ethnic identity and the unrealized
potential resulting from using the criteria above. In
the 1891 census, 1,016 people (or 57.4 percent of
the population) in Kvaenangen identified themselves
as Sami. Nearly one-hundred years later, in 1970, a
theoretical calculation based on the language criteria
used in the Sami Act showed that 895 people (42.9
percent) still fulfilled the formal criteria for calling them-
selves Sami (Bjorklund 1985:403, Table 44), but only
twenty-four people (1 .2 percent) did so in the census.
Today, Kvaenangen is part of Electoral District 7 for
the Sami Parliament, together with five other munici-
palities in Northern Troms. The population of these six
municipalities totalled 16,759 on January 1, 2003
INCECERD HOLAND 91
(Statistisk Sentralbyra 2004), but only 741 (4.5 per-
cent) of them were registered on the Sami electoral
rolls in 2001 , the latest election year (up from 442 at
the start in 1 989), and only 492 actually voted (Norut
NIBR Finnmark 2004). It is difficult to say whether the
figures show a general reluctance to register oneself
on an ethnic basis, or, more specifically, on the ethnic
basis now used for the Sami electoral rolls, i.e. the lan-
guage criterion.
Other researchers have tried other definitions of
"Sami-ness." Lorenz (1981:15) says that the simplest
definition of a Sami is "someone born to Sami parents,"
but this only defers the definition and raises slightly
unpleasant questions about a pure-blooded Sami or
not. What if your mother was Sami, but your father
only half Sami? Or perhaps an academic study classi-
fies your parents as Sami, but they themselves do not,
having chosen to become Norwegian at a time when
being Sami was a stigma that made life difficult? What
does that make you? The same goes for the language
criterion. When your mother spoke Sami as her first
language, but now considers herself Norwegian, should
that entitle you to claim Sami ancestry based on her
linguistic abilities?
One could also choose occupation as a criterion
and say that only those still employed in the tradi-
tional Sami livelihood of reindeer herding qualif/ as Sami,
as the Swedes have done. In the Swedish case, this
means that only 2,700 of Sweden's 1 7,000 Sami can
officially be classified as such (Aarseth et al. 1 990: 1 4).
Reindeer herding is also an industry that is generally
portrayed as vital to the survival of the Sami culture
in Norway today. That, however, raises the question
of how characteristic it is of the modern Norwegian
Sami. In 1 987, only 2,1 51 people, or about 1 percent
or less of the Norwegian Sami, were employed mainly
in the reindeer industry (Aarseth et al. 1990:187), de-
spite it being an industry restricted to the Sami only.
No livelihood figures exist for the rest of the Norwe-
gian Sami, but studies suggest that a larger proportion
of the Sami than of the Norwegians were employed in
other primary industries, such as agriculture and fisher-
ies, while fewer were employed in the service indus-
tries. Many of these non-reindeer herding Sami, who
for hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years have
lived as fishermen and later small farmers, find it diffi-
cult to define themselves as Sami today, when the
reindeer herding Sami are commonly used as the most
potent symbol of Sami ethnicity. This, in turn, may also
lead to a narrow view of which parts of prehistory will
be defined as Sami or proto-Sami.
The Sami Parliament itself, in its Samisk kulwr-
minneplan 1998-2001 (Sami cultural heritage plan
1998-2001), defines monuments as Sami when
—A living or recorded Sami tradition is associated
with them,
—Local Sami knowledge associates them with a
Sami cultural context,
—Research results indicate that they document
Sami history and prehistory.
Monuments can also be defined as associated with
Sami prehistory, i.e. they are seen as the physical mani-
festations of those processes that led to the establish-
ment of the historically known Sami cultural traits. This
means that monuments dating to the earliest prehis-
tory must be seen as the background for both a Sami
and a non-Sami ethnicity. When they are elements of a
present Sami cultural landscape, the Sami Parliament
finds it natural to treat them as part of the Sami cul-
tural heritage associated with that landscape. Conse-
quently, the Sami Parliament defines part of its role
within Sami cultural heritage management as promot-
ing a long-term view of Sami history within certain
areas. They realise, however, that since monuments
and landscapes have different meanings to people with
different cultural backgrounds living within these areas
today, this presents a challenge to the cultural heritage
management system.
In a recent and comprehensive work on Norwegian
cultural heritage management and its legal basis,
Schanche (2001), expressing the views of the Sami
Parliament, defines Sami monuments as
92 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
23/ The old church at the island of Skorpa in Kvcenangen, Northern Troms, one of only three buildings in the
municipality to survive World War II. A chapel was built around 1 795 as a missionary station for the still pagan
Coastal Saami population, while the present building dates back to 1 850. The churchyard was established in 1 851
.
—Monuments with living or recorded Sami tradi-
tions, be they physical traces or places without any
observable human influence,
—Monuments that by general scientific consensus
are defined as part of Sami history and prehistory.
At the same time, she acknowledges that definitions
change over time, and become progressively more dif-
ficult the further back in time one goes. To Schanche,
however, it is natural to include both
—Monuments belonging to those prehistoric roots
from which the Sami culture grew;
Monuments that are not the result of Sami activ-
ity, but to which Sami traditions have been attached.
In the same study, Curibye and Holme (2001 :55), who
represent the Norwegian government position, present
a subtly different argument by stressing that a "Sami"
monument must have both an ethnic and a culture his-
torical basis, i.e. a Sami monument must be physically
located within a present Sami context or environment
in order to be legally recognized as such.
A couple of examples may demonstrate the prac-
tical difficulties involved in such ethnic classifications
more clearly.
One example concerns standing Sami buildings over
one-hundred years of age which, more or less by de-
fault, became legally protected by the 1 978 Cultural
Heritage Act, Section 4, as discussed above. Reading
the original recommendations for the Act today it is
doubtful whether an automatic legal protection of all
Sami buildings older than one hundred years was in-
tended. As stated earlier, the recommendations were
concerned with "non-functional" elements, but when it
comes to buildings, still functional houses and build-
ings are also covered by the Act, with the often severe
restrictions this involves with regard to repairs, modifi-
cations, modernizations, etc. This creates the need to
INCECERD HOLAND 93
define buildings as Sami, but by which criteria? Does it
require being built in a Sami technique, such as the
gamme shown in Fig. 22; built by a Sami; used by a
Sami; or found in a Sami area? And what about official
Norwegian buildings in Sami areas, such as schools
and churches (Fig. 23): should they be regarded as Nor-
wegian or Sami in this respect? These questions were
studied in a three-year project initiated by the Sami
Parliament and supported financially by the Director-
ate. Although the project final report (Sjolie 2003) lists
a number of criteria which can be used to establish the
ethnic affiliation of a building, it also leaves some of
the questions unresolved, not least those that relate to
the establishment of Norwegian central institutions in
Sami areas, such as churches, schools etc.
The same confusion can also be said to apply to
the more recent architectural landscapes of Northern
Norway. During World War II, the whole of Norway,
right up to the border with Russia in the north-east, was
occupied by the German army. In 1 944, however, the
Germans conceded defeat in the north and started re-
treating south. The retreat was accompanied by so-called
"scorched earth" tactics, which meant that the vast ma-
jority of buildings in the County of Finnmark and in
Northern Troms were burnt down, while the population
was forcibly moved to other parts of the country. The
devastation coincided with the main Sami population
areas of the country and meant that very little of pre-
war material Sami culture in most of Finnmark and
Northern Troms survived the war. After the war, these
districts were rebuilt by the Norwegian authorities, us-
ing mainly standardized housing, developed by cen-
trally employed architects. Today, it is this post-war
architecture that characterises large tracts of Finnmark
and Northern Troms, in Norwegian, as well as in Sami
and Qven settlements (Fig. 24). In forty years, there-
fore, the question will arise whether these standard
houses should become automatically legally protected
in Sami areas, but not in Norwegian and Qven settle-
ments. Even the remains of German fortifications in the
Sami areas could end up as protected "Sami monu-
ments," since they represent a part of history that for-
ever changed Sami culture in the north.
Yet another example are the Sami graves in Chris-
tian churchyards. Although the Cultural Heritage Act
seems to accord automatic legal protection to all Sami
graves more than one-hundred years old, Guribye and
Holme (2001:55) claim that this protection only ap-
plies when the whole churchyard can be classified as
Sami on cultural historical grounds. In other words, a
single Sami grave in an Oslo churchyard will not be
protected—over the years many Sami have been bur-
ied in such Norwegian contexts—while had the same
person been buried at the Kautokeino churchyard in
the County of Finnmark, the grave would have been
legally protected as part of an overall Sami context.
Another project has therefore been undertaken by the
Directorate in order to establish which churchyards, and
therefore graves, should be defined as Sami and there-
fore be legally protected if more than one-hundred
years old. So far, the project has carried out surveys in
those municipalities in Finnmark and Northern Troms
where at least twenty-five percent of the population
still called themselves Sami in the official census around
1900 (Svestad and Barlindhaug 2003; Holand forth-
coming). It has located a number of old and aban-
doned churchyards from the seventeenth, eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries, all of them worthy of preser-
vation since they mostly represent the introduction of
Christian burial rites in their respective areas. However,
only those that are identified as Sami will, in the end,
be afforded the automatic legal protection provided
by the Cultural Heritage Act.
One of the most difficult aspects of the law as it
stands today, and one which is bound to become even
more so in the future, is the definition of remains older
than 1 537 A.D. as archaeological and thus by default
the responsibility of the Norwegian regional and cen-
tral heritage authorities. This means that all archaeo-
logical remains are dealt with by the Norw/egian county
heritage officers and the Norwegian executive officers
for archaeology at the Directorate, even when these
94 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
24/ Typical post-World War II farm buildings atSaltnes in Kvcenangen, Northern Troms.
remains are located in Sami areas.
In those parts of the world where Europeans, in
particular, arrived late in time, there can be no assump-
tion that the prehistoric remains of that area represent
their history. Both Australia and the New World are
good examples of this. Norway, however, is different,
in that at least two recognized ethnic groups (the Sami
and the Norwegians) both lay claim to the prehistory
of the same geographical areas. The Sami historian
Haetta (1996:14) states categorically that the Sami
never immigrated into Northern Scandinavia, but
evolved from the Stone Age population of the area
and emerged as "Sami" at least 2,000 years ago (see
also Haetta 1980). There is no doubt in his mind that
this makes the earlier history of at least Northern
Scandinavia Sami, in the sense that the Stone Age and
Bronze Age peoples of the area were the direct ances-
tors of those people that 2,000 years ago or more
were defined or defined themselves as Sami. Aarseth
et al. (1990:20) agree with this view, and the Sami
Parliament, in their website presentation (http://
www.samediggi.no) of the Sami, state that:
The first people arrived in Northern
Scandinavia about 1 1 ,000 years ago.
Whether they were Sami, we do not know,
but we do assume that the Sami culture
emerged and developed from these first
inhabitants and up to this day through
interaction between people and culture.
Because the Sami are the people who have
lived the longest in this area, Norway has
ratified ILO Convention No. 169, accepting
the Sami as the indigenous people of
Norway. Sweden, Finland and Russia, how-
ever, have not yet ratified this convention.
This view, however, is not usually expressed quite as
explicitly in general accounts of Norwegian prehistory.
The two referred to below are both classic works from
the last generation, the one by Professor Anders Hagen
of the University of Bergen (1 967/77), the other by two
eminent South-Norwegian archaeologists, Bente
Magnus and Professor Bj0rn Myhre (1 986). Both ac-
counts should be seen as typical examples of how
Norwegian prehistory is commonly presented, not as
specific for the authors concerned.
In their account, Magnus and Myhre point to two
factors in Norwegian prehistory that would seem to
have implications for the interpretation of Sami prehis-
INCECERD HOLAND 95
tory as well:
—The existence of two distinct and different cul-
tural patterns in Norway going back at least to the
Early Bronze Age, perhaps as far back as the latter
part of the Neolithic, the one being an agricultural
culture along the Norwegian coast, perhaps stretch-
ing as far north as the County of Troms and with
links to continental Europe, the other being a hunt-
ing-fishing culture in inland Scandinavia and the
northernmost coastal parts of Norway, with links to
Eastern cultures.
—The continuity in settlement and subsistence pat-
terns within this latter area, which seems to coin-
cide more or less with the modern settlement areas
of the Sami.
Magnus and Myhre (1986:235, 316) trace the histori-
cally known Sami in Eastern Finnmark back to the last
centuries before Christ (the Pre-Roman Iron Age); the
Sami in other parts of Northern Norway to at least the
Migration Period (400 A.D. to 550 or 600 A.D.); and
even suggest that the cultural border referred to above
may point to a proto-Sami population as far south as
the County of Hedmark in Southern Norway already in
the Bronze Age (ibid.: 202, 319). This is consistent with
the modern extent of Sami settlements in Norway (see
Fig. 20).
A good example of the continuity in settlement
and subsistence patterns found in many Sami areas is
the site of Mortensnes in the far northeast of Norway,
which is described both by Magnus and Myhre
(1 986:234-36) and Hagen (1 967/77:1 1 5). It has an ex-
ceptionally large assembly of house sites and graves
in particular, dating from the Mesolithic to modern times
(K. Schanche 1 988; A. Schanche, n.d.). The graves are
of a characteristic Sami type, i.e. located in screes, with
some of them dating back more than 2,000 years, and
there are also house sites and religious sites within the
area that are generally accepted as Sami (Fig. 25, 26).
Furthermore, the site is located in a municipality which
even today is considered Sami, and which had an eighty-
four percent Sami population one-hundred years ago.
Neither Magnus and Myhre nor Hagen contest the
fact that most remains within the Mortensnes site must
be labelled Sami at least for the last 2,000 years, pos-
sibly even longer. They also seem to accept that the
Sami generally emerged as an ethnic group from the
Stone Age and Bronze Age groups that preceded them
in any given area. Despite this long Sami history in
many parts of Norway, both Magnus and Myhre and
Hagen still prefer not to identify a Sami or even "proto-
Sami" prehistory beyond the last 2,000 years, i.e. to
attach this particular ethnic label to prehistoric remains,
and therefore to integrate the Sami into their account
of the prehistory of Norway. Instead, both accounts
settle for a few isolated pages here and there on the
Sami. This approach, which is commonly shared by
most other publications and scholars in Norwegian his-
tory, has the effect of defining the Sami as different,
marginal, and not part of the general historical devel-
opment of Norway. On the other hand, such a view
could be seen to coincide with the present Sami politi-
cal wish to establish a Sami history that is separate
and different from that of the surrounding Norwegian
society.
Identifying the Sami as the direct descendants of
the Stone Age populations of certain areas of Norway
would obviously make innumerable Stone Age settle-
ments and monuments part of Sami prehistory, in the
same way as such monuments are seen as part of Nor-
wegian prehistory. In those parts of Norway that do not
have the complications of a multi-ethnic population,
there has never been a need to ponder whether Stone
Age sites and rock carvings should be seen as poten-
tially ethnically different from the present populations
of those areas. However, when dealing with the same
sort of remains in the present Sami or multi-ethnic ar-
eas, there are now competing views about whose his-
tory they represent: Norwegian? Sami?,or perhaps just
those groups that eventually gave rise to both ethnic
communities, but may not have represented different
ethnicities in the past.
One example is the World Heritage Site of the Alta
rock carvings in Western Finnmark (Helskog 1988; cf.
Figs. 26, 27). Professor Knut Helskog from the North-
96 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
25/ The sacrificial stone (Craksesteinen) at l\1ortensnes in Varanger, County of Finnmark. The stone is sur-
rounded by concentric stone circles.
Norwegian University of Tromso, who is the foremost
expert on the Alta rock carvings, has discussed the
question of their ethnic identity (Helskog 1988: 1 10).
Like the authors mentioned above, he accepts the con-
tinuity in settlement and subsistence patterns between
the prehistoric populations and the earliest recognised
Sami groups in these northernmost parts of Norway,
and that the Sami emerge as an ethnic group at least
2,000 years ago. This, he suggests, is also the time
when the production of rock carvings in Alta comes to
an end, perhaps to be replaced by depictions of many
of the same motifs on ritual drums similar to those that
are known from later Sami contexts. He is more reluc-
tant, however, to call the rock carvings part of Sami
prehistory.
Even Professor Bjernar Olsen, also from the Univer-
sity of Tromso, who has worked specifically with Sami
archaeology in the County of Finnmark, is cautious
about applying ethnic labels to the prehistory of that
county. In his work on the prehistory of Finnmark (Olsen
1 994: 1 39), he suggests instead:
It may seem that there was not only an ethnic
consolidation during this millennium [i.e. the
last millennium B.C.], but that many of the
formal traits that in historic time have been
regarded as typically Sami, were formed
during this period (IH translation).
Another way of dealing with the controversial concept
of a Sami prehistory is to redefine the problem as se-
mantic: "Sami" becomes the ethnic label for a particu-
lar group of people; "Norwegian", on the other hand,
just means "within the present borders of Norway" and
carries no connotations of ethnicity. Therefore, every-
thing can be labelled Norwegian until proven Sami!
This argument is often used within cultural heritage
management, since it avoids the difficulties inherent in
a multi-ethnic past.
INCECERD HOLAND 97
Archaeology and Ethnicity
The problem of how to define ethnicity archaeologically
is not one that is confined to Norway, nor to the rela-
tionship between a majority and an indigenous popu-
lation such as the Norwegians and the Sami. It is also a
theoretical question that is part of archaeological his-
tory, and perhaps in particular its relationship to the poli-
tics of the day, as demonstrated by Jones (1 996, 1 997).
In her study, Jones (1997:56) raises the questions
"What is ethnicity?" and "How should it be defined?",
while pointing out that the word is mostly used without
any form of definition, even in scientific studies. As an
example, she quotes a study where sixty-five socio-
logical and anthropological studies of ethnicity were
surveyed, but only thirteen were found to have some
kind of definition of their key subject.
The most common approaches in anthropological
studies have been to define ethnicity either in an "ob-
jectivist" or a "subjectivist" way. The objectivists regard
ethnic groups as "social and cultural entities with dis-
tinct boundaries characterized by relative isolation and
lack of interaction," while subjectivists see them as "cul-
turally constructed categorizations that inform social
interaction and behavior" (Jones 1 997:57). In other words,
the objectivists define ethnic groups on the basis of
the analyst's perception of socio-cultural differentia-
tion (the outsider's view), while the subjectivists see
ethnicity as the subjective self-categorizations of the
people being studied (the insider's view). Although Jones
does not necessarily draw such a conclusion, this could
also be perceived as an expression of the slightly con-
descending viewpoint that researchers are normally
objective, whereas the objects of their studies are not.
It is, however, the latter, subjectivist, view that has
prevailed since the 1 960s, based to a large extent on
Barth's theoretical model of ethnicity, as developed in
his Ethnic Croups and Boundaries {] 969). This view has
also permeated legislation and policy dealing with in-
digenous groups—as an exampleJones (1 997:60) men-
tions the definition of Australian Aboriginal groups. It
is not, however, an entirely unproblematic definition.
26/ Location of sites in Nortiiern Norway discussed
in r/ie text.
as exemplified by the question of how to differentiate
between ethnic groups and other self-defining groups,
if self-definition becomes the overriding criterion.
It is exactly this tension about the definition of
ethnicity generally, coupled with the need for an ob-
jective legal definition of Sami ethnicity, both past and
present, which create problems in relation to the Nor-
wegian Cultural Heritage Act. The question is further
complicated by the fact that in the case of the Sami, it
is sometimes the researchers that represent the radical
view, labelling objects and people as Sami on an his-
torical basis, while the people themselves do not iden-
tif/ with this label any longer. This not only demon-
strates some of the difficulties involved in ethnic label-
ling, but also shows what Jones (1997:64) calls "the
fluid and situational nature of both group boundaries
and individual identification."
In order to explore further the concept and percep-
tion of ethnicity, as opposed to other group ties, Jones
describes another two labels, "the primordial impera-
tive" and "instrumental ethnicities," which have surfaced
in ethnicity studies over the last generation. The pri-
mordial imperative is a socio-, or perhaps rather, a
psycho-biological, approach which sees ethnicity as
grounded in "the givens of birth: "blood," language,
religion, territory and culture." These "givens" form in-
voluntary primordial attachments with a coerciveness
that "transcends the alliances and relationships engen-
98 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
mm"
27/ The site ofHjemmeluft/Jiebmaluokta in Alta, County of Finnmorl<.
dered by particular situational interests and social cir-
cumstances" (Jones 1 997:65). In other words, the indi-
vidual is born into a set of ties, primarily kinship ties,
and values that will define that person's self-identifica-
tion. The approach has been criticized for romanticiz-
ing and mystifying ethnic identity, as well as portraying
it as "involuntary and coercive" (ibid:69), thereby defin-
ing it as "an abstract natural phenomenon," while over-
looking the "historical and social grounding of particu-
lar ethnicities" (ibid.:70). The approach, developed in
the late 1 950s, also carries some unpleasant echoes of
earlier nationalism, the ideology of national identity
based on bloodlines and descent (ibid.:71).
More acceptable in academic terms has, therefore,
been the concept of "instrumental ethnicities," which
came to dominate the debate during the 1970s and
1 980s according toJones (1 996:67, 1 997:75), and which
sees ethnicity as "a dynamic and situational form of
group identity" (1 997:72). However, the instrumentalist
perception also has its difficulties. One is a tendency
towards reductionism (ibid.:76), whereby observed con-
sequences of ethnic behaviour are interpreted as the
reasons for it. Thus, ethnicity becomes "the mobiliza-
tion and politicization of culture in the organization of
interest groups" (ibid. :77). This leads easily to "a ne-
glect of the cultural and psychological dimensions of
ethnicity." It also presupposes that "human behaviour
is essentially rational and directed towards maximising
self-interest" (ibid.:79), and, just like the subjectivist ap-
proach described above, it makes it difficult to distin-
guish between ethnic groups and other collective-in-
terest groups.
To a certain extent, one could say that the defini-
tion of a Sami for electoral purposes in Norway (as
well as in Sweden and Finland) is based on the primor-
dial imperative way of thinking, using as it does the
INCEGERD HOLAND 99
concepts of kinship and ininerited cultural traits, such
as language, for a legal definition. Most researchers
working with the question of Sami ethnicity would,
however, rather adopt a view of ethnicity as a function
of a "them-and-us" situation, using Barth's model and
historical developments to explain its emergence and
background. It is doubtful, however, that anyone would
want to label it rational and self-serving, since this would
tend to be seen as negative.
This results in a number of different approaches and
definitions which all carry both positive and negative
aspects, and which are consequently difficult to sub-
scribe to Jones (1 996:67-8, 1 997:84) herself suggests
yet another definition of ethnicity, based on the theo-
ries of Bourdieu (1 977) and his concept of "habitus" or
those perceptions and practices that guide an
individual's self-identification. This definition claims
that "ethnic groups are culturally ascribed identity groups,
which are based on the expression of a real or as-
sumed shared culture and common descent" (Jones
1 997:84). The definition attempts to incorporate those
aspects of the others that are seen as positive, while at
the same time portraying ethnicity as a social process
in which "ethnic categories are reproduced and trans-
formed" continuously, in order to accommodate ever
changing historical and social circumstances.
While this may be a useful definition of ethnicity
for theoretical academic discussions, it does not, unfor-
tunately, solve many legal disputes. The fluid and po-
rous borders of ethnic groups are reflected in objects
that incorporate aspects of more than one ethnic group
or move between them, while the situational nature of
ethnicity makes it difficult to project modern ethnic
labels back in time. This, of course, applies as much to
"Norwegian-ness" as to "Sami-ness," but has much
greater consequences for the latter, since Norwe-
gian is also equated with a state and its borders.
Although the Sami refer to certain parts of Scan-
dinavia as Sabmi (or Sdpmi, The Land of the Sami),
this has no legal definition and its borders cross those
of four nations: Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia.
For the time being, therefore, Sami as a definition of
legally protected cultural remains will continue to be
the subject of interpretations and negotiations when-
ever the discussion moves away from the politically
promoted core of Sami-ness, the reindeer owning Sami.
As such, one could say that the legal discussions are
part of the ongoing development and negotiation of
Sami ethnicity whereby objects, symbols and opinions
fluctuate and change allegiance both in time and space.
It is a dynamic way of looking at disagreements, which,
however, is not easily incorporated into the task of law
implementation.
It also has the effect, as Jones admits (1 997:1 42), of
undermining some of those minority claims to land
and cultural heritage that have been accepted through,
for instance, the adoption of ILO Convention No. 169,
which gives the Norwegian Sami status as an indig-
enous group. The Sami, like many other ethnic minori-
ties, may be left with the choice of establishing an
undisputable continuity between today's generally ac-
cepted Sami culture and that of a distant past, sug-
gesting that little has changed in Sami culture over
hundreds and even thousands of years. More ironically
even, the Sami may be forced or choose to accept a
concept of ethnicity that is closely associated with
nationalism. Within this particular framework, "group
identities are represented as unified, monolithic wholes,
with linear and continuous histories which in turn are
used in the legitimation of claims to political autonomy
and territory," asJones (1 996:62) puts it. Another choice
is to interpret and accept Sami ethnicity as a process
that at different times and places has presented itself
in different forms, some of which may not be related
to modern concepts of Sami ethnicity. This latter
choice, however, may blur the distinction between Sami
and other ethnicities both in the past and in the present
to such an extent that it becomes difficult to claim
archaeological remains or cultural landscapes as part
of a Sami history.
At the moment, it seems much easier for all sides
to accept a multi-faceted Norwegian past rather than
100 STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
28/ The Eastern Saami site ofSkoltebyen in Neiden, County of Finnmarl<.
a Sami one. The latter will normally have to show lin-
ear development and strong continuity and resem-
blance with modern Sami culture, or at least certain
parts of it, in order to be accepted as Sami. Therefore,
while the academic discourse stresses the fluid and
situational aspect of ethnicity, practice still prefers a
rigid and one-dimensional definition, not least as the
basis for legal protection of Sami cultural heritage. For
the time being, the two approaches are negotiated
from case to case, but some sort of integrated ap-
proach will have to be found and incorporated into
law, as well as practice, in the not too distant future.
Protected Sami Cultural Landscapes
The discussion above acquires more than a theoretical
relevance when applied to three protected cultural land-
scapes in the County of Finnmark (See Fig. 26):
Hjemmeluft/Jiebmaluol<ta in the municipality of Alta,
Mortensnes in Nesseby, and Neiden in Sor-Varanger.
Hjemmeluft and Mortensnes have been protected us-
ing Sectionl9 of the Cultural Heritage Act, Neiden
through Section 20, and of these three sites, only
Mortensnes and Neiden have been formally defined as
Sami cultural landscapes. Together, they offer different
perspectives on the difficulties of ethnic classifications,
from the purely archaeological to the purely Sami.
Hjemmeluft, Alta municipality. The site contains the
World Heritage Site of the Alta Rock Carvings (Fig. 27),
and its surrounding municipality today is mainly Nor-
wegian. It is formally classified as purely archaeologi-
cal, and its administrative authority is therefore the
Norwegian county heritage officer in Finnmark. His-
torically, however, the Alta area is commonly seen as a
Coastal Sami area at least from the Middle Ages, prob-
ably for much longer, and one could therefore classify
the Stone and Bronze Age populations of the area,
who produced the rock carvings, as proto-Sami. Since
the monuments, however, are all prehistoric, the site
has been formally designated as "archaeological," with
no ethnic affiliation.
Mortensnes, Nesseby municipality. The site (Fig. 25)
contains a large number of settlement remains, graves
and other religious monuments, dating from the
Mesolithic to the nineteenth century. The Nesseby mu-
nicipality is still considered a primarily Sami municipal-
ity. Nearly all remains within the protected area from
the last 2,000 years are also commonly accepted as
Sami, as are some of the older remains. The difficulties
arise when considering the Mesolithic and Neolithic
remains in the area. When the Mortensnes site was pro-
INGEGERD HOLAND 101
tected in 1 988, the University Museum in Troms0 was
appointed administrative authority according to the pro-
visions of the Cultural Heritage Act. However, later
changes to the Act meant that this authority became
divided between the Norwegian county heritage of-
ficer for archaeological remains and the Sami Parlia-
ment for Sami remains. In other words, the site ac-
quired a dual ethnicity entirely due to the letters of the
law. Since this was deemed impractical in administra-
tive terms, the Directorate has transferred sole author-
ity to the Sami Parliament, based on an overall evalua-
tion of the site and its location. This decision met with
some criticism from Norwegian archaeologists since it
is seen to assign a Sami ethnicity to the prehistoric
remains in the area.
Skoltebyen in Neiden, Sor-Varangermunicipality. The
Neiden site (Fig. 28) comprises the settlement area of
an Eastern Sami group isiida), while the surrounding
municipality today has a mixed population of Norwe-
gians, Sami and Qvens (Finns). The Eastern Sami often
see themselves as a minority within the Sami minority,
having converted to Russian Orthodox Christianity in
the sixteenth century. The site was originally one of
their seasonal settlements, but when the national bor-
ders between Norway, Finland and Russia were drawn
in the nineteenth century, the Eastern Sami, who had
until then moved freely between the three states, were
forced to settle in one of them. The Neiden siida chose
to settle at Skoltebyen, their old summer settlement.
The site contains a Russian Orthodox chapel from the
sixteenth century, a number of Eastern Sami graves
and remains of settlements from the later centuries, as
well as modern buildings and businesses, the latter
owned by descendants of the Eastern Sami.
When the site was legally designated in 2000, the
Sami Parliament became sole administrative authority
since there are no known Norwegian or archaeological
monuments within the area. Ironically, this has met with
criticism from some of the local Eastern Sami, who
regard the Sami Parliament, which is dominated by other
Sami groups, as yet another a colonial power.
1 02
Conclusion
The three sites thus exemplify many of the difficulties
inherent in the present Norwegian cultural heritage leg-
islation when it comes to defining monuments—and
even more so sites and cultural landscapes with a vari-
ety of monuments—as Sami. The difficulties are histori-
cal, in the sense that they reflect a heritage manage-
ment system that has evolved over one-hundred years
or more. This system in turn reflected a view of history,
which, in the twentieth century, tended to regard the
Sami as immigrants to Norwegian territory, especially
in the southern parts of the country, and also to equate
"the Sami" only with today's reindeer herders. Modern
research has demonstrated that the Sami have an
equally long history at least in certain parts of the coun-
try as the Norwegians have in other parts, but also
that there were and are a number of Sami adaptive
strategies, with the modern form of reindeer herding
being one, but not the only one.
The obligation to identify cultural remains ethni-
cally in order to decide their legal status has, on the
one hand, led to a greater awareness and acceptance
of Sami history generally, but also to a polarization of
the debate and a sometimes monolithic view of what
constitutes Sami-ness. In this rather antagonistic le-
gal landscape, perceptions have a tendency to appear
either black or white, while promoting the greyscales
of the picture often brings wrath from both sides of the
debate. This may seem surprising in a modern world
where so many people juggle multiple identities on a
daily basis, but it is not something that can be resolved
through heritage legislation. For now, however, it has
been left to the practitioners of the heritage laws, on
both the Sami and the Norwegian sides, to negotiate
the borders and consequences of the law, as knowl-
edge, perceptions and aspirations change.
Notes
1. The views expressed in this paper are
those of the author and not necessarily those of
her employer.
STATE POLICIES/ NORWAY
2. These include a medieval monastery and
the surrounding farm on an island in South-Western
Norway (Utstein in the County of Rogaland), a tradi-
tional multi-family farm in Western Norway (Havra-
tunet in the neighbouring County of Hordaland), an
Eastern Sami settlement in North-Eastern Norway
(Skoltebyen in Neiden, County of Finnmark), and an
old silver mining landscape in South-Eastern Nor-
way (Kongsberg Silver Mines, County of Buskerud).
A few more cases are being considered at the mo-
ment, none of them in Sami areas.
3. The author was born at Sorstraumen in
Kvaenangen and comes from a Coastal Sami back-
ground.
4. The examples have been chosen from the
author's own family. The author belongs to the first
generation with Norwegian as their first and only
language.
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Oslo: Universitetsforlaget.
Rauset, Solbjerg, ed.
1 990 Samisk kulturminnevernforskning: Rapport fra
seminar i Cuovdageaidnu/Kautokeino 22-24
november 1989 (Research on Sami cultural heritage
management: Report from the seminar in
Cuovdageaidnu/Kautokeino, November 22-24,
1989). Oslo: Norges allmenviten-skapelige
forskningsrad.
Samisk kulturminnerad
1999 Samisk kulturminneplan, 1 998-200 1 (Plan for
Sami Cultural Heritage, 1 998-2001 ). Varangerbotn
and Karasjok: Samisk kulturminnerad and
Sametinget.
Schanche, Audhild
n.d. Ceavccageadgi/Mortensnes: En kulturhistorisk
vandring gjennom 10000 dr. (Ceavccageadghi/
Mortensnes: A cultural-historic walk through 1 0,000
Years). Varangerbotn: Varanger Samiske Museum/
Varjjat Sami Musea.
2001 Samiske kulturminner (Sami cultural remains).
In Kulturminnevem: Lov, forvaltning, hdndhevelse,}.
Holme, ed., Vol. I, pp. 56-61 . 0kokrims skriftserie nr.
1 2. Oslo: Okokrim.
Schanche, Kjersti
1988 Mortensnes, en boplass i Varanger: en studie
av samfunn og materiell kultur gjennom 10.000 ar
(Mortensnes, a settlement in Varanger: A study of
society and material cultural through 10,000 years).
Unpubl. mag. art. thesis in archaeology. Tromso: Uni-
versity of Tromso.
Sj0lie, Randi
2003 Vern og forvaltning av samiske byggverk: utkast
til hovedrapport 2003 (Protection and administration
of Sami buildings: draft for the main report, 2003).
Varangerbotn: Sametinget.
Statistisk Sentralbyra
2004 Folkemengde 1 . Januar 2003 (Census, January
1 , 2003). http://wvwv.ssb.n0/emner/O2/Ol/l 0/folkber/
tab-2003-12-18-01.html
Svestad, Asgeir and Barlindhaug, Stine
2003 Samiske kirkegdrder: Registrering av
automatisk freda samiske kirkegdrder i Nord Troms
og Finnmark (Sami churchyards: A survey of auto-
matically protected Sami churchyards in Northern
Troms and Finnmark). NIKU Rapport 4. Oslo and
Tromso: NIKU.
1 04
(Concepts and practices in
thnograpiiic Landscape preservation
/\ Russian North perspective
PAVEL M. SHUL'GIN
The problem of preserving historical and cultural lega-
cies occupies a significant place in the social conscious-
ness of Russia and in contemporary Russian scientific
discourse. During the 1 990s, radically new concepts
were developed and established about this subject. New
legislative decrees were adopted, and many practical
policies were launched to protect the rich cultural heri-
tage of the Russian Federation. In many ways, these
initiatives were linked to the significant political and
social changes that had been occurring in Russia since
1985 and, especially, after 1991. This evolution en-
tailed greater freedom and the ability to express di-
verse social opinions, with the country engaged in a
rapid transition from self-imposed ideological seclu-
sion to international cooperation.
Recent Public Attitudes and Their Reflec-
tion in Scientific Approaches
Between 1 970 and 1 990, the conditions for preserv-
ing the cultural and natural heritage of the former
Soviet Union had deteriorated sharply. The deterio-
ration was related to ever-increasing ideological pres-
sure in the Soviet regime, a drive for unified cultural
and social life that was actively promoted "from the
top down." The government vigorously promoted its
aims to unif/ individual ethnic cultures and fuse them
into a new, quasi-ethnic community labeled "The So-
viet People" (i.e., Bromlei 1981:329-55). In that ideo-
logical setting, culture was relegated to a secondary—
if not insignificant— role, in view of the absolute prior-
ity given to industrial development and economics in
general, as the fundamental factors in the country's de-
velopment.
With industry the center of concentration, develop-
ment projects with the potential to devastate indig-
enous homelands and cultures were perceived as per-
fectly acceptable goals for the nation's economic
progress. For example, monumental projects were un-
dertaken for redirecting waters from northern rivers to
the south of the Soviet Union to create huge reser-
voirs (and to flood large agricultural and forest areas in
the Russian North and Western Siberia). The reservoirs
were considered necessary to provide for the needs of
industry and agriculture in the southern regions. Sei-
zure of huge territories inhabited by indigenous mi-
nority peoples (such as Khanty, Nenets, and others) for
exploring oil and gas fields was common, especially in
the eastern and northern regions of the USSR. State-
run industries confiscated traditional ethnic areas with-
out compensating local residents or providing adequate,
new living conditions.
Social changes occurring in the Soviet Union with
the start of perestroika [policy of economic and gov-
ernmental reform after 1 985-1 986] could not skirt these
problems. It was natural that the issues of ethnic con-
sciousness and protection of the cultures and rights of
indigenous peoples and other minority groups became
so extraordinarily pressing at the end of the 1 980s. The
idea of cultural and ethnic unification as the primary
path for the country's development was repudiated and
replaced by the goal of preserving and reviving the
many national cultures in the Russian Federation. Cor-
105
respondingly, a new crucial task emerged: the identifi-
cation and documentation of the variety in Russia's
ethnic and historical heritage. Public interest in and
awareness of one's native land, ethnic origins, religious
traditions, and family roots skyrocketed. For a long
time, such concerns about heritage had been consid-
ered insignificant, had not been encouraged in official
Soviet propaganda, and at times, had been openly sup-
pressed.
This trend coincided with the beginning of a pow-
erful and popular environmental movement. Many
grassroots environmental groups, organized beginning
in the second half of the 1 980s, asserted the rights for
citizens to live in a clean environment and for com-
plete disclosure to local constituencies of risks associ-
ated with existing manufacturing or planned construc-
tion projects (Litovka 1 989).
It is no accident that one of the more prominent
expressions of the 1980s, in fact, a widely shared
slogan in the public and scholarly community alike,
was the concept of "the ecology of culture," as ad-
vanced by the late Academician Dmitrii S. Likhachev
(1980; 2000). Having coined this new term,
Likhachev—then the most authoritative and popu-
lar Russian historian—linked the two central issues
of the time. The first concerned the continuity of
social consciousness and the role of historical roots
in the ongoing transformation of Russia (and of the
then-Soviet Union). The second issue was the inter-
action and spiritual interrelationship of nature and
society. Likhachev's concept assumes that the key
conditions for the preservation of a culture include
not only the protection of its historical treasures,
cultural traditions, and cultural education of the pub-
lic, but also the protection of nature, without which
a modern nation cannot exist. According to
Likhachev, if preserving the natural environment is
a condition for man's biological existence, then pre-
serving the cultural environment is the most impor-
tant condition for man's moral and spiritual life.
1 06
New Trends in Russian Heritage Research
During the perestroika years (1985-1991), new con-
cepts were advanced in Russian cultural politics and
scholarship related to the preservation and documen-
tation of cultural heritage. It is important to note the
following three basic transitions.
Individual to Diversified:
The transition from the once-established practice
of separate (isolated) research and protection of
cultural and natural monuments to preservation of
heritage in its integrity and diversity.
This new approach was based on evolution from the
protection of individual monuments to the preserva-
tion of an entire historical and cultural heritage that
subsumes the heritage objects themselves, the envi-
ronment in which they exist, and people (or better, the
local community) as carriers of heritage. This shift was
probably the most important trend in Russian scientific
and sociocultural practices of the 1 990s and would de-
fine many other changes for several years to come.
Specifically, this type of approach allowed work to be-
gin for preserving the face of the territory's common
cultural landscape and its historical environment, in-
stead of protecting a selected individual monument as
an object of cultural heritage.
New programs are being formulated—and many are
already being implemented—to identify the entire
scope of heritage, including not only historical and
cultural monuments, but also other, very important
elements. Such elements include, but are not lim-
ited to, folk culture, traditions, ethnic crafts and trades,
the historical urban environment, agricultural develop-
ment and the system of settlement, the ethnocultural
environment, the natural environment, and traditional
nature management (subsistence economy). These
phenomena are no longer viewed merely as necessary
background or conditions for any prominent monu-
ment or significant historical phenomenon. They are
seen as direct, significant parts of a common ethnic
STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
legacy—as special elements that define the originality
of the culture of a particular country or region.
The trend toward preservation of heritage in its in-
tegrity and diversity initially became visible in new
efforts to identify and document historical and cultural
monuments. Work to inventory monuments in various
parts of the country has intensified, and previously ex-
isting lists of cultural or historical monuments now in-
clude thousands of new entries. Their numbers include
not only prominent archaeological, architectural, and
historical sites, as well as monumental art, but also ob-
jects that never had been considered in any detail.
Public buildings in historical cities, objects of indus-
trial architecture, the entire complex of the historical
ensemble, and other objects and structures were among
those included under the newly expanded definition
of heritage objects.
After the new inventories of historical and cultural
heritage were performed in the early 1 990s, the num-
ber of monuments placed on the government register
and under protection in Russia increased exponentially.'
In many small historical Russian cities, the num-
ber of protected objects increased by virtually an
order of magnitude {Istohcheskii gorod 1 997). This es-
calation is reflected in the publication of a collection
(begun in 1 997) of historical and cultural monuments, a
kind of Russian "national register of monuments" (Svod
pamiatnikov 1 997; 1 998-2001 ).
Historical and Cultural Context:
The transition toward viewing heritage as a reflec-
tion of historical experience in the interaction be-
tween man and nature.
This new perspective on cultural/historical heritage as
a systemic phenomenon is extremely important. Un-
der the new approach, individual objects of heritage
cannot be preserved apart from each other or apart
from their environment. Consideration not simply of
an individual monument, but of the entire historical
and cultural complex in all its variety, offers the best
path to acknowledge the integrity of cultural and natural
heritage. This tenet refers both to the situational unity
of the monument and the environment in which it was
created (and which comprises its natural landscape
surroundings and the functional unity of monument
and environment). As a rule, every cultural monument
is tied by innumerable threads of its functional intent
to its surrounding environment, which forms a unique
ecological niche for the monument.
Unfortunately, this new, integrated approach has not
yet been implemented adequately through specific,
conceptually consistent programs for protecting cul-
tural and natural heritage. As in the past, rigid bureau-
cratic barriers remain between Russia's state cultural
institutions and environmental protection agencies. In
particular, virtually all functions of the national park
network established in Russia as a special form of pro-
tection for nature, culture, and ethnic traditions, are lim-
ited to environmental protection. To date, most expec-
tations that had been conferred on this integrated net-
work back in the 1980s (Maksakovskii 1998) remain
unfulfilled. However, quests for such integration are
underway.
Territorial Approach:
The importance of the territorial approach to re-
searching and preserving heritage, when the primary
objects of protection are territories.
Prior practice has made it clear that the protection of
isolated historical and cultural objects cannot be effec-
tive apart from the preservation of their surrounding
historical and natural spaces. Preservation of the broader
space, or environment, is necessary from the point of
view not only of how a monument—whether a natural
system, architectural complex, or ethnic community-
is perceived, but, most importantly, of its long-term
sustainability. Thus, the creation in Russia of histori-
cal/cultural and natural protected areas calls for the
simultaneous resolution of problems in both the pres-
ervation and rational management of historical, cul-
PAVEL M. SHUL'GIN 107
tural, and natural monuments. The status of such pro-
tected areas has not yet been clearly defined under
Russian legislation. However, their creation has gradu-
ally advanced from theoretical discussions to practical
implementation. Consequently, several large museum-
conservation areas and many national parks have
emerged, per se, as territories with single natural-cul-
tural spaces [see Wiget and Balalaeva, this volume].
A "historical-cultural territory" may be defined as
"an integral spatial object where several natural, his-
torical, and cultural objects of exceptional value and
significance may be found." Such a designation is con-
ferred based on the existence of a local complex of
monuments and territories objectively linked by eth-
nic, economic, historical, or geographical factors. The
existence and combination of a complex of memorial,
architectural, or archaeological objects determine the
territory's uniqueness. Other possible determinants of
uniqueness are ethnic traditions and economic activ-
ity, folklore and ceremonial ethnic culture, and natural
points of interest or historical forms of nature manage-
ment' that represent exceptional value from the point
of view of the history and culture of a separate people
or of Russia as a whole.
The best examples of such historical-cultural terri-
tories may be small, historical cities (home to numer-
ous monuments and architectural structures from the
sixteenth through eighteenth centuries), including the
surrounding, old villages and natural grounds; old man-
ors or Russian Orthodox monastery complexes, where
nature, architecture, and local community make up a
single whole; and great historical battlefields. Ethno-
graphic landscapes are related, in particular, to the habi-
tation of minority ethnic groups, and Russia's northern
indigenous peoples also fall into this category.
In all these trends, the unity of three factors that
are carriers of heritage—historical and cultural heri-
tage, the natural environment, and the inhabitants of
these territories— is apparent. It must be stressed that
protection and use of heritage are viewed today as
organic parts of the modern sociocultural and eco-
1 08
nomic development of every territory.
It is these new approaches in Russian scientific dis-
course and practices in heritage preservation that al-
lowed the introduction, in the 1 990s, of the pioneering
(for Russia) concept of cultural landscape. The closely
related concept of "ethnographic landscape" also
emerged, and the two terms frequently are discussed
together.
The Concept of Cultural Landscape in Rus-
sian Heritage Studies
The contemporary understanding of cultural landscape
is ambiguous in both international and Russian scien-
tific discourse. Three basic approaches to the interpre-
tation of this term must be distinguished.
The first approach is based on the concept that a
cultural landscape is a locale that has been inhabited
over a long historical period by a certain group of people
who are the carriers of specific cultural values. Minority
ethnic groups and/or local communities based on reli-
gious traditions (such as Russian Old Believers) are
cited often as examples of such groups.
A similar approach to defining a cultural landscape
and its study is characteristic of the school of cultural
geography established by Carl Sauerd 925/1 963; 1 927).
In this approach, a cultural landscape is an artificial
landscape created by the long-term settlement and other
interrelated activities of local communities and cul-
tural groups. In this sense, the term "cultural landscape"
is virtually equivalent to the term "ethnographic land-
scape." Moreover, despite the fact that the latter term is
practically absent from Sauer's work, much attention is
devoted to factors and results associated with the trans-
formation of the natural landscape by various ethnic
populations. At the same time, significant attention is
devoted to the structure of the settlement, features of
land utilization, and local architecture whose creation
was influenced by local and other factors (Salter 1971).
In Russian scientific discourse, the concept of the
cultural landscape as a modification of the natural land-
scape developed gradually during the course of the
STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
twentieth century. In the nature-centric approach, the
geographic landscape is the set of natural phenomena
that, ideally, has not been touched or changed by man
(Isachenko 1 965). Its antithesis is the anthropogenic
landscape, which has been changed/transformed by man
and, sometimes, even "spoiled" by human intervention.
In this latter approach, the cultural landscape is seen as
a "good" anthropogenic landscape that has been trans-
formed by human activity, according to a specific pro-
gram. Such a landscape commonly exhibits high es-
thetic and functional properties (Mil'kov 1 973, 1 978).
Still another perspective has become established
in Russian landscape research during the past decade
and is even more widely accepted. This perspective
considers the cultural landscape an integrated, territori-
ally localized set of material components and phe-
nomena formed as the result of interaction between
natural processes and diverse human activities. Within
this framework, the notion has developed that the re-
sults of human action, embodied in objects of material
and spiritual culture, are an intrinsic part of the cultural
landscape (Vedenin 1997).
The basis of this approach is the notion of the ac-
tive role played by intellectual and spiritual human
activity in the formation of a cultural landscape. In this
approach, the role of the intellectual and spiritual com-
ponent of the landscape is specifically acknowledged.
It is stressed that
spiritual and intellectual values, preserved
and passed down from one generation to
another in the form of information, not only
define the formation and development of a
cultural landscape, but are also an integrated
part of it and are subject to the influence of
other, material components of the landscape
(Vedenin 1997; Vedenin and Kuleshova 2001).
This perspective clearly argues that the manifestations
of a cultural landscape are not limited to its scenic
values; it also emphasizes the aspect of territorial dif-
ferentiation (spatial diversity) of cultural phenomena.
Thus, the results of changes occurring in traditional eco-
nomics and nature management also become compo-
nents of every cultural landscape. Such changes usu-
PAVEL M. SHUL'CIN
ally interfere with specific ethnocultural features of a
local population (such as language, religion, daily and
artistic culture, and other factors) as well as with the
many forms of "invisible" cultural legacy, such as his-
torical events of great significance and related cultural
memory. Through these interactions, the cultural land-
scape accumulates and manifests the intellectual and
spiritual potential of a nation or given regional group.
It is under this third interpretation that cultural land-
scape becomes the main theoretical concept for de-
velopment of a new framework for preservation and
management of Russia's cultural resources. It is hoped
that "cultural landscape" is also destined to become a
basic term in practical activities and in the emerging
national system of documentation and protection of
cultural monuments and historical and cultural territo-
ries. A similar approach has been adopted as the basis
of activity at the Russian Research Institute for Cultural
and Natural Heritage (RRICNH), a research center es-
tablished in 1 992 and named after Dmitrii S. Likhachev
(Russian: 'Institut kul'turnogo i prirodnogo naslediia').
The government decree that created RRICNH set
forth two main goals for the new state scientific agency:
—Implementing in Russia the primary provisions
of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and
Cultural Organization (UNESCO) convention regard-
ing the protection of cultural and natural heritage;
—Substantiating and developing regional programs
for preservation and management of cultural and
natural heritage (for diverse types of regions and
local communities).
In its work, RRICNH attempts to address issues re-
lated to both methods and management of a unified
policy for preserving cultural and natural heritage.
Its work has served as the basis for the creation of new
museums, museum-conservation areas, and national
parks. RRICNH has initiated the development of inte-
grated programs for heritage preservation of historical
cities, rural settlements, and territories. The institute par-
ticipates in numerous research programs on living tra-
ditional culture and organizes heritage surveys and re-
1 09
search expeditions (Shul'gin and Shtele 1998; Vedenin
2000; Shul'gin 2002; Vedenin 2003).
RRICNH research is based on the cultural-landscape
zoning of various regions of Russia. It promotes the
establishment of a network of historical and cultural
territories as primary objects for development and imple-
mentation of heritage preservation projects. One of
these territories is the so-called "ethno-ecological area."
This term usually refers to the area populated by a
minority ethnic group, an indigenous community, or a
specific group (subdivision) of a larger ethnic popu-
lation (Vedenin and Shul'gin 1992; Shul'gin 2000).
The term "ethno-ecological area" was introduced in
the Russian scientific discourse in the late 1 980s (Ler
and Lebedev 1989; Bogoslovskaia 1990), thanks to a
few pioneer interdisciplinary studies conducted by Rus-
sian biologists and ethnographers. The purpose of the
studies was to protect the traditional cultures of minor-
ity groups and their unique natural environments. Dur-
ing 1 989-1 990, proposals were set forth for establish-
ing protected areas in Primorskii Krai and the Chukchi
Autonomous Area (Chukotka), so that indigenous na-
ture-management practices, traditional subsistence
economies, and customary ways of life would be main-
tained. Anthropologist Igor Krupnik advanced a closely
related term, "ethno-ecosystem," using the example of
indigenous sea-mammal hunters and reindeer herders
of the Russian Arctic and Subarctic (Krupnik 1 989, 1 993).
According to Krupnik's definition (1989:24), an ethno-
ecosystem includes stable ethnic communities (popu-
lations) that are linked by their common use of lands,
their common labor, and the habitation of a specific
territory.
Another influential, integrated approach to the
identification of cultural and ethnographic landscapes
was advanced by a team of physical and economic
geographers from Moscow University (MGU)
(Kaganskii and Rodoman 1 995; Kalutskov et al. 1 998;
Turovskii 1998). MGU has held an annual seminar
"Cultural Landscape" since 1993. Recently, a spin-
off of the seminar, a special lecture course called
"Fundamentals of Ethnocultural Landscape Studies,"
was offered at the Department of Physical Geogra-
phy and Landscape Studies of the MGU School of
Geography (Kalutskov 2000). For several years, field
surveys of the ethnographic landscape of the local
Russian population have been conducted under this
program in the Pinega District of Arkhangelsk Prov-
ince in the Russian North (Kul'turnyi landshaft 1 998).
In the MGU approach, ethno-ecological territories
largely are lands inhabited/used by indigenous peoples
of the North. Ethno-ecological territories may also in-
clude relatively isolated habitations of other, small eth-
nic communities. In these territories, a traditional cul-
ture and a particular system of settlement and manner
of colonization have developed. There are traditional
economic holdings and holy places. In such cases, a
relatively small territory often contains the entire his-
tory of an ethnic community or minority nation and, at
the same time, is itself the economic and cultural basis
for its modern residency. In such territories, many natu-
ral objects have a historical or mythological character
and an animated significance for the local people. Ex-
amples include rivers, lakes, hills, and even individual
trees [see Wiget and Balalaeva, this volume].
The preservation of a given historical space, its iden-
tification, and its protection from abrupt external distur-
bances function as a pledged security for preserving
the culture and traditional forms of economic, spiritual,
and religious distinctions of the local population. This
particular kind of territory can receive special status
and legislative protection as a guarantee of preserving,
as a whole, not only the historical and natural heritage
of the given area, but also the ethnic group that inhab-
its it. For such territories, the related concept of ethno-
graphic landscape is directly applicable.
Ethnographic Landscape Preservation in
Russian Legislation
Although Russian heritage studies set forth several
new concepts and approaches during the 1990s, the
current situation in Russia with regard to protected
110 STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
status for historical and cultural territories, and ethno-
graphic landscapes in particular, is still cause for con-
cern. One important obstacle that prevents implemen-
tation of a landscape approach to preservation of
historical-cultural heritage (and ethnographic landscapes
as its constituent part) is the inadequacy of an appro-
priate legislative basis. Russian legislative practice
does not keep pace with social and economic
change. Because of the great inadequacy of legisla-
tion to effectively address issues of economic regu-
lation, land ownership, and taxation, new legisla-
tion aimed at protecting cultural heritage often is
relegated to second place. Some laws introduced for
deliberation and legislative approval by the Russian
Duma [Federal Parliament] undergo a long period of
consideration—sometimes up to six to eight years.
For example, a law concerning historical and cultural
monuments and culture has been debated in the Rus-
sian Duma for more than six years. Several variations
of this law have been considered, but none has ad-
vanced to the final stage of deliberation, much less to
a vote. Passage of this law was put off until 2001,
although the first half of year 2000 was used to con-
sider other legislation. Almost the same situation oc-
curred with a law on traditional nature management.
The proposed law was discussed for seven years and
enacted only in May 2001.
It should be recalled, however, that Russia under-
took perhaps the first legislative attempt directly re-
lated to preserving ethnographic landscapes of in-
digenous peoples as early as the nineteenth century.
The action was related to passage in 1 822 of the Rus-
sian Imperial Law entitled "Regulations for the Admin-
istration of Aliens" [that is, of the various non-Russian
and non-Slavic ethnic communities]. Former governor-
general of Siberia and prominent reformer Mikhail M.
Speranskii played a leading role in preparing this legis-
lation (Polnoe sobranie 1 830). The "Regulations" se-
cured for the indigenous population—especially the
Native peoples of Siberia and the Russian North—the
traditional territories of their settlements, their forms of
PAVEL M. SHUL'CIN
economic activity and of the local self-government.
Thus, the issues of sustainable habitation for indigenous
peoples and preservation of their environments were
addressed under one law nearly 200 years ago.
The pioneering nature of these "Regulations" of
1822 in establishing a new approach and set of rela-
tionships between the government and Russia's indig-
enous peoples has been acknowledged (Murashko
2000). Unfortunately, this law, a nearly ideal legislation
for its time, failed—like many other "good laws" in Rus-
sia. In addition to being abused by local authorities,
the law was eroded by many subsequent legislative
initiatives. It should be noted that the legal system that
developed in Soviet Russia a century later, in the 1 920s,
implicitly expressed many provisions that were surpris-
ingly similar to those of the "Regulations" of 1 822.
However, by the mid-1 930s, a new government
policy for industrial development in Siberia and the
Russian Arctic was being developed in the USSR. The
new policy embodied the principles of a totalitarian
administrative approach, which prioritized economic
interests over cultural and human values. For indig-
enous peoples of the North, the mid-1 930s and subse-
quent periods were times of compulsory cultural and
social assimilation. Relocations of indigenous popula-
tions from their original places of inhabitation were
common in the Russian North (as elsewhere), begin-
ning in the 1940s. The closure of hundreds of small
Native settlements and forced relocation of their resi-
dents to larger communities was practiced on a mass
scale. Relocations were related to development of min-
eral resources, use of forced labor (the infamous GULAG
prison system), military construction, and testing of
nuclear and other weapons. Such policies led to distur-
bance of traditional management practices in many ar-
eas and degeneration of the cultural landscape, some-
times even to the extent of depopulation.
During those times, efforts to preserve Native eth-
nic territories could be accomplished through pro-
tection of natural sites, usually in the form of nature
conservation areas and reserves. Thus, despite the
1 1 1
clearly insufficient attention devoted in the USSR to
protecting the cultures and traditions of its many in-
digenous nations, a network of protected natural terri-
tories (called nature reserves, Russian: zapovedniki) de-
veloped steadily between 1 930 and 1 960. This net-
work included several reserves established across
Russia's northern regions. The development of this net-
work established a practice under which attempts at
preserving cultural landscapes of indigenous peoples
could be channeled exclusively under national legis-
lation for protection of natural areas. This situation re-
mains unchanged to the present day.
The new federal law "On the Status of Protected
Natural Areas" (Federal'nyi zakon 1995), adopted in
1995, is marked by a substantially enhanced level of
detail compared to other Soviet legislation. The law
also allows certain articles and provisions to be used
for preservation of traditional management practices
and cultural landscapes of indigenous peoples. How-
ever, this law focuses on nature conservation, by defi-
nition. Thus, protection of indigenous cultural land-
scapes can be accomplished somewhat under the aus-
pices of Russia's network of national parks and nature
parks. Among the many tasks it assigns to these parks,
the legislation includes "the preservation of the natural
environment and natural objects, and the restoration of
disturbed natural and historical and cultural complexes
and objects."
Russia's national parks are more strictly protected
than nature parks. The former (national parks) are under
the federal management system and are financed
through the federal budget. This classification includes
territories that have national importance because of
their unique natural objects, but also have high histori-
cal and esthetic value. The latter (nature parks) are
administered by local governments of territories that
are constituent members of the Russian Federation and
financially supported under the local area budgets. This
administrative structure allows, to a certain extent, the
inclusion of specific local features in management and
economic activity. Like national parks, Russia's nature
1 1 2
parks are aimed at preservation of natural landscapes
that have high ecological and esthetic value. How-
ever, these areas are also intended to be used for rec-
reational, sociocultural, and other purposes. Thus, rec-
reation, tourism, and cultural and educational activi-
ties are, to a greater extent, permitted and even en-
couraged in nature parks.
The provisions of the federal law for both national
and nature parks, nevertheless, generally do not ad-
dress traditional management practices of indigenous
peoples. Correspondingly, they are not, in any defined
way, legally aimed at protection of areas inhabited by
minority indigenous nations and ethnic groups. Such
issues had not been addressed in Russian legislation
for a long time. It was not until the new law, "On the
Fundamentals of Government Regulation of Socioeco-
nomic Development in the North of the Russian Fed-
eration," was adopted in June 1 996 that the actual term
"traditional management practices" (of indigenous
people) was established in Russian legislation
(Clubokovskii 2000).
Thus, the protection of cultural (and ethnographic)
landscapes in Russia urgently requires the adoption of
new legislation under which preservation of ethnic lands
and cultural diversity is combined with support for and
revival of ethnic cultures and indigenous economies.
A draft proposal for a new law for protection of histori-
cal and cultural territories in Russia was introduced in
1 990, first within the framework of the Russian Cultural
Fund and, later, by the RRICNH (Proekt statusa 1990).
This federal law, "On the Objects of Cultural Heritage
(Monuments of History and Culture) of the Peoples of
the Russian Federation," was finally adopted in 2002.
It could be viewed as the most serious attempt thus
far to address the problem. However, this and other
similar attempts remain unrealized—to date, no follow-
up regultaions and policy acts have been developed
in Russia for protection of historical and cultural monu-
ments. Instead, an old 1 976 law from the Soviet era is
more or less still in place and it in no way addresses
the new political and social realities of the country.
STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
In light of this evident legal vacuum at the federal
level, individual republics and provinces of the Russian
Federation have developed some important docu-
ments. In this context, several legislative acts (or pro-
posals) that concern historical and cultural territories,
including the homelands of minority indigenous and/
or local populations of the Russian North, can be cited.
Examples include the Republic of Karelia law, "On
Unique Historical and Natural Landscape Territories" of
1992 (Zakon Respubliki Kareliia 1994); a regulation by
the legislative assembly of Nizhegorod Province on
the historically and culturally designated lands associ-
ated with Old Believers (1 995); and a number of similar,
regional acts. These acts assume the protection of spe-
cific historical territories, but simultaneously advocate
measures for preservation of significant ethnographic
(cultural) landscape characteristics of the locale.
Another example is a regulation enacted by the
Head of the Administration of Vladimir Province in
Central Russia (as of April 1999) on the establishment
of a particular type of protected territories, called "his-
torical-landscape complexes." The first such historical-
landscape complex was established around the famous
Church of the Intercession at Nerl. The landscape, in-
cluding the church, built in the twelfth century, was
named "Bogolyubovo Meadow." To a certain extent,
these local legislative decisions are prototypes of fu-
ture federal actions that are necessary to preserve eth-
nographic landscapes.
Probably the most far-reaching effort in such local
legislation has been undertaken in the recent draft law
"On Traditional (Native) Subsistence Management Ar-
eas" in Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area {Okrug) \n West-
ern Siberia (Bogoslovskaia 2000). This draft law attempts
to combine the present-day system of administrative
division of the Russian Federation (with three levels:
province, area, and district) and the principles of territo-
rial self-government and land and resource manage-
ment by the indigenous communities.
The adoption of these and other local legislative
documents, as well as the growing general awareness
PAVEL M. SHUL'CIN
of the need to preserve ethnographic landscapes in
Russia as a special category of heritage, were remark-
able events of the 1990s. These events have helped
create conditions that eventually will advance the de-
velopment of similar legislation at the federal level.
The Current System of Cultural and Natu-
ral Landscape Protection: Structure and
Resources
It is clear that no legislative regulations concerning
preservation of ethnographic landscapes are in place,
and, essentially, that no Russian government agency
considers these issues directly within its jurisdiction.
Under existing legal practice, the best form of protec-
tion that ethnographic landscapes may receive in
today's Russia exists under nature preservation legisla-
tion. The current Russian federal law of 1995, "On the
Status of Specially Protected Natural Areas," identifies
seven types of protected territories:
—Natural monuments
—Nature conservation areas
—Federal nature reserves
—National parks
—Nature parks
—Dendrological parks and botanical gardens
—Medical health-improvement sites and resorts
In terms of overall size, three of these types of pro-
tected territories are most significant: federal nature re-
serves, national parks, and nature parks. These desig-
nated types differ in legal status and functions.
The national system of government-owned conser-
vation areas, called "federal nature reserves" {zapov-
edniki) is rightfully considered the pride of Russia's
preservation policy. The first such reserves were estab-
lished as examples of "undisturbed natural territories"
in 1 91 6. As of the beginning of 2000, they comprise an
overall area of more than thirty-three million hectares
(81.5 million acres), with a network of ninety-nine
federal nature reserves under government control.
These conservation areas are strictly protected, and
1 1 3
access is rigidly restricted. Of Russian nature reserves,
twenty-two have international status as biosphere re-
serves and are certified accordingly. There are more
than thirty federal nature reserves in the various north-
ern areas of Russia, in both European and Siberian sec-
tors (Gosudarstvennyi doklad 2000). The establishment
of nature reserves has led to successful preservation of
large territories of "undisturbed" (rather, lightly disturbed)
natural environment. In practice, however, their func-
tions and practical activities have little connection with
the preservation of ethnographic landscapes.
Two types of protected areas in Russia have the
greatest connection to the preservation of ethnographic
landscapes: national parks and nature parks.
National Parks
National parks are federally protected areas that in-
clude natural complexes and objects of particular eco-
logical, historical, or esthetic value and are intended
for environmental preservation, educational, scientific,
or cultural purposes and for regulated tourism. Unlike
nature reserves, Russia's national park system is a rela-
tively recent phenomenon. The first national parks were
established in 1983; by 2000, there were thirty-five. A
large number of these were created in the 1 990s under
newly promulgated post-Soviet social policy. National
parks were intended to occupy a different niche from
that occupied by government-owned nature reserves
and to combine the tasks of nature preservation and
cultural heritage protection.
Today, the total combined area of national parks in
Russia is nearly seven million hectares, approximately
0.4 percent of the Russian Federation total. Some 4,000
people are employed in the park system. Four national
parks have been created in the northern regions of the
Russian Federation, all in the European section (Gosud-
arstvennyi doklad 2000). Until 2000, nearly all national
parks were under the control of the Federal Forestry
Service of Russia. (Only one national park is under
the jurisdiction of the Moscow City government). In
2000, the Federal Forestry Service ceased to exist as a
separate governmental agency, and it now functions
as a subdivision of the Ministry of Natural Resources of
the Russian Federation. Thus, virtually all protected
natural territories of federal significance appear to be
concentrated under the control of the Ministry of Natu-
ral Resources.
Many Russian national parks, particularly those
created during the 1 990s, have a clearly recognized
ethnographic component and therefore may be viewed
as historical or present-day ethnographic landscapes. A
good example is Alankhay Park in Aginsk-Buryat
Autonomous Area (near Lake Baikal). Established in
1 999, this is one of the most recent national parks. The
park's greatest point of interest is Alankhay Mountain
and its ridges. The park territory is distinguished by
richly diverse animal and plant species, hot springs,
and various mineral objects related to the geological
history of the region. In addition, for hundreds of years,
the area has been a place of worship for the indig-
enous population, the Buryat. The Alankhay Buddhist
religious complex, the sixth most important holy place
for Buddhists around the world, is located there.
Russia's national parks have not yet become ven-
ues for implementing an active policy for preserving
ethnographic landscapes. During their former subordi-
nation to the Federal Forestry Sen/ice, basic problems
related to their cultural policies remained virtually un-
resolved. Many proposals aimed at preservation of cul-
tural and ethnographic heritage under park system ju-
risdiction never materialized.
Nature Parks
Nature parks have almost the same status as national
parks, but have greater possibilities for recreational and
economic activities, as well as educational and cultural
programs. Commonly, a local department or commit-
tee on natural resource management that is part of the
provincial or local republic government manages na-
ture parks. By 2000, only thirty such parks had been
established (more than half of them in Russia's north-
ern regions), with a combined total area of more than
114 STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
29/ Ostyak (Khcinty) mother and daughter, at their
family camp, Salym River, Sivokhrebski Yourts, 1911.
twelve million hectares (29.7 million acres). The total
number of nature parks seems unduly small, especially
because creation of a nature park does not require a
federal decision and may be accomplished at a local
level (Gosudarstvennyi doklad 2000).
Russia's network of nature parks is still in its initial,
formative stage. These parks include some very small,
protected areas in cities (for example, some nature parks
are located within the City of Moscow), as well as huge
territories with areas greater than one million hectares
(2.47 million acres) (located mainly in Siberia and the
Russian North). Some nature parks have very little con-
nection with ethnographic landscapes; others are di-
rectly connected with preservation of areas that have
specific cultural and ethnographic value to local popu-
lations. The latter include Numto Lake and Konda Lakes
nature parks in Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area. These
parks are located in the core homeland areas of the
Khanty and Nenets indigenous people. Another ex-
PAVEL M. SHUL'CIN
30/ Visiting the Kayukov Family Camp, Salym River,
Punsi Yourts, 1999.
ample, Beringia Nature Park in Chukchi Autonomous
Area in the Bering Strait region, even includes the des-
ignation "nature-ethnic" in its name, to underscore both
its natural and cultural preservation functions.
It is obvious that locally managed nature parks may
eventually become one of the primary organizational
forms for preserving ethnographic landscapes, particu-
larly across Russia's vast northern areas. However, the
current subordination of nature parks to local environ-
mental protection agencies remains one of the obstacles
to fulfilling these tasks [see Fedorova, this volume].
The shortage of funding and trained personnel is a per-
manent problem, and in many regions, the preservation
of cultural heritage cannot be addressed directly under
the dominant environment protection agenda.
Museum-Conservation Areas
Another type of protected territory that may be instru-
mental in preserving Russia's ethnographic landscapes
1 1 5
is the museum-conservation area (Russian: Muzei-
zapovednik). iVluseum-conservation areas are officially
listed as "cultural institutions" and are administered by
the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation. A
museum-conservation area differs from a typical mu-
seum by virtue of the close connection of the given
territory with its historical and memorial legacy or its
specific geographic location. Examples of museum-con-
servation areas are historical battlefields, memorial coun-
try estates associated with prominent public figures and
cultural celebrities, and the most outstanding architec-
tural complexes or historical cities and settlements.
By 2000 in Russia, there were eighty-eight such
museum-conservation areas, managed directly by the
Federal Ministry of Culture or by regional cultural agen-
cies and departments of provincial and republic gov-
ernments in the Russian Federation [see the list of ma-
jor Russian museum-conservation areas in Vergunov
et al. 2000:170-4]. Many museum-conservation areas
are rather small. They are often limited to the territory
occupied by a historical or architectural monument, a
country estate, or a park complex. However, some com-
prise significant tracts of land. For example, Solovetskii
Museum-Conservation Area, on Solovetskii Archipelago
in the White Sea, occupies 1 06,000 hectares (261 ,820
acres). The existence of a large territory under histori-
cal preservation is evidence of both the environmen-
tal-protection significance of museum-conservation ar-
eas and their ability to protect traditional ethnographic
landscapes within their boundaries.
At present, approximately thirty (of eighty-eight) mu-
seum-conservation areas may be considered focused
somewhat on preservation of cultural or historical land-
scapes. For some, preserving the cultural landscape is
their essential function and the main purpose of their
creation. Examples include the site near Moscow where
the historic Battle of Borodino was fought in 1 81 2, dur-
ing the Napoleonic invasion;^ Mikhailovskoe Museum-
Conservation Area, associated with the family estate
(and adjacent) of Alexander Pushkin, Russia's most fa-
mous poet; and Yasnaya Polyana Museum-Conserva-
tion Area, Leo Tolstoy's family estate. Under a recent
proposal advocating the establishment of the Kulikovo
Pole Museum-Conservation Area (the site of a historic
battle in 1380), the primary objective of activities is
the preservation of the historical landscape. (Muzei-
zapovednik "Kulikovo pole" 1 999).
Most museum-conservation areas are in the cen-
ter of European Russia, and their activities are re-
lated primarily to preserving the legacies of certain
historical events and/or prominent personalities.
Only a small number of such areas, like the
Solovetskii and Kizhi Museum-Conservation Areas,
are concerned with preservation of ethnographic
landscapes. Both Solovetskii and Kizhi are in north-
ern European Russia (Arkhangelsk Province and the
Republic of Karelia, respectively) and thus are pos-
sible examples of Russian policies for protecting
northern ethnographic landscapes. Neither area, how-
ever, has any indigenous/minority population or any
objects related to indigenous cultural heritage.
This brief review of major types of protected
areas illustrates that preservation of ethnographic
landscapes in Russia cannot be resolved under cur-
rent protective legislation or existing organizational
structures. The lack of policy coordination between
environmental protection agencies and cultural agen-
cies, both at federal and local levels, further aggra-
vates the situation. A fundamental breakthrough
could be achieved by the adoption of new federal
legislation that would be focused on specific issues
of cultural and ethnographic landscape preserva-
tion and management. Until such legislation is de-
veloped and adopted, the best venue for sufficiently
effective work to preserve individual ethnographic
landscapes would be under the status of nature
parks. However, such landscapes must be managed
(or co-managed) under a joint policy and in close
cooperation between and among environmental pro-
tection and cultural heritage agencies, and not ex-
clusively under nature conservation management
(the most common practice today).
116 STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
31/ Traditional Khanty storage structures at Aidar
Yourts, Salym River, 191 1
.
Ethnographic Landscapes Protection
Programs in the Russian North
Within tile specific focus of iiis review, regional
projects for protection of cultural (ethnographic)
landscapes in regions of the Russian North are of
particular interest. The first pioneering efforts to cre-
ate such protected territories for northern ethno-
graphic landscapes were launched in the late 1 980s
and early 1 990s. In 1 989, a proposal was introduced
in Primorskii Krai in the Russian Far East to establish
a system of protected natural areas under a new
program of general ecological management/con-
servation. The proposal may be considered a cru-
cial step for many subsequent efforts to follow.
The proposal was developed by a group of natu-
ral scientists from the Biology and Soil Institute of the
Far East Branch of the then-USSR Academy of Sciences
in Vladivostok (Ler and Lebedev 1 989). Native eth-
nographer Yevdokiia A. Gaer assisted environmental
specialist L Ivashchenko, the primary author of the pro-
posal and the leader of a team of ecologists.' In addi-
32/ Khanty storage structures (ambars) atPunsi Yourts,
Salym River, 1999.
tion to advancing pure environmental recommenda-
tions urging preservation of natural monuments and
valuable natural landscapes of the study area, the pro-
posal expressed great concern about the status of the
indigenous population.
For the first time in Russian practice, a goal was set
to create a system of protected ethnic territories, with a
special management policy for areas of traditional sub-
sistence activities of indigenous people (Ler and
Lebedev 1989:33-5). The proposal also advocated
strong support for indigenous people of Primorskii Krai,
preservation of the environment in their traditional ar-
eas of residence, and (among other social and eco-
nomic measures) restoration of hunting and fishing re-
sources in their traditional subsistence areas. For the
latter goal, four zones of primary indigenous subsis-
tence use were identified in the region. The zones
consisted of taiga (mountain boreal forest) landscapes
and several sections of the marine coastal zone. The
overall protected area was intended to be about 50,000
square kilometers (20,000 square miles), or nearly thirty
percent of Primorskii Krai.
PAVEL M. SHUL'GIN
Unfortunately, those recommendations were not
implemented, and no territories for priority subsistence
use by local Native people were established—either in
terms of the originally designated status (as Native
ethnic territories) or of the size of the area to be set
aside for protection. Some ideas from this 1989 pro-
posal were considered separately under a later envi-
ronmental conservation plan adopted by the regional
government in the 1 990s.
In approximately the same year (1 989 or 1 990), an-
other Russian biologist, Lyudmila S. Bogoslovskaya
(Bogoslovskaia) from the Moscow-based Severtsev In-
stitute of Ecology, advanced a similar proposal. It ar-
gued for the establishment of a specially designated,
ethnic-ecological territory for the Native people of
Chukotka, in the Bering Strait area. This huge, protected
natural area, to be named Beringia Park (Behngiia), would
be created on the Chukchi Peninsula. According to the
initial outline, this territory would be designated under
international biosphere reserve or national park status
and would span both sides of the Bering Strait, one in
Chukotka, Russia and the other in Alaska, on the U.S.
side (Bogoslovskaia 1 990; International Park 1 989).
The key purpose in creating a park on both sides
of the Bering Strait was to preserve a contiguous
ethnic territory (including the land and the coastal
marine area) and a traditional resource management
system based on sea-mammal hunting and fishing.
The proposal strongly advocated revival of the tradi-
tional settlement system and repopulation of several
abandoned camps and villages of the Chukchi and Yupik
(Asiatic Eskimo) indigenous people. The proposal also
addressed the issue of restoring family and clan con-
tacts among indigenous residents of the two countries.
Such contacts had existed for centuries, until they were
interrupted in the 1 940s [they remained disconnected
between 1 948 and 1 988], because of the Cold War iso-
lationist policy of the Soviet government.
Bogoslovskaya's proposal, which was worked out
by a team of experts in the early 1 990s, was one of
the soundest attempts formulated for preserving north-
1 1 8
ern ethnographic landscapes of indigenous people.
Unfortunately, the proposal could not be implemented
in those years, because of the lack of appropriate leg-
islation.
Only after the 1 995 adoption of the new federal
law, "On the Status of Protected Natural Areas," was
Beringia Nature-Ethnic Park established in the Chukchi
Autonomous Area. This new park, however, is under
local, not federal, jurisdiction—unlike the adjacent area
across the Bering Strait in the U.S., which is designated
as a federal preserve named Bering Land Bridge Na-
tional Preserve. Since the new, Russian Beringia Na-
ture-Ethnic Park is under the management of local en-
vironmental protection agencies of the Chukchi Au-
tonomous Area, few if any ideas from the original 1 989
proposal have been implemented there. However, many
ideas advanced during the development of the park
were used later in similar proposals in other regions of
the country and in the formulation of new legislative
initiatives.
In the mid-1 990s, several new proposals for pro-
tection of Native ethnic (ethnographic) territories
were developed in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous
Area [see Wiget and Balalaeva, this volume]. The
development of new proposals was a by-product of
the intensive oil and gas explorations in the area
that posed a real threat to the region's natural envi-
ronment and to the traditional habitation of the
Khanty and Mansi indigenous people.^ The oil- and
gas-rich Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area owns the
bulk of Russia's energy resources; it is one of five
regions of the country with the largest local bud-
gets. Because of this new source of local funding,
the area government is capable of undertaking a
large number of its own environmental and cultural
protection initiatives.
During the 1 990s, the Khanty-Mansi local govern-
ment supported (albeit rather reluctantly) two new trends
in environmental protection policy:
—Gradual expansion of the network of protected
natural areas;
STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
33/Khanty reindeer herders often keep their reindeer in
time, such as this one atSalym River, 1999.
—Creation of a system of Native "clan- and com-
munity-owned lands" that belong to indigenous
inhabitants (Merkushina and Novikov 1 998).^
The total area occupied by such clan and community
lands of indigenous people is estimated to be nearly
thirty percent of Khanty-Mansi's overall territory. These
lands, as a rule, are territories of priority subsistence
use and traditional resource management.
The legal status of such Native-used lands is uncer-
tain, if not precarious. At this writing, no law regarding
the ownership of Native lands has been adopted by
the local legislative body, the Regional Duma. Two
draft versions of such a law are under consideration,
and both have been in legislative discussion for a
long time. In one version, Native lands are considered
under land-law acts only. In the second version (intro-
duced by a team chaired by Lyudmila Bogoslovskaya,
now with the Russian Institute of Cultural and Natural
Heritage), clan and community lands are considered
portions of integral ecosystems, together with tradi-
tionally used natural resources. These lands are also
regarded as the basis for the social, cultural, and eco-
nomic well-being of indigenous people who carry on
traditional subsistence economy and ways of life
PAVEL M. SHUL'GIN
smol<y log cabins to protect it from mosquitoes in summer
(Obsuzhdenie kontseptsii 1 999). In this view, clan and
community lands in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous
Area may be considered (to a certain extent) legally
established and legislatively approved Native ethno-
graphic landscapes.
In addition, three nature parks were established in
1 998 in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area. Of those,
Numto Lake Park and Konda Lakes Park are located in
traditional subsistence areas of the Khanty and Nenets
indigenous people. Those two nature parks may be
considered closely associated with ethnographic terri-
tories of local Native groups (communities). However,
the actual preservation regime in both parks is based
almost exclusively on protection of the natural envi-
ronment; it bears little relevance to the issues of cul-
ture and social policy regarding indigenous residents.
A more recent initiative is dedicated to the cre-
ation of a new type of protected natural and cultural
territory in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area. The
area under discussion is in the Bolshoy Salym River
basin. Under this new initiative, an attempt was made
to combine environmental protection policies with ef-
forts to preserve the traditional management practices
and cultural heritage of indigenous people (Figs. 33-
1 1 9
35). The name of the new protected area, Punsi, is taken
from the name of a nearby lake and Native settlement;
in the local Khanty dialect, the word means "duck
down." The size of the area to be designated for pro-
tection is about 6,500 square kilometers (2,600 square
miles).
Proposals to establish a protected natural area in
the Bolshoy Salym River basin were advanced more
than ten years ago (in the late 1980s) by wetlands bi-
ologists. The area considered is a combination of rela-
tively undisturbed natural landscapes between the Salym
and Yugan River valleys that are typical for a mid-taiga
(boreal forest) zone. Across Western Siberia, most of
these landscapes have been damaged irreparably dur-
ing the last few decades by the virtually unchecked
advance of Russia's oil-and-gas industries. The propos-
als of the 1 980s argued for the creation of a protected
natural territory (as a natural consen/ation area) to pre-
serve undisturbed boreal wetland ecosystems that had
unique value. In the original blueprint, the boundaries
of the protected areas were to be drawn along the lines
of specific river basins. This practice would apportion
not only the large section of wetlands, but also the
rivers and streams that feed them, as a key condition to
the integrated protection of the characteristic boreal
forest bog ecotone.
The initial proposal, however, by no means consid-
ered this region significant in terms of its unique eth-
nographic value. Largely unbeknownst to wetland bi-
ologists, the traditional boreal forest subsistence
economy of the indigenous Khanty people has been
fully preserved in this area. About ten traditional family
camps and settlements are still used actively (Figs. 31
,
32). The local Khanty families have preserved virtually
all knowledge and skills related to their traditional way
of life, subsistence technologies, and crafts (Salymskii
krai 2000). The area also constitutes a unique habitat
of Western Siberia's southernmost population of do-
mestic reindeer. Because of these factors, the Salym
(and Yugan) River basin offers fertile ground for any
attempts to revive the traditional form of indigenous
1 20
economic activity, taiga reindeer herding (Fig. 33).''
The area also supports sustainable populations
of many fur-bearing and game animals, including
moose, river otter, and sable, which are critical for the
survival of traditional ways of life. Here, a traditional
Khanty system of landscape use remains intact
through the variety of settlement patterns, and living
and utility structures—including family and storage cab-
ins, hunting lodges, fishing cabins and ponds, enclo-
sures for domestic reindeer, traps set for wood grouse
(Fig. 34), fishponds, and so on. Each family plot is filled
with a system of paths that pass along solid ridge beds
and over boggy areas; wood planks support many paths
(Fig. 35).«
The territory under discussion also has great archaeo-
logical value. More than 200 historical sites have been
identified there, including old settlements, abandoned
ancient sites. Native graveyards, and sacred sites of
various ages. This concentration of historical sites and
monuments is very high for any given area within the
boreal forest zone; thus, the Salym River basin may
legitimately be called one of the core areas for the
history of the Khanty nation. A large number of the
documented archaeological monuments in the area are
associated with ancestors of the modern-day Khanty
(from the Bronze and Early Iron Ages). Those ancient
settlements and sacred sites are often the basis of Khanty
myths and legends, many of which can be linked with
actual historical events.
The area thus preserves a highly unique concentra-
tion of historical and cultural monuments, a distinctive
Native local group that has been using the region for
several generations, and a highly developed system of
nature management built of clan, family, and commu-
nity lands. This northern ethnographic landscape is
exceptional in its naturalness and state of preserva-
tion. The combination of unique natural environ-
ment and unprecedented sociocultural richness is
the primary reason this region should be assigned
the status of a protected natural and cultural area.
Under existing Russian legislation, and considering
STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
34/ The author explores a Khanty wood grouse trap near Punsi Yourts, Salym River, 1 999.
local economic realities, the best way to accom-
plish this designation may be as a nature park, to be
established, financed, and administered by the area
government.
Therefore, unlike earlier initiatives, the new pro-
posals for the creation of Punsi Nature Park advocate
establishing a specific nature-ethnographic complex
(ethnographic landscape) as the primary objective (see
Bolota i liudi 2000; Shul'gin 2003:38). This objective
must be achieved by protecting the unique natural re-
sources of the area and preserving the rich cultural
heritage of the local indigenous people. Several other
types of activities should be encouraged as well—for
example, scientific research, museum work, and regu-
lated tourism.
The new nature park may also offer a highly valu-
able contribution to raising the general educational
potential of the region. Several special classes and pro-
grams that supplement traditional school and college
courses can be developed and conducted in the park.
The first of these, of course, should be ecological edu-
cation, boreal forest ecosystem studies, and study of
the local Khanty lore. A summer educational camp for
local students could be organized on the park's terri-
tory, with courses in ecology and ethnography, as well
as field archaeology, as the basic curriculum. Through
cooperation with local schools and visiting scientists,
the nature park will be able to train its own staff of
rangers and workers, with a new sense of dedication
toward the ecological and cultural tasks needed to re-
vive their native land.
Organized tourism may also turn out to be an im-
portant supplement to activities of the future park. Rather
than promoting mass flow of tourists to the area, the
new proposals suggest a specialized program of tours
for a small number of researchers and people who are
interested in studying the unique natural environment
or cultures and languages of the indigenous residents,
the Khanty. A nature park, with its professional staff,
will be able to accommodate these specific require-
PAVEL M. SHUL'GIN 121
merits and (considering the low numbers of potential
visitors) service the participants by using either local
Khanty buildings or modern models of traditional dwell-
ings. Such a specialized style of tourism could become
an important source of income for the nature park.
Utilizing the richness of potential educational and
tourism experiences, of course, would be one of the
primary goals of the future park's activities, which sug-
gests the need to preserve the ethnic distinctiveness
of its indigenous residents, the Salym River Khanty.
This task should be achieved through support for, and
even reintroduction of, local forms of nature manage-
ment such as boreal forest reindeer herding, fishing,
moose and bird hunting, and collection of local plants,
mushrooms, and berries. In this way, the set of tradi-
tional nature management practices and crafts techniques
will be introduced as the components of the unique
cultural heritage of the area. As a related benefit, a new
nature park under such a pioneer design can offer em-
ployment opportunities for several local residents; it
can also develop economically viable formats for pre-
serving and marketing local products such as mush-
rooms, berries, and fish.
These and many other ideas about the status and
structure of the future park were first addressed in a
more general manner at an international seminar on
"Wetlands and Archaeology" (1 988). A more detailed
proposal for a Punsi Natural and Ethnographic Area was
prepared nearly ten years later by a team of experts
from the RRICNH, in cooperation with other research-
ers from Nefteyugansk, Moscow, Ekaterinburg, and St.
Petersburg (Bolota i liudi 2000). At present, the govern-
ment of the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area is prepar-
ing a package of legislative documents for the cre-
ation of Punsi Nature Park. It is presumed that develop-
ing the park's rather complex functional structure will
be a long process. Eventually, the park is to become
not only the key agency for local environmental pro-
tection, but also a special organization with a strong
humanitarian orientation and important social functions
in the heavily industrialized Nefteyugansk Region.
The forthcoming creation of Punsi Nature Park as a
protected natural and cultural area in Western Siberia
is one of a few attempts to jointly preserve natural
and ethnographic landscapes across Russia. However,
this project may provide a powerful impetus for simi-
lar initiatives in other regions. It also may continue to
be recognized as an important step in cultural preser-
vation for Russia's indigenous people. Unlike the ef-
forts of the 1 980s and even the early 1 990s, this project
is no longer an isolated venture of a few concerned
environmentalists. Active efforts are under way in the
Khanty-Mansi and Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Areas
within the scope of the newly created Numto Lake
and Konda Lakes Nature Parks. New programs have
been launched recently in both Khanty-Mansi and Yamal-
Nenets areas to document and protect the sacred sites
of local indigenous people (Balalaeva 1999; Kharyuchi,
this volume). An ambitious program in documentation
of historical and sacred sites is being conducted on
Vaygach Island off the Russian Arctic coast under the
leadership of Peter V. Boiarskii (Boiarskii 1 998, 2000).
The staff of Kenozersk National Park is undertaking
one of the best-organized efforts in the restoration of
traditional northern landscape. This park is in Arkhang-
elsk Province, in the northern section of European Rus-
sia, not far from the ancient Russian city of Kargopol.
The associated program for restoring local landscapes
is focused on the preservation of traditional land use
and management practices of the resident Russian
population. The economy is primarily rural, with tradi-
tions of maintaining plowlands or arable lands,
hayfields, and pastures, as well as fishing grounds. Ef-
forts by Kenozersk National Park include restoration
of old roads and residential, agricultural, and religious
structures (wooden chapels and crosses). In fact, the
park's primary goal is restoration of the traditional eth-
nographic landscape of Northern Russia. This goal is a
significant challenge for a local heritage program, be-
cause of recent, drastic depopulation of the territory
and a corresponding decrease in the number of re-
maining rural settlements.
122 STATE POLICIES/ RUSSIA
35/ A wooden path (putik) through the marshes to the family reindeer pastures and fishing sites, Salym River,
1999.
In recent years, the influential All-Russian Society
for Protection of Nature (ARSPN), Russia's oldest non-
governmental public association of environmentalists
and natural scientists, has similarly been changing its
focus. Moving beyond its traditional initiatives for ex-
clusive protection of valuable natural areas and monu-
ments, ARSPN argued recently for the establishment of
a network of traditional nature-management areas. The
proposed list includes some thirty-four areas that rep-
resent specific ethno-ecological zones—natural habi-
tats of compact residences of indigenous peoples and
long-time Russian settlers. The areas nominated by
ARSPN for special protection are located not only in
Siberia and the North, but also in the Northern Caucasus
(see Maksakovskii and Nikolaev 1 997).
Conclusion
The idea of identifying and protecting ethnographic
landscapes—as a key component in preserving the rich-
ness of cultural heritage of Russia—has been under
discussion by the Russian scientific community for more
than ten years. Russian legislative practices, however,
are lagging severely in meeting the practical needs
that are essential to build viable mechanisms for pro-
tection of the country's unique cultural and natural heri-
tage. Until very recently, the lack of appropriate legis-
lation significantly retarded the implementation of even
the best ideas and most advanced local projects. Nev-
ertheless, in recent years, several proposals to protect
ethnographic landscapes have been at least partially
implemented by taking advantage of provisions in some
new Russian laws on the protection of natural areas.
Such a policy is being pursued most actively in the
Russian North, within the scope of the most recent
efforts (after 1 990 and even after 1 995) for the creation
of new nature and national parks. Many dedicated Rus-
sian heritage and environmental scholars are conduct-
ing corresponding, vigorous research. The visible, prac-
PAVEL M. SHUL'CIN 123
tical results of all these efforts have facilitated several
new legislative proposals, on both federal and regional
levels, that eventually would help protect ethnographic
landscapes, in conjunction with protection of the rich-
ness of nature in the Russian Federation.
Acknowledgments
Since the late 1 980s, the author has participated in many
efforts to preserve cultural, historical, and natural heri-
tage in Russia. This long experience testifies to the
impossibility of achieving any kind of success without
the close cooperation of many specialists, in social
and environmental sciences alike. This article is a defi-
nite reflection of such continuous cooperation. The
author would like to express special gratitude to pro-
fessor lurii (Yuri) A. Vedenin, who made the most help-
ful contributions as a partner in long-term discussions
of the concept of cultural landscape; to Lyudmila S.
Bogoslovskaya, for help in the field of traditional man-
agement practices and contemporary legislative issues;
to N.B. Maksakovskii, for many consultations regard-
ing the protection of natural heritage; to Igor Krupnik,
for advancing the idea of this survey article and offer-
ing many valuable comments; and to CP. Vizgalov,
who has been the most active advocate for the cre-
ation of Punsi Nature Park, and who invited the author
to participate in this exciting project. Ceorgene Sink
translated this paper and Igor Krupnik kindly checked
the translation against its Russian original.
Notes
1 . As of 1 999, the total number of cultural monu-
ments under the Register of Protected Cultural Monu-
ments of the Russian Federation was more than
86,000. Of those, 24,192 were listed as historical
monuments, 14,974 as archaeological monuments,
22,500 as architectural and urban monuments, and
2,357 as objects of monumental art (Vergunov et al.
2000:163).
2. A very important new trend in heritage re-
search and preservation in the 1 980s was the identi-
fication and revival of historical techniques and tra-
ditional forms of nature management (Danilova and
1 24
Sokolov 1998). Research into nature management,
as a rule, began to be applied in the study of the
cultural development of northern indigenous peoples
or other minority groups of Russia (Raiony
prozhivaniia 1991; Klokov 1997; Zaitseva 1997). Of
course, this field of cultural heritage cannot be asso-
ciated directly with historical and cultural monuments,
under their present definition. In many cases, it has
not even taken material form as any type of object
that could be preserved in museum collections or
directly at the locality. However, the sociocultural
role of such elements of ethnic heritage is undis-
puted. In some areas of Russia, especially in its north-
ern and eastern sections, these elements play lead-
ing roles.
3. This bloody battle has been memorialized
in numerous works of art, including Leo N. Tolstoy's
War and Peace and Peter I. Tchaikovkii's /S/2 Over-
ture, and discussed today on numerous sites on the
World Wide Web.
4. In the same year, 1989, Gaer was elected
deputy of the Supreme Soviet (federal legislature)
of the USSR from the huge Far Eastern legislative
district. Gaer is a Native political activist and promi-
nent figure in the indigenous rights movement of
Native people of the nearby Amur River region.
5. The development of new proposals prob-
ably was connected even more closely with the cre-
ation of several local administrative agencies after
1 992. Locally tax-based budgets and policies offered
increased independence to these agencies and en-
abled them to address many regional issues.
6. Under present-day Russian legislation, in-
digenous people "lease" or "use" these lands.
7. Once a widespread practice across the boreal
forest zone, reindeer herding today has virtually be-
come a lost art in most other regions of Siberia.
8. On the whole, the system of family land-use
in the Salym River basin is very close to the one
documented by Andrew Wiget for the nearby Yugan
River Khanty families (Wiget 1999; see also Wiget
and Balalaeva, this volume).
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PAVEL M. SHUL'GIN 127
36/ Two Yamal Nenets men making sacrifice at the Khagen-Sale sacred site, Yamal, 1 928.
PROTECTING THE "INVISIBLE": STORIES FROM THE ARCTIC ZONE

~]"l^e of the |<C.hanttj (^^uiturai (Conservation frogran)
ANDREW WICET AND OLCA BALALAEVA
Through the vagaries of history and politics, much of
the world's land is controlled by states whose majority
populations are culturally different from the resident,
minority populations whose traditional lands they con-
trol. Management regimes, even "conservation" ones,
originated in the interests of the dominant culture and
often began with the peculiarly Western distinction
between nature and culture. In the preservation con-
text, Cultural Resource Management (CRM) emerged
from a recognition that culturally significant places and
objects both encode and express the body of tradi-
tional knowledge and values distinctive of a particular
culture. Understanding the nature and role of such cul-
tural resources is important for developing culturally
compatible resource-use policies because cultural re-
sources encode the framework of beliefs and values
that motivate behavior.
The advantage that the concept of "ethnographic
landscape" brings to cultural anthropology, preserva-
tion discourse, and CRM is that it invites the dominant
culture to understand in local terms the functional and
semantic interrelationships among elements that are
often understood and managed separately. Adequately
translating this concept into practice thus should result
in a management program that is not only more equi-
table, because it is adapted to the needs of both domi-
nant and resident cultures, but one that is more effec-
tive, since it accounts for more complex interrelation-
ships that motivate behaviors. The present experience
in northern Eurasia, however, suggests that ecological
rather than anthropological issues dominate cultural
landscape policies (Domke and Succow 1 998). In the
broader conservation vision, what is needed is a means
of balancing ecological, historical preservation and
cultural conservation priorities.
This paper describes an ongoing effort to strike such
a balance by incorporating elements of ethnographic
landscape study into a plan to define the boundaries
and zonation scheme for a proposed, co-managed pro-
tected area in the territory of the Yugan Khanty people
of Western Siberia.
The Context for the Khanty Cultural Con-
servation Program
The Khanty are one of Russia's forty-five northern tribal
peoples whose total population is less than 200,000.'
Some of these tribes, like the Khanty, survive in terri-
tory that has been their home for thousands of years
since before the Russians came. Khanty culture was
born in and is specifically adapted to the forest-and-
swamp ecosystem of the West Siberian boreal forest.
Western Siberia is dominated by the Ob-lrtysh River
system, the third largest river system in the world in
terms of volume of water. The limits of the Middle Ob
River basin correspond roughly to the northern and
southern boundaries of Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area,
or okrug (KMAO; see Fig. 37). Today the low sand hills
and higher ridges dotting and edging the floodplain,
which, until the 1 950s, supported a unique, heavily ac-
culturated Khanty cultural formation, now support most
of the area's urban population and the transport and
petroleum production infrastructure. From the city of
131
Nizhnevartovsk on the east to the area capital of
Khanty-Mansiysk on the west, a distance of approxi-
mately 1 ,000 kilometers (or 650 miles), the Ob River
drops only fifty meters (1 64 feet).
North of the middle Ob River valley, the land slopes
gently in a southeastedy direction drained by several
major Ob tributaries—the Lyamin, Pim, and Trom-Agan
Rivers. Except for birch-dark conifer and aspen-cedar
forests along the rivers, most of the landscape between
the highlands and the Ob River floodplain consists of
lakes, ponds, and muskeg swamps. Perhaps more than
fifty percent of the surface area is water. South of the
middle Ob, the land slopes gently, dropping less than
sixty meters in the 500 kilometers (310 miles) between
the highlands and the Ob floodplain. Highland muskeg
swamps drain into large river systems—the Bolshoi (Big)
and Maiyi (Little) Yugan, Salym, and Balyk Rivers. The
proportion of higher land and pine-green moss forests
to swamp is much greater than in the north. Rapid freez-
ing leads to a winter period of uninterrupted frost for
145 to 1 55 days, with an average low of -20 to -35°C.
and maximum lows near -5 5°C. This is followed by rapid
thawing, flooding, and hot summers, heavy with mos-
quitoes, with average high temperatures around -i-20°C
and maximum highs around -i-37°C. The whole region
has permafrost about six meters (twenty feet) below the
surface.
Among the 22,000 or so Khanty, three groups-
Northern, Southern, and Eastern—can be distinguished
by differences in dialect, subsistence patterns, and ma-
terial culture. Northern Khanty live in the Beloyarsk
and Salekhard Districts. The Eastern Khanty, the focus
of this project, are located principally in Khanty-Mansi
Autonomous Okrug. The Khanty still maintain their clan
system and their traditional way of life in widely sepa-
rated extended family settlements in traditional hunt-
ing territories. Everywhere they support themselves
through hunting and the trapping of furbearers like sable
and fox. Fish constitute a large part of their diet, but
reindeer herding is common north of the Ob, hunting
moose and wild reindeer south of the Ob River.
1 32
Most Khanty are literate in Russian and fluently bi-
lingual, but prefer to speak Khanty. And despite the
efforts of the Orthodox Church, which in some areas
has gained converts of varying degrees of allegiance,
and despite the suppression of Native religion under
the Soviets, traditional belief and ritual still flourish.
The Khanty believe in a three-zone cosmos with this
middle world existing between an upper sky world
and an underworld. Each of these is divided into seven
levels. The high god, Numi Torum, cannot be ap-
proached directly, but only through addressing one or
more of his seven sons and seven daughters, each of
whom became a patron of some dimension of the natu-
ral world: rivers, fish, animals. The youngest son in his
human incarnation was elevated to the senior position
among the sons, and in his animal incarnation became
Bear, the master of the forest. As with many northern
peoples, a special Bear Festival is occasionally cel-
ebrated to honor a bear that has been killed (Schmidt
1 987, 1 989).
Because the patrons of the major tributary river sys-
tems are also lineage-founding deities, different Khanty
clans claim traditional use rights to different river sys-
tems tributary to the Ob. Most Khanty extended fami-
lies live on traditional family hunting territories pro-
tected by family gods who are considered offspring of
these lineage-founding deities. Khanty thus believe that
sacred power has been historically invested in both
the landscape and the lineage. These gods are said to
live in specific sacred places and often have shrines
marking these sites. The gods are worshiped through
blood sacrifice (yir) of animals, especially reindeer,
and through bloodless sacrifice (porK) of boiled meat.
Prayer and sacrifice ensure protection from and heal-
ing of disease and injury, long life, tranquility, fertility,
and prosperity. A variety of factors contributes to this
cultural persistence (Rushforth and Chisholm 1 991 :1 6-
1 7), but there continues to be enough acculturative
pressures that some are redefining their cultural heri-
tage in ways that have been called neotraditional (Pika
1 999).
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
37/ The Middle Ob River Basin. Tine dotted line marks the area of Eastern Khanty
settlement. Their communities are associated with different river systems.
Now, after millennia, Khanty land and culture are
threatened with destruction. In the late 1960s, oil
was first discovered in West Siberia. At that time,
the town of Surgut had less than 10,000 people. By
the late 1 980s all but a few areas (Kazym River, Yugan
River basin) had been seized by the Ministry of Energy
and the government oil monopoly, and the region vir-
tually supported a collapsing Soviet economy by pro-
viding cheap domestic petroleum and petro-dollars
generated from export. Today the Khanty-Mansi Au-
tonomous Area is the site of one of the world's most
extensive petroleum developments, Surgut has
280,000 people, and the area's population has swelled
to over a million, swamping the less than 1 0,000 Khanty
and Mansi indigenous people (Wiget and Balalaeva
1 996).
The process of production during the Soviet pe-
riod was characterized by a minimal regard for en-
vironmental protection, preservation of cultural prop-
erties, and effective consultation with indigenous
peoples. Khanty families, like those on the Agan River,
were forcibly relocated into villages from their tradi-
tional family hunting territo-
ries, or driven into villages
by the destruction of their
land's subsistence productiv-
ity, as on the lower Pirn and
Trom-Agan River systems.
However it may be re-
garded elsewhere, the col-
lapse of the Soviet Union has
been devastating socially,
culturally, economically,
and ecologically for the
Eastern Khanty and their
land. Profiteering by priva-
tized oil companies coupled
with the internal debt crisis
has meant that deteriorating
pipelines and aging equip-
ment have not been replaced.
The low productivity of individual well clusters (some
leave more than fifty percent of the oil in the ground)
and spillage (more than 3,000 pipeline breaks occur a
year) drives the expansion into new territories for
production.
Recognizing the extent of the environmental de-
struction that had resulted from petroleum develop-
ment, and pressured by Russian environmentalists and
scientists, the Soviet government in 1 982 authorized
the establishment of the Yugan Zapovednik (Nature
Preserve) in the territory embraced by the two arms
of the Bolshoi and Maiyi Yugan Rivers, to preserve
some of this magnificent and unique boreal forest
ecosystem (Fig. 38). The Khanty families who live
along these rivers in more than fifty extended family
settlements were compelled to sacrifice their winter
hunting territories for the new nature preserve. Noth-
ing addressed the cultural conservation needs of the
Yugan Khanty.
At the 1 987 meeting of Yugan Khanty hunters and
fishermen, Vladimir Kogonchin of Ugut proposed that
the community apply to the Supreme Soviet [of the
ANDREW WICET AND OLCA BALALAEVA
former Soviet Union] to designate the Yugan basin a
zone of priority land use, a "green zone." Attempts
were made to advance this proposal informally, even
at the highest levels; but nothing came of this effort.
On May 6, 1 990, Khanty representatives to the KMAO
Council of People's Deputies worked to pass through
the Council of People's Deputies a bill that, building on
the "green zone" concept, gave special status to the
Khanty family hunting territories and that assigned tra-
ditional uses of the land priority over other forms of
development, including industrial uses such as petro-
leum production and timber harvesting. On the Yugan,
such a "zone of Khanty living" was defined and a pro-
posal to set aside a zone of special land use was sent
to the government, but again nothing came of it.
History of the Khanty Cultural Conserva-
tion Program
In 1 993 we were asked to review a draft of the environ-
mental impact assessment for the World Bank's Sec-
ond Oil Rehabilitation Project in Khanty-Mansi Au-
tonomous Okrug. That document claimed there was
only one site of any cultural and historical significance
in the entire eastern half of Khanty-Mansi Autonomous
Okrug. By its silence, the document seemed to pro-
claim that Eastern Khanty culture, for all practical pur-
poses, was non-existent, not a factor to be seriously
calculated in the development equation. Unlike the
situation in many densely populated regions of devel-
oped countries, where publication of the location of
culturally significant places combines with ease of ac-
cess to hasten looting, vandalism, or destruction of
such places; in Siberia it is silence, not publication, that
contributes to the destruction of the ethnographic land-
scape. Because the nature and extent of the Siberian
boreal forest is an obstacle to general access, only oil
companies and other entities with helicopters and other
specialized means of transport can threaten the cul-
tural landscape. And they can do it in the absence of
witnesses, appealing disingenuously to the lack of in-
formation concerning these places. Our first projects,
1 34
therefore, were born from the real need to restore to
public consciousness both the historical and the con-
temporary presence of the Khanty on the land and to
create conditions underwhich deniability is impossible.^
The 'Sacred Trust' Project (1 994-95) aimed to de-
velop the basic data needed to support any plan for
preserving Khanty sacred places and guaranteeing ac-
cess to them. Given the limitations and unsystematic
nature of previous ethnography in the area, we focused
on identifying sacred places and determining the crite-
ria by which the Khanty assign religious significance to
features of the landscape and river systems. In this, we
followed established western models, especially com-
parable work among Native American tribes (Kelly and
Francis 1 994; Basso 1 996).
A scientific classification of Eastern Khanty sacred
places has not yet been developed. Our more modest
task has been to formulate a working typology, based
on our materials from extensive field surveys, the work
of folklore-ethnographic expeditions to the Kazym re-
gion from Urals State University, and a review of the
ethnographic literature (Balalaeva 1 999). On this basis,
we can distinguish two main categories of sacred places:
(1) unmodified features of the natural landscape, and
(2) landscape features modified by the addition of cul-
tural elements. The first type—natural sacred places-
can be classified according to their basic elements into
two groups, water features and landforms.
Water forms include a variety of phenomena con-
nected with water: lakes, swamps, small rivers, ponds,
whirlpools, confluences, rapids, and turns in the river
(Fig. 38). Khanty believe that they depend on the spir-
its living in these places for luck in fishing and good
fortune generally, and try to make the spirits more be-
neficent by throwing offerings of money or dried bread
into the water. The size and nature of the offering differ
in each case, and the importance of the offering de-
pends on the reasons for making the offering.
Large natural features in this category are lakes,
rivers, and swamps. Often the place name of the sa-
cred water reserves includes lexemes such as yimyng
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
38/Aenal view of the Bolshoi Yugan River basin. The area is a rich forest-riverine environment for which the local
Khanty community has spent the last / 5 years trying to secure a protected status.
(sacred). On the Yugan River, Lake Larlumkina is consid-
ered sacred. According to myth, warrior gods had a
fight above this lake. When the local god was
wounded, the reindeer drawing his sled dived into the
water and now they are there, underneath the lake,
two reindeer bulls. The local warrior god flew up into
the sky, transformed into thunder, and became the
god Chuv Iki. When the fishermen set the nets, some-
times the nets are stuck, and the fishermen say that
the nets are stuck on the antlers of these reindeer. It is
taboo to cross this lake directly; one must make a
circle along the shore. The belief that different kinds of
spirits live in these lakes is widespread. The basins of
Kazym, Vakh, and Yugan Rivers have sacred lakes
where, according to local beliefs, water spirits live that
look like very big pike with horns. A subgroup of smaller
water features includes ponds, as well as whirlpools.
rapids, turns, and confluences of rivers. In the upper
part of Maiyi Yugan River, above Achimovy settlement,
there is also a whirlpool that is connected with mytho-
logical legends of Tondor Iki, the main deity of this river.
According to local beliefs, one should throw two or
three pieces of dried bread into this whirlpool. "If one
does not throw the dried bread, this god, this Tondor
Iki, won't like it; and he might punish you."
Landforms comprise the second major category
of natural sacred places. Most prominent here are high
places that include hillocks, hills, ridges, and very high
hills. Another subgroup consists of promontories and
islands, a group including higher, dry places in swamps.
A third, smaller group consists of groves, mostly birch,
small patches of forest. A fourth group consists of indi-
vidual sacred trees of unusual shape or rare types and
individual stones, also with unusual size or shape.
ANDREW WIGET AND OLCA BALALAEVA 135
High places in the Ob River basin are relatively rare.
This singularity and the dominating character of such
formations naturally predispose the sacralizing, or sanc-
tifying, of these objects. Almost all the distinguished
high places have sacred status and, accordingly, ritual
and mythological significance. On the Yugan, Trom-
Agan, and Pirn Rivers, sacred high places are most of-
ten called kot myx, meaning "earth house." A kot myx
is a god's house. On Trom-Agan, above the mouth of
its tributary, Ai-Trom-Agan, there is a sacred place for
all Ob Khanty, a hill called Tomm Yaoun Kot Myx. Offer-
ings are taken there regularly at the beginning of sea-
sonal activities and sporadically for other reasons. On
the top of the hill is a high, distinguished pine tree on
which Khanty hang pieces of fabric. The Trom-Agan
Khanty say that the mountain with the pine tree is
nothing other than the house with the chimney pipe.
Newly married Khanty follow custom by going to this
place to pray and make an offering at the beginning of
their married life. Women are prohibited to go to the
top of the hill. In this case, the husband climbs to the
top to make the offering, and the new wife stays in
the boat by the shore. Also, usually, it is taboo to re-
move something from a kot myx. There is a whole
group of stories concerning people who violated this
39/ Map of sacred sites of the Yugan Khanty area, 1998.
taboo, for example, by breaking a branch of a tree on
a kot myx, with the result that the offender's arm with-
ered or he died. The owner of a kot myx could be not
only one of the river patron deities, venerated by the
whole community, but also a family spirit. Thus, on
Kanterov family land in the Pirn River basin, there is
sacred Ochet Vut Mutikh Kot Myx. This is a Kanterov
sacred place where their family hlung (spirit) lives. Women
of this family take wood from this place for the images
they make of their personal protecting spirits.
Kot myx are a particularly threatened group of
sacred sites. In the lower part of Bolshoi Yugan, it is
said, there was a sacred place for all Ob' Khanty
mentioned long ago by Dunin-Corkavitch
(1 995:1 50), Yegutskaya [Evutskaya] Cora. Khanty from
different places came here to make offerings. In the
1 970s this sacred mountain was in a territory of oil
development and almost leveled, but there are still
stories devoted to this hill in local oral tradition. On
Trom-Agan River a high place dedicated to Yaoun Imi,
the Old Woman of the River, was destroyed entirely.
Now only a large hole in the ground exists where once
a hill stood. This is because the hills are made entirely
of sand, which is dug up as the material for the road-
bed construction throughout Western Siberia (Fig 40).
In the end our fieldwork iden-
tified more than seventy-five
Khanty sacred places in the
Surgut region alone (Balalaeva
1999; Fig. 39). Maps of sacred
sites in different Khanty residence
areas were produced using Geo-
graphic Information System (CIS).
This work was the only report
on Siberia presented at the
UNESCO Conference on Natural
Sacred Sites in Paris in Septem-
ber 1998.
The Khanty Traditional Land-
Use Atlas Project (1996-98) was
a two-year, international collabo-
Family Hunting
Territory Boundary
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
rative research project in applied social sciences with
Russian colleagues from Urals State University in the
city of Ekaterinburg (Yekaterinburg) and supported
by the then called Ministry of Nationality Affairs and
Regional Policy of the Russian Federation.
The project grew out of our increasing concern
that petroleum development was threatening Khanty
culture by destroying the physical environment to
which Khanty subsistence-based culture was specifi-
cally adapted (Wiget and Balalaeva 1 996; Wiget 1 999b).
The entire region suffers from soil, water, and air pollu-
tion, which degrade the land upon which Khanty sub-
sistence hunters and fishermen depend. One of our in-
formants told us that in spring the Agan River is "just
one big oil slick." According to men who formerly
worked in the fishing collective on Agan, 200 tons of
fish a year were brought out of the river; by the 1 980s
after the onslaught of oil development, that had
dropped to 1 00 tons a year; in 1 995, when we talked
to them, that figure had diminished to only twenty
tons. On the middle Trom-Agan River, Khanty report
that furbearers (fox, wolverine) and predators (bear,
wolf) have virtually fled the area in the last five to
eight years as a result of oil development. One
woman reported that her son-in-law lost his entire
herd of TOO reindeer when they drank polluted
water.
To demonstrate the effect of oil development on
Khanty life, the Atlas project aimed to provide the first
contemporary, broadbased, and integrated documenta-
tion of many categories of Khanty traditional land use:
—Traditional and contemporary settlements, both
individual extended family settlements and villages;
—Individual family hunting territories;
—Places of cultural significance, including cultic sites,
sites with mythical associations, traditional cem-
eteries;
—Archaeological sites;
ANDREW WIGET AND OLCA BALALAEVA 137
Yugan Zapovednik
Sacred Place
Gravesite
Summer House
Transit Camp
Winter House
Berries
Cedar Nuts
Fox
Grouse
Mink
Moose
3 Projected Oil Development
Sable
Winter Fishing
i Hunting Terr Boundary
^ ' Surgut Region Boundary
4 // yassWy Kaimysov's hunting territory, on Moiyi Yugan River, showing subsis-
tence areas, sacred places, and projected oil license territory.
—Other land use features, such as reindeer trails,
communal hunting lands, fishing, hunting, gather-
ing, and pasturing areas, and so on.
Additional maps highlighted the development of in-
dustrialization and infrastructure associated with these
lands. All identified sites were accompanied by an
ethnohistoric description. All data were compiled into
a computerized database integrated with an ArcView
CIS computerized mapping program.
The specific objectives of the project were to pro-
duce cartographic representations of the many types
of data, linked to a comprehensive computerized da-
tabase, and framed by interpretive, scholarly essays:
1) regional settlement patterns, either archaeo-
logical or historic (abandoned or contemporary);
1 38
(a) individual, extended fam-
ily settlements, and (b) villages;
2) regional traditional religious
resources, especially: (a)
places of cultic activity, in-
cluding (al) sacrificing places
and (a2) shrines; (b) landforms
with cultural value derived
from specific mythological,
legendary or historical asso-
ciation; (c) landforms with cul-
tural value derived from asso-
ciation with classes of spirits;
(d) cemeteries;
3) regional traditional eco-
nomic resources, including: (a)
boundaries of family hunting
territories; (b) hunting, fishing,
berry picking, pasturing (rein-
deer) resources; (c) communal
lands; (d) reindeer trails, por-
tages, and other transporta-
tion routes;
4) microstudies of traditional
land use in six Khanty family
hunting territories represent-
ing variations in ecosystems,
subsistence economy, family
size, and proximity to devel-
opment territories.
As a complement to these comprehensive area maps
of the region, intensive studies of traditional land use
were undertaken on six family hunting territories, re-
flecting the wide regional differences in Khanty cul-
tural patterns (Wiget 1999a). Figure 41 is a resource
exploitation map drawn with the help of one large
Khanty extended family numbering about thirty people
living on the upper reaches of the Maiyi Yugan River.^
The map illustrates the principal types of flora and fauna
harvested in the hunting territory, as well as the per-
manent winter and summer residences and the transi-
tional camps used during the spring and fall move-
ments between the permanent houses. Note that the
oil license territory impinges on their main source of
winter food, both fish and moose, and harvestable
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
furs. The results of the project were published in 1 999,
with several family hunting maps attached (Wiget
1 999a; Ocherki 1 999); the book was distributed with-
out charge to Khanty leaders and regional and area
administration officials to serve as a fundamental plan-
ning document. It is already playing an important role
in support of the efforts to gain a protected area sta-
tus for the Yugan Khanty community's traditional lands
in the Yugan River basin.
At approximately the same time the Sacred Trust
Project was being completed and the Atlas project
was being prepared, the co-authors, working with the
head of the Yugan Khanty community association
"Yaoun Yakh" and the staff of the Yugan Zapovednik
(Federal Nature Reserve), began to prepare a strategy
for preserving the Yugan basin based on the creation
of a UNESCO-type Biosphere Reserve. The plan aimed
to create a complex, co-managed territory that linked
the 600,000-hectare (2,300 square miles) Yugan
Zapovednik (an existing Russian Federal Nature Reserve)
as a core area to a newly created, federal-status area
consisting of the 1.7 million hectares (6,500 square
miles) of Yugan Khanty family
hunting territories comprising
most of the watersheds of the
Bolshoi and Maiyi Yugan Riv-
ers. Working with local govern-
ment authorities, leaders in the
Khanty community, and
Khanty families, we defined rea-
sonable boundaries for the vari-
ous areas in the proposed bio-
sphere reserve (Fig. 42).
Because of a variety of
negative consequences that
could result from linking the
Khanty lands to the
Zapovednik, as well as the po-
litical unwillingness of the lo-
cal administration to cede more
land to federal government
control, the original plan has been amended. The cur-
rent plan was worked out in consultation with the
Khanty community, the Surgut regional and Khanty-
Mansi Autonomous Area administrations, representa-
tives of Ecojuris (a Moscow-based environmental law
NGO [non-governmental organization]), and the authors.
It abandons the entanglement with federal jurisdiction
by avoiding a formal connection with the Yugan Fed-
eral Nature Reserve and envisions a two-step process.
The first step is the creation of a protected area com-
posed of Khanty family hunting territories along the
Bolshoi and MaIyi Yugan Rivers (OTTP, Russian -
Okhmniaemaia Territohia Traditsionnogo Pnrodopol'-
zovaniia [Protected Territory of Traditional Land Use])
with protected status awarded by Khanty-Mansi Au-
tonomous Okrug; after establishment, application
would be made to UNESCO for international recogni-
tion as biosphere reserve (Wiget and Balalaeva 1 997,
1998b, 1999).
To provide the scientific data necessary to develop
effective co-management policies for the Yugan pro-
tected area, we engaged in two projects. The area
Limited Protection,
IVIonitored Industry
Strict Protection, No
Industrial Development
/V^ Family Hunting
' Territory Boundary
42/ Proposed Yugan Khanty "Protected Territory of Traditional Land Use"
ANDREW WIGET AND OLCA BALALAEVA
Ethnoecological Survey (1 998-99) represented the nec-
essary first step in the transformation of the previously
supported scientific research, network building, and
community development into concrete strategy to re-
alize the cultural conservation goals of the proposers'
prior work among the Eastern Khanty. Extending mod-
els of gathering data for the traditional land-use study
first piloted for the Khanty Atlas Project, the project
developed the ethnographic, socioeconomic, and
ecosystemic data necessary to establish baseline pa-
rameters for common planning of scientific and com-
munity development projects in the proposed Yugan
Khanty Biosphere Reserve. As described below, over
the course of those two years, we visited every family
hunting territority, administering a comprehensive sur-
vey instrument and working with the landholding fami-
lies to map their land use. By 2002, we completed a
Cultural Resource Inventory and Assessment of the Pro-
posed Yugan Khanty Biosphere Reserve. This project
provides for an inventory and assessment of cultural
resources in the Yugan Khanty community necessary
to supplement the inventory of traditional economic
resources and practices completed in the previous
project. Taken together, these two projects offered a
comprehensive representation of the cultural and eco-
logical conservation issues that will be the focus of
the comanagement plan governing the administration
of the proposed protected area. This paper explores
these projects and the lessons being learned from them.
Methodology
For our work, we began with the hypothesis, central
to ethnographic landscape studies, that all uses of land-
scape are cultural, that treating traditional land use as
something separate from understandings of landscapes
will result in false conclusions that undermine attempts
to create effective management policies (Brody 1981).
An ethnoecological survey attempts to create an
organized body of data on how a traditional cultural
community uses the land and resources on which it
depends. The necessity for developing such an under-
1 40
standing has been confirmed by the practical experi-
ence of conservationists around the world who know
that, despite popular stereotypes, the conservation prac-
tices of indigenous peoples, who do have an interest
in sustainable harvest, nevertheless are not always con-
sistent with the best conservation practices of Western
science. Insofar as conservation activity impacts re-
sources, economies, and populations, it serves a vari-
ety of political interests; and conservationists continu-
ally strive to find mechanisms to effectively negotiate
"best practice" from among these interests. Moreover,
one of the interests against which conservation of the
physical environment, its flora, and fauna, must always
be balanced is the preservation of cultural practices
that contribute to a specific historic and sociocultural
community identity.
An ethnoecological survey gathers data on:
—Kinds of natural resources on which a commu-
nity depends
—Amounts of resources required for a self-identi-
fied "acceptable" standard of living in specific types
of economy
—Patterns of land use in which individuals are en-
gaged to secure the natural resources they need
—Relationships between fundamental needs such
as family size and health, the claim on resources
made in the name of these fundamental needs, and
the instrumentalities (material base) used to secure
satisfaction for these needs.
The kinds of data gathered enable the discovery of
broad patterns of behavior that reflect community prac-
tice. Although these kinds of data are most economi-
cally gathered through an interview instrument that
will generate a coherent data set (Table 1 ), even in the
best of circumstances (working with a small village
population, for example) confirmation of survey results
should come from field observations.
At the same time, because the practices described
have a geographic dimension, affecting specific popu-
lations in specific ecosystems, it is impossible to un-
derstand the data without mapping. Consequently, in
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
Table 1 : Sample Entry in the Yugan Khanty Sacred Site Register
Site Name:
Site Number;
Category:
Specification:
Location (Decimal degrees):
River System:
Extended family settlement:
Administrative Unit:
Village Administration:
Keeper:
Description: Location
Description: Access
Description: Site
Description: Boundaries
Significance (Provide Oral,
Historical Information,
Local Toponymic Legend):
Status:
Condition:
(Khanty) Torum Kur Pur Wethlem Wantvng
(English) Where Torom Put His Foot Down
58
IV, Modified Landscape
Landform with izbushka [sacred log house]
N 59.1 5, E74.21
Bolshoi Yugan
Kolsomovy
Surgut Region
Ugut
None. The former keeper passed away. Now access is unregulated, though
it is customary to inform Yefim Kolsomov, the owner of the local hunting
territory on which the site exists, of the intention to visit the site.
The site is on the west bank of the upper Bolshoi Yugan River, just
above Kolsomovy extended family settlement. The site is not visible from the
river. One would have to know its location to know where to take the boat to
shore. Yefim Kolsomov took me there. The site gets its name from a depression in
the skyline formed by the treetops against the background of the western sky.
There is a wide, shallow cove in the west bank of the river. The land slopes
gently from the forest edge to the water, a distance of about 20 meters, with
tall grass rising out of the sand the entire way, fallen willow saplings, and
other flood debris. Once in the forest, there is a very narrow, but visible trail. Still,
it is hardly worn. The trail crosses through the forest a distance of no more than
1 00 meters.
The trail comes to a small izbushka or cabin (see Fig. 44), about 2.5 meters
long on its front, short side and 3 meters on its long side. The roof peak is no
more than 1.5 meters. A black cloth covers the door opening. Inside is a bare
plank floor with a single shaitan, or idol, standing against the back wall. There
is also a glass jar in which people have left paper money and coins.
Following a trail from the doorway along the left side of the izbushka, behind
it into the forest no more than 1 meters, one finds a single "retired" shaitan,
left to decompose and return to the forest. About 20 meters north of the clearing
where the izbushka sits is a small stream, also a significant feature.
The significant area is a geophysical depression "where Torom put his foot down."
The small stream (summary of toponymic legend, below) bound this area on the
north, Bolshoi Yugan River on the east side, and by locally elevated heights of land
that form the rim of the depressed area on the west and south side.
Torom (The Khanty high god) wanted to see how things were on earth. He leaned
over from the sky and put one of his feet down, stepping onto the earth. That's
how this place was formed and still keeps the shape of Torom's foot. Where
Torom stepped down, a stream emerged. People are prohibited from looking at
this stream under penalty of being blinded. This is a summary of a toponymic
legend, now forgotten. It was compiled from elements provided by Yefim
Kolsomov and Pyotr Vassilievich Kurlomkin.
According to visual evidence of money deposited and oral testimony by Yefim
Kolsomov, the site is still being used, especially by families in the upper part of
Bolshoi Yugan and by travelers.
Good. No vandalism reported.
addition to completing the survey instrument, hunt-
ers themselves are asked to mark particular kinds
of land-use patterns on maps brought into the field.
The statistical data would then be compiled into
databases, which would be imported into a CIS
and linked to digitized cartography for the pur-
ANDREW WICET AND OLCA BALALAEVA
poses of both analyses and representation.
As extensive as the ethnoecological survey was,
we understood that it was incomplete in itself. We
knew that to understand both Yugan Khanty hunting
and conservation practices, we needed a clear sense
of their cultural values and how those values are
141
put into play in decision-making and norm-mainte-
nance behaviors. This required on-site documenta-
tion of oral traditions, both folkloric and historical, which
encode Khanty cultural values and practices; both struc-
tured and unstructured interviews; and as well as ob-
servation and documentation of seasonal practices.
We also needed to complete gathering basic data
on other kinds of cultural resources, such as archaeo-
logical resources, which were very poorly understood
and yet beyond our competency. Trying to accom-
plish these goals while also gathering the statistical
information was simply logisticaliy impossible. We are
in the process of integrating this cultural data, although
gathered separately, with the ethnoecological survey
data, acquiring the necessary base layer satellite im-
agery to map both ethnoecological and cultural re-
sources in a usable CIS format.
Community Engagement
Often overlooked in community relations is that most
of these relationships are formed and sustained in dis-
cursive contexts, where key terms like "tribal," "cul-
ture," "minority," "ecology," "subsistence," and other
less obvious ones like "dependence" and "necessity"
and even "science" have been assigned different defi-
nitions and values by the parties involved. Three dis-
courses, which have a heightened potency in Russia,
have substantially affected the representation and in-
terpretation of our work with ethnographic landscapes
and indigenous peoples (Wiget and Balalaeva 1 998a).
Perhaps more than any other country in the experi-
ence of both co-authors, Russia is committed to the
ideology of progress, which, when dealing with its in-
digenous northern minorities, at best emerges as a will-
ful paternalism and at worst as the most brutal and
self-serving kind of rationalization for exploitation. Cer-
tainly much of this is rooted in a Marxist ideology of
the inevitable succession of economic systems, which
consequently views Khanty and others like them as
doomed archaisms. More importantly, however, the
effects of centralized thinking still linger in bureaucratic
and administrative paternalism: in the preference for
industrialization over other forms of development; in
the assumption that indigenous peoples ought to be
"modernized," though, of course, in as accommodat-
ing a manner as possible, because they will be inevita-
bly modernized, in any case; in the legal legacy of state-
controlled land. This complex of paternalism and self-
justif/ing fatalism is also reflected in the emergence of
Russian populist conservation ideology, in general.
Preservationists might appear to be logical allies,
because a strict preservationist philosophy protects
historical resources in the territory of potential devel-
opment. Nevertheless, the opportunities for indigenous
peoples to seek protection under Russian historic pres-
ervation law is practically limited in several ways. First,
as in the West, this protection is extended principally
to monuments or structures of cultural and historical
significance. The emphasis on the built environment
predisposes preservationists to undervalue sites of his-
torical and cultural significance to traditional peoples
and which are often unmodified landscape features,
—high places, sacred groves of trees, river confluences,
sandbars, and so on (Fig.43)—or, if modified, are distin-
guished by structures without apparent architectural
significance. Secondly, for all practical purposes, de-
termination of significance is based on the role of the
site in the development of the ethnic Russian cultural
formation, the Russian state, and the Russian Orthodox
Church, all of which preclude assigning significance to
cultural or historical sites of importance to indigenous
peoples. Third, the law on protection of places of
worship is also almost uniformly interpreted to apply
to Orthodox churches and excludes indigenous peoples'
concerns.
Environmentalists might seem even more natural
allies than preservationists." Although the former So-
viet Union adopted very strong nature conservation
legislation, which won both internal support (rooted in
a peasant society, Russia has a deep historical and
cultural ideological investment in nature) and external
praise, a series of dramatic and highly visible catastro-
142 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUCAN
the philosophy undergirding
what might be called "the com-
pensation model of environmen-
tal management" is one of mu-
^^^^ tually agreed upon absolute sac-
rifices. This differs considerably
from a multiple-use, joint man-
agement model based on
mechanisms to elicit and man-
age compromises.
Relationships with the East-
ern Khanty
43/ Forested high places in swamps, called 'Islands, ' are often sacred sites
phes of centralized planning—the heavy metals pollu-
tion of the Lena and Yenesey Rivers, the desiccation of
the Aral Sea, the pulp-mill pollution of Lake Baikal, the
petroleum horrors of Samotlor, the radioactive waste
in Novaya Zemlya—created an activist environmental-
ist movement. Now Native organizations increasingly
are broadcasting their claims to this constituency with
the familiar slogans about the economic and cultural
connections of Indigenous peoples to the land, of cul-
tural formations specifically adapted to particular en-
vironments, of "noble savage" philosophies based on
sustainability and mutuality, rather than unilateral ex-
ploitative extraction. Nevertheless, efforts to rally sup-
port along these rhetorical lines have generally failed.
The conservation philosophy, which one hears even
from high-placed academicians and bureaucrats, is that
the strictest preservation of exemplary instances of
key ecosystems must be ensured. Nevertheless, this
strategy appears something of a tradeoff, for it was
only in 1996 that the Russia Duma adopted environ-
mental management criteria for development projects
that met Western standards, and several years later
those criteria are still poorly enforced. What goes un-
said in conversations about nature preservation is that
that which is not protected will be destroyed. In short,
During the course of this work,
we established good relation-
ships with several truly representative, effective, and
competent Khanty local leaders, and consult regularly
with them as they try to develop forms of representa-
tive self-government within the legal structures autho-
rized by the statutes of the Russian Federation. We
have been closely monitoring the development of this
Native leadership as it seeks to form national commu-
nities and national corporations, and we have provided
them with information about and contacts with Na-
tive governments in the U.S. and Canada. To develop
their interests and strengthen their competencies in
1995, 1996, and again in 2001, we brought local
Khanty leaders to the United States so that they could
experience firsthand the structures of self-government
within which Native Americans live and manage their
lands and resources. In July 1996, after a site visit to
the Yugan by a representative of COSKOMSEVER (State
Committee on Northern Development of the Russian
Federation) found local support for the concept, we
spent many days traveling by boat on both the Bolshoi
and Maiyi Yugan Rivers, stopping at each family settle-
ment to explain the nature of the biosphere reserve
concept and collect signatures to establish one in the
Yugan region. Every adult in every family we approached
signed eagerly.
ANDREW WIGET AND OLGA BALALAEVA 143
Relationship witin the Yugan Khanty
As our focus on the Yugan Khanty developed, we took
steps to establish that relationship more formally. To-
day we have represented ourselves to the federal, area,
and regional governmental officials, NGOs, and other
concerned parties as independent scientists providing
technical assistance to the Yugan Khanty community
association, Yaoun Yakh, working under their formal
invitation, with an agenda and itinerary registered by
them with the Surgut Region administration and operat-
ing under a jointly signed Letter of Agreement, specify-
ing work, resources, and responsibilities of both parties.
Although this level of formality belies the intimacy
of personal relationships developed in ten years be-
tween the researchers and the Yugan Khanty, it has
proven useful in positioning us as "independent," though
engaged, in the subsequent political interactions be-
tween the Yaoun Yakh Community Association and
the officials of the area and regional governments. The
formalization of this relationship also had the effect of
modeling for them how, in the absence of defined
treaty rights, they might nevertheless find other mecha-
nisms to assume control over access to community
lands, population, traditional knowledge, and intellec-
tual property. It has also bolstered the political pres-
ence of Yaoun Yakh by demonstrating that they have
continued access to international audiences and re-
sources. We also facilitated for them a grant applica-
tion that enabled them to obtain legal counsel from
Ecojuris, a Russian environmental law NCO.
Relations with Responsible Government Entities
We have been careful to acknowledge all protocols,
required by law or custom, and, within the limits of
confidentiality, share results of our research regularly
with government officials and NGOs, not only to quiet
suspicions concerning the nature of our work, but to
raise consciousness and to create conditions under
which deniability is impossible. Toward this latter goal,
we maintain a website and have occasionally used
our access to the Internet to publicize protests from
the Yugan Khanty community association, Yaoun Yakh,
at the community's request.
Project Implementation
During this project, the co-authors traveled by out-
board motorboat along the entire 1,800 kilometer
(1,1 70 mile) combined length of the Bolshoi and Maiyi
Yugan Rivers to complete an extensive house-to-house,
family-to-family survey. We visited every hunting terri-
tory, extended family settlement, and Native village or
camp. Combining map-assisted structured interview-
ing with the eight-page questionnaire, the survey has
provided data in three major areas—traditional land
use; material base and domestic economy; and health
and social organization—so that we can begin to es-
tablish a baseline against which the impact of devel-
opment on the Bolshoi Yugan River basin and on the
traditional way of life of the Yugan Khanty can be mea-
sured. We had planned to survey the MaIyi Yugan River
and part of the longer Bolshoi Yugan River in 1998,
and the reminder of the Bolshoi Yugan in 1 999.
As the following summary log of the project sug-
gests, an important logistical constraint for us in this
process was the great distance between Yugan Khanty
settlements, often four or five hours by boat, and the
limited amount of time available for fieldwork. These
limitations meant that simply ensuring a thorough, rep-
resentative, and reliable response to a simple sur^/ey
instrument became a daunting task in itself. This pro-
ject also raised two constraints peculiar to the former
Soviet Union. First, all maps under 1:500,000 scale, a
scale far too big to be useful for our work, are still
considered state secrets; sponsorship of our work by
the now-defunct State Committee of the North of the
Russian Federation (GOSKOMSEVER) enabled us to pur-
chase 1 :200,000 scale maps, allowing us to partially
overcome this initial obstacle, though even this scale
is too large. Ideally, 1:50,000 scale maps should be
used. A second constraint is the limitation on the use
of handheld GPS (Global Positioning Systems) in Rus-
sia, but these, too, we were able to overcome.
144 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
/ 998 Field Season
July 8. We departed for the Yugan, from Chornaya
Rechka, the oil industry base, in a helicopter that took
us directly to the Kurlomkiny extended family settle-
ment on the upper Bolshoi Yugan River, where we were
able to confirm some nineteenth century land use prac-
tices described by historical literature.
July 9. We departed by motorboat to Larlumkiny,
the highest settlement on Bolshoi Yugan River, about
four hours of travel above Kurlomkiny. Larlumkiny is a
complex settlement of six families, four of whom are
related; its territory is huge. We administered our sur-
vey instrument and mapped land use in this hunting
territory. We continued on to visit one of the most
important Khanty sacred places, two archaeological sites,
and a Khanty cemetery near Lake Larlumkina. We re-
turned to Kurlomkiny around 1 1 :30 in the evening.
July 10. We did additional interviewing at
Kurlomkiny. At 3 p.m. we flew out by helicopter to
Ugut.
July 10-15: Ugut Village. We began by meeting
with the local principals involved in the project. We
reviewed the plans that we had made for the survey,
engaging fully the head of the Yugan Khanty commu-
nity, Vladimir Kogonchin, and two members of the in-
terviewing team, Igor Kogonchin and Anna Baikalova
from the Yugan Zapovednik. Baikalova made useful
additions for ecological data to the survey instrument
we were using. While arranging for our longer trip on
Maiyi Yugan River, we made a short motorboat trip on
the lower Bolshoi Yugan River near Ugut. This was only
partially successful, because at a couple of the ex-
tended family settlements at the village of Ryskiny,
the residents were drunk, a result of recent cash distri-
bution from the oil company; this is a situation that we
have never met with on the middle and upper parts of
either Bolshoi or MaIyi Yugan Rivers. Both Baikalova
and Igor Kogonchin accompanied us on this trip to
observe and practice the survey/interview/mapping
techniques that we were using for data collecting.
July 1 5-20: MaIyi Yugan River. We left Ugut by mo-
torboat on the morning of 1 5 July and arrived around
midnight at Surlomkiny extended family settlement,
the first above Kinyamino. During this first part of
the trip, we were able to administer the survey and
map land use at one intermediate family settlement.
On Julyl6, we administered the survey and mapped
land use at Surlomkiny. We continued upriver on 1 7
July. Between 1 7-19 July we stopped at every yurta
(camp) on MaIyi Yugan, administering the survey and
mapping land use, reaching the highest point,
Asmanovy settlement, more than 500 river miles
from Ugut. Some of the documentation was accom-
plished on the way back. We arrived in Ugut at 2 a.m.
on 20 July. After finishing up business in Ugut, and
arranging with Kogonchin and Baikalova on a work
plan for winter, we returned to Surgut on 22 July.
Over the winter, Kogonchin and Baikalova admin-
istered the survey at Kinyamino and Ryskiny, both of
which could not be done in the summer. Wiget and
Balalaeva began CIS data entry and mapping.
/ 999 Field Season
June 24. We traveled by helicopter to Ugut, staging
point for our 1 999 field season. There we met with
Vladimir Kogonchin, head of the Yugan Khanty com-
munity and developed plans for our cooperative work.
Our task was to administer the survey to all the Khanty
families from Kolsomovy near the top of the river (we
had done Kurlomkiny and Larlumkiny settlements the
previous year). Because we had with us Konstantin
Karacharov, an archaeologist of the Institute of History
of the Russian Academy of Science, Urals Branch in
Ekaterinburg, whom we had invited to Join us to con-
duct the first archaeological survey of the Yugan basin,
we still needed to return to Kurlomkiny and Larlumkiny.
The plan was to send us all ahead by helicopter to
Kurlomkiny; with local help, we would take care of the
archaeological portion of survey work there in a couple
of days. By the time we returned from Larlumkiny,
Kogonchin would have arrived at Kurlomkiny by mo-
torboat from Ugut, and we ourselves would start down
ANDREW WIGET AND OLGA BALALAEVA 145
river, continuing the survey. We expected a grueling
trip from the uppermost settlement on the river back
to Ugut, more than 500 miles by outboard motorboat.
June 26. We arrived at Kurlomkiny. From the very
beginning things went well. The archaeological survey
of the upper Bolshoi Yugan River was very productive,
and we developed an excellent and efficient working
relationship with Karacharov. We could anticipate that
the data he was providing would assist us immensely
in strengthening arguments for preservation of the Yugan
for its historical and cultural value.
June 29-July 6. We started down river. The Bolshoi
Yugan River differs from Maiyi Yugan River in that there
are many more Khanty, they live farther apart, and there
are several Native villages, in which some Khanty fami-
lies live permanently though they travel to fishing ar-
eas and avail themselves of "common" (unassigned)
hunting grounds. We visited, interviewed and did map
work with more than twenty families living on fifteen
different extended family settlements, as well as inter-
viewing and doing map work with an additional four-
teen families living in the villages of Tailakhova, Taurova,
and Kayukova. In the larger villages, we worked as
two teams, with the co-authors forming one team and
Karacharov and Kogonchin the other. Map work and
interviews with other residents of Kayukova and
Ryskiny had been concluded in 1998, the first season
of fieldwork. Along the entire length of the river, while
the authors were doing map work and interviews,
Karacharov also did interviews, site mapping, and test-
ing, for the preliminary archaeological survey. In the
end, he had identified by inspection or report thirty-
one sites, including several multilevel complexes of
enormous importance, as well as a complex of prehis-
toric trails and roads. We returned to Ugut very early
on the morning of 6 July 1 999.
We spent the next several days in Ugut. Additional
interviews and map work were done with Khanty fami-
lies we had missed at their extended family settlements
but who were in Ugut to purchase supplies. We also
developed with Vladimir Kogonchin a revised draft of
the charter for the proposed co-managed Yugan Pro-
tected Territory; we were especially concerned about
two elements, a zonation scheme that would provide
for designations of different kinds of uses and forms of
protection, and a usable co-management structure. We
met with Anna Baikalova and Konstantin Karacharov,
not only to compare preliminary findings, but also to
describe the kinds of reports we would need from the
MaIyi Yugan. Finally, we defined work that remained to
be done, especially the few families that we had missed
on either river. The interviews and maps were sent to
us in the U.S. in November 1999.
Gaining protected area status for the Yugan re-
quires successfully passing through two commissions
(regional and okrug). As a result of the authors' pre-
vious work as well as the assistance of the Moscow-
based legal NCO Ecojuris, the administrations of
Surgut Region and Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug
are now formally taking up the proposal to estab-
lish a legally protected area on the traditional home-
land of the Yugan Khanty. This project thus has en-
tered the critical phase.
In August 1 999, we accompanied Vladimir Kogon-
chin, the head of the Yugan Khanty community, to
Khanty-Mansiysk, the capital of the okrug, where we
met with a number of area officials whose responses
to the project varied. Finally, the group met for more
than a half-hour with Governor Alexandr Filipenko, who
appeared to be generally supportive of the project
and invited us to submit materials directly to his
office. He had been surprised at the volume and na-
ture of communications he had received from around
the world on his office fax machine in support of
preserving the Yugan; these resulted from our dis-
semination of information about the Khanty and the
current state of the project on our internet website
(http://www/nmsu.edu/~english/hc/hcsiberia.html) In
mid-November 1999, we had sent to him an initial
packetof materials. While in Khanty-Mansiysk, Balalaeva,
Wiget, and Kogonchin briefed Tatiana Gogoleva, the
president of Spasenie Yugry {Save the Yugra), the major
146 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
Khanty cultural association, on the project.
At the regional level, the Surgut regional commis-
sion, the formation of which was resisted for so long,
was finally called into meeting at the end of 1998. It
met only once and briefly, to approve the general
idea of establishing some kind of protected terri-
tory on the Yugan River. From beginning to end, how-
ever, this regional commission process has been heavily
biased in favor of administration interests and the his-
tory of unilateral administrative decision-making. Thus,
for the Khanty community to realize their social and
political aims, it is necessary that they compel a dia-
logue with the administration over the organization,
and management of the OTTP. A package of docu-
ments that was provided to the okrug officials in mid-
November was also sent to the Surgut administration.
The data gathered on these two field trips were
combined with ethnographic data gathered previously
at selected extended family settlements and with
ethnohistoric data compiled from a survey of nineteenth
and early twentieth century literature. Confirmation of
survey results should come from field observations;
but clearly, the same constraints that were factors in
administering the survey made direct observation of
the relevant behaviors in every household impossible.
A second concern, then, was to identify a few repre-
sentative households with whom we could establish
a long-term relationship that permitted direct obser-
vation under the relevant conditions. In the Cultural
Resources Survey and Assessment now underway, we
have identified specific extended family settlements
on the Bolshoi and Maiyi Yugan Rivers, which our own
previous fieldwork or the survey indicated had one or
more family members who were known to the com-
munity as cultural specialists or who were likely to
have a substantial body of knowledge concerning
Khanty beliefs and practices associated with the land-
scape. Especially sought after were oral traditions, es-
pecially toponymic and local legends, etiological sto-
ries, memorates, and oral historical narratives, from hunt-
44/At Lake Larlumkina near the top of the Bolshoi Yugan River is a complex cultural heritage site, consisting ofan
active cemetery, two nearby archaeological sites, and this sacred place with labases which serves as homes for
three spirits and their helpers.
ANDREW WICET AND OLGA BALALAEVA
ing and traveling to homebuilding, all of which might
dramatize Khanty values, beliefs, and practices associ-
ated with the landscape.
2000 Field Seasons
The co-authors went to the field twice in 2000, each
time identifying a specific extended family settle-
ment for confirming data gathered on the survey
and better understanding seasonal uses of the land.
In July 2000, the team traveled to the Kuplandeyevy
settlement on the middle part of Bolshoi Yugan River,
to interview two brothers, both sons of a shaman,
and the elder, Nikolai Petrovich, also one of only
two remaining singers of Bear Festival songs. We
subsequently learned that two months after we had
left Nikolai Petrovich, he passed away. In Decem-
ber, we traveled again to Kurlomkiny, this time to
observe winter hunting practices, as well as to dis-
cuss the findings of our survey. Kurlomkin is the only
person on Bolshoi Yugan River beside Kupland-eyev
who knows Bear Festival songs.
Findings
All ethnographic findings concerning Khanty values,
beliefs, and practices associated with the landscape
disclosed so far by the Khanty Cultural Conservation
Program have implications for the development of co-
management policies for the planned protected area
in the Bolshoi Yugan River basin.
Ethnographic Findings
The project has produced a number of findings signifi-
cant for understanding the West Siberian boreal forest
as a Khanty "cognized" landscape. It confirmed our
governing hypothesis: Khanty conceive of a complex,
but direct and roughly isomorphic connection between
the multiple layers of their religious pantheon and the
different levels of land use. The relationships are:
(a) The High Gods : Sky, Earth Surface, Underworld
generally
(b) Their Children : Major Tributary Rivers
(c) Their Children's Children : Family Hunting
Territories
Using toponymic and ethnographic data from our own
work and the work of others, we developed a typol-
ogy of sacred places that distinguishes between un-
modified geophysical features—such as lakes, whirl-
pools, sand bars, high places, and sacred groves—and
those geophysical features that have been modified
by the addition of constructions. Such sites are "sa-
cred" because a mythological event is associated with
them.
We can assert that the Yugan Khanty recognize that
some sites that they might not classif/ as "sacred" are
nevertheless seen by them as "culturally significant."
This is especially true of some archaeological sites to
which oral historical legends are attached.
Fieldwork interviews, archaeological survey, and a
review of the ethnohistoric literature all confirm that
wide forest trails, marked on contemporary maps as
"reindeer roads," are often of great age and of enor-
mous significance to the cognitive map by which Yugan
Khanty establish their social and historical connections
to Khanty communities on other river systems.
Khanty thoroughly understand ecosystems as fish
and game habitats, as well as the concepts of microen-
vironments and population cycles, and differentially
value each of the four major ecosystem types found in
the Middle Ob River basin relative to the contribution
of their resources to the traditional economy.
While Khanty understand their family hunting terri-
tories as bounded entities, that single boundary does
not adequately express their appropriation of landscape.
Our earlier ethnographic work confirmed that certain
traditional practices represented in nineteenth century
ethnohistoric literature still pertain: Khanty landhold-
ers partition their territory into fractions that they allo-
cate to other family members; they transfer use rights
to resources even while retaining claims to the land;
and they still permit "hot pursuit" onto their territories
of animals chased from neighboring lands. As we found
out in our December 2000 trip to the Kurlomkiny settle-
148 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
ment, and it is a datum never reported before, Khanty
hunters perceive different levels of exclusivity in "hold-
ing" their lands: areas for trapping are the exclusive
domain of the landholder, known in these circumstances
by the Russian-Khanty epithet, pyt'//c/or"[trap]line man,"
where trespass is severely approbated, while other
areas are less exclusively claimed, and hunting-fishing
trespass less approbated.
Yugan Khanty families often hunt beyond their
family lands, a historical situation aggravated by the
creation of the Yugan Zapovednik. This has meant
that Khanty conceptualizations do not coincide with
( either governmental administrative boundaries or
with natural definitions, such as tributary drainage
i systems.
Policy Implications of Findings
In ethnographic landscape studies, all findings of eth-
nographic significance will have direct implications for
the management of behaviors, lands, and resources,
which will often emerge as problem areas highlight-
ing different conceptions of landscape. For example,
the development of national or international regimes
of legal protection requires generalized categories of
sites that can accommodate the dynamic character of
tradition. Nevertheless, generalized categories have the
potential for missing the site-specific or culture-spe-
cific features of a place from which its sacred character
derives. One solution might be to generate simple lists
or registers of identified sacred places, but such lists
require some generalized principles to justify the in-
clusion of places in the register. They also lack the
ability to guide planners in terms of what to consider in
the development process and tend to be generated
by the development projects that disclose the exist-
ence of sacred places at the last minute. This tension
between generalized (emic) typologies and culture-spe-
cific (etic) typologies is especially felt in developing
protection regimes for natural sacred places of indig-
enous peoples. Our concerns focus on three main ar-
eas of confusion.
ANDREW WICET AND OLGA BALALAEVA
Problems ofForm
It is typical to identify natural sacred sites according
to particular elements of landscape. For the Khanty,
these would include: lakes, rivers, swamps, uris, whirl-
pools, rapids, turns, and confluences of rivers, hills,
ravines, islands, promontories, sacred groves, indi-
vidual sacred trees, and stones. Two difficulties
emerge with such a simple strategy: the problems
of Complexity and Scale.
Complexity. Such a simple model of identification
does not consider that natural sacred places may often
be composed of several natural elements. On the Yugan,
Pim, and Kazym Rivers, for example, the majority of
sacred swamps include different kinds of high places:
hillocks (Russian: bugor), ridges (Russian: gryady), "is-
lands" (Russian: ostrov), or isolated trees, although there
are several examples that indicate that simply swamps
themselves can have special status. Sometimes differ-
ent toponyms point to the same place. Local people
call Iming Soyem (sacred creek)—located in the Trom-
Agan River basin near Yubileinoe village (Russian:
Svyatoy Ovrag, Sacred Ravine). The problem is even
further complicated when one considers that such natu-
ral sacred elements may also include cultural elements,
such as constructions to house the spirits. The region
of Lake Larlumkina on the Yugan River is considered
in its combination of several natural and cultural ele-
ments: the lake itself and high places near the lake
shore, as well as a three shrines, a cemetery, and two
archaeological sites. One very knowledgeable Khanty
person suggested that the entire basin of the Pim River
is considered by many Khanty to be sacred.
Scale. The complexity of such forms raises the ques-
tion of what exactly should be protected in a site-
based regime of legal protection. This is a matter of
both area and access. Area questions have to do with
establishing boundaries of sites to be protected; in
very large areas, like Larlumkina, this may involve de-
veloping zonation strategies. Access questions are
raised by the scale of a site as well as its function:
Does access require a special route to the site that
1 49
should be incorporated into a protection plan? Do the
functions need to be protected from observers?
Problems ofFunction
We found it very difficult to strictly categorize sites
according to their presumed function. When a place is
referred to as sacred, what attributes of it are actually
being pointed out. Our experience with the Siberian
Khanty, as well as reports from several Native Ameri-
can groups (Kelley and Francis 1 994), suggests that a
place is typically referred to as sacred because of its
association with religious belief (myth) and/or cultic
practice. Yet, even these terms acquire a certain flex-
ibility as tradition begins to shape itself out of the
seeds of an origin long since lost to cultural memory.
Cultic Functions. Because of the high visibility of
and anthropology's bias toward cultic activity, sites as-
sociated with offerings, sacrifices, or other forms of cultic
behavior are often foregrounded in typological sys-
tems, in a manner parallel to the foregrounding of sites
marked by constructions, as opposed to sacred natu-
ral features. This poses several problems, not the least
of which is the fact that the sacredness of cultic sites
may be reconfigured. Cultic practices may persist even
after any memory of the mythic event or association
that focused attention on the place has been lost. We
have contemporary data that the religious power that
once energized recently destroyed sacred places can
be communicated to newly revealed sacred places,
or, simply, new sacred places, hitherto unknown, may
be revealed to the community through dreaming or
other culturally sanctioned channels. These places have
no mythic associations.
Mnemonic-Iconic Function. As American anthropolo-
gist Keith Basso (1 996) has demonstrated, the associa-
tion of place with myth and legend often gives sites a
substantive mnemonic function as a culture's beliefs,
values, and normative practices are mapped onto a
landscape filled with stories. For example, on Bolshoi
Yugan River, near Kykalevy settlement, a sacred whirl-
pool is marked by the following legend:
1 50
When people came and began to travel
along the Yugan, and the [god's] wife was
probably very ill-natured. She began to
confuse people to delay them. Later, the
grassy bank there, when it dried entirely
[after the water lowered later in summer]
became like stone. Her husband became
angry and kicked her. Below this place
appeared a deep, deep whirlpool. 'If you
don't want to look at people, then you
should live in a deep whirlpool,' [so the
husband addressed the wife].
It is important to understand that even if no cultic
practice emerges from this association, the associa-
tion is functional in the strictest sense. Nevertheless,
there is as much flexibility with this mnemonic-iconic
function as with the cultic function. Religious belief
can be enlarged from a mythic association to include
associations with legend. An archaeological site, Vosh
Vort Pay, on the upper Maiyi Yugan River is considered
sacred because of its legendary, quasi-mythic associa-
tions: To this place sand had been brought to create an
island in the middle of the swamp on which a fortress
had been built of large, palisaded logs. Other logs were
dragged up the slope and stacked for defense; when
the enemy attacked, the logs were released to roll down
on them. According to legend, people known as Aryx
Yakh, "The People Sung About" in Khanty epic songs,
lived there: "The people were about three meters
tall. What was strange about them was that they
had no navels. These warrior giants' names were
Nyomyl and Toruk." Interestingly, other texts we re-
corded from different sources say that the gods had
no navels.
While many countries have a regime of legal pro-
tection for cultic places categorized as places of reli-
gious worship, as well as a regime of legal protection
for places with a mnemonic-iconic function catego-
rized as places of cultural significance, it is unclear
whether the legal systems of most countries compre-
hend the ambiguity in and linkage between these cat-
egories from an indigenous perspective. The result is a
scattershot pattern of protection that focuses on some
sites highly marked by Western standards, while over-
looking the broad and complex network of function-
PROTECTINC THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
45/ Khanty caretaker, Yefim Kolsomovatthe labas commemorating where the high god Torum stepped down onto
the earth. The site is featured in the model documentation presented in Table I
.
ality that links these more visible sites with the other,
less-visible ones.
Problems of Participation.
The complex relationship between social structure
and indigenous religious belief and practice is also a
cause for confusion. We have identified more than 1 50
sacred sites in the Middle Ob River basin; but the
fractions of the population who participate, through
knowledge, belief or practice, in the traditions asso-
ciated with these sites (Fig. 45) vary considerably and
pose problems for developing both typologies and re-
gimes of legal protection.
Khanty social organization is based on extended
families or lineages, with related lineages grouped
into clans (Khanty cir). While the present settlement
pattern has been influenced by migration and forced
relocation in the Middle Ob region, evidence from our
own fieldwork and the ethnographic record indicates
that different Khanty clans even today claim traditional
use rights to different river systems tributary to the Ob
River, in part because they believe their lineage was
founded by divine ancestors who were also respon-
sible for the creation of the river systems on which the
majority of the clan lives (Pupi [bear] cir. Bolshoi Yugan
River; makh [beaver] cir. Maiyi Yugan River). Most Khanty
extended families live on traditional family hunting ter-
ritories, protected by family gods who are considered
offspring of the lineage's founding deities. These lin-
eage deities are the seven sons of the high god, each
a patron of a major tributary of the Ob River. Roughly
speaking, the principal deities are responsible for cos-
mological-level events, their first-generation offspring
for the watersheds of the major tributaries, and the
second-generation offspring for individual family lands
along each watershed. Traditional Khanty thus believe
that sacred power has been historically invested in
both the landscape and the lineage.
ANDREW WICET AND OLCA BALALAEVA 151
This, however, creates an apparent and problem-
atic hierarchy of interest. Khanty do distinguish be-
tween communal (Russian: obshchie) sacred sites, clan
sacred sites, and family sacred sites. Nevertheless, be-
cause each category is embedded in the one above it,
all, even a particular extended family's sacred place, is
said to have a bearing on the success and prosperity
of the Khanty community as a whole. Consequently, it
would be incorrect to view community-wide sites as
somehow more significant than the sacred places of
individual, extended families.
Recommendations and Conclusions
The definition of familiar cultural resources, such as sa-
cred sites, cemeteries, archaeological sites, and his-
torical monuments, as very narrowly circumscribed lo-
cations is inevitably flawed, especially when dealing
with the cultural resources of indigenous peoples. In
our experience, among indigenous peoples:
—"Site" implies a boundedness or localization of
phenomenon that may not obtain,
—"Sacred" is a category of inquiry that is less use-
ful than "cultural significance"
—"Cultural significance" is very locally determined
and cannot be presumed without intensive field-
work
—"Cultural significance" is less likely to be signaled
by a preservable characteristic of objects or places
than by a set of proscribed human behaviors
Based on our experience, we believe that ethnographic
landscape projects should:
—Identify the ways in which local uses of key terms
of environmental, preservationist, and other social
science discourses differ from the way the terms
are used by advocacy and interest groups
—Link "site" and "behavior" through "discourse" by
focusing principally on documentation of personal
narratives, oral history, and folklore
—Integrate "sites" into networks based on ethno-
graphically determined patterns of human behav-
ior or conceptualization, not on typologies of form
—Combine the documentation of conventionally
1 52
recognized forms of culturally significant sites with
the documentation of social and economic uses
of land
—Understand ethnographic landscape as a "lay-
ered" not just a "partitioned" complexity
The effort to create a co-managed, protected territory
for the Yugan Khanty is ongoing. Our work on the Cul-
tural Resources Survey Project concludes next year;
the charter for the Yaoun Yakh Community Association
is being redrawn to conform to new laws on commu-
nity associations. We continue to pursue other legal,
social, and scientific approaches to preserving the lands
of the Yugan Khanty, such as nominating archeologi-
cal sites, singly and in networks, for protected status.
The effort to save the land and culture of the Yugan
Khanty represents an initiative of great importance for
Russia. For indigenous people in a country that has no
tradition of recognizing indigenous peoples' sover-
eignty, nor as yet has any laws recognizing the unique
status of indigenous people or providing for private,
individual or communal land ownership, the proposed
protected territory provides a legal basis for local self-
government and control of land use in their traditional
territory. For conservationists, it represents the first op-
portunity to effectively monitor with the close coop-
eration of the local population the human impact on a
complex ecosystem and manage with them its sus-
tainable development. Grounding cultural conservation
programs among indigenous peoples in policies based
on a dynamic model of human ecology, rather than on
a static and more easily contested model of historical
preservation, has several advantages. It means at once
a more comprehensive program, based on the con-
cept of "landscape," rather than "site," and a more ef-
fective program, since it manages behaviors ('uses')
rather than structures or things. Moreover, under this
banner, conservationists can become allies, instead of
antagonists of Native interests.
The successful establishment of a protected area
for the Yugan Khanty now depends principally on ex-
traordinarily powerful petroleum magnates and on the
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUGAN
will of government authorities, who are also respon-
sible for the sale of oil licenses. Though the financial
costs of oil production in the Yugan basin are extraor-
dinarily high, to say nothing of the tragic and irrevers-
ible human cost to the Khanty, pressure from oil com-
panies continues, and tracts of the Yugan River basin,
which the Khanty use to feed their families, are still
being sold. Unlike the situation in the West, where lo-
cal constituencies might find government instruments
to exert political pressure on their own, and where
the greatest threat to cultural landscapes often comes
from trespassers, poachers, and grave robbers, silence
is not the best conservator of cultural value. In the
political and economic environment of Siberia, the sci-
entific gathering and public dissemination of ethno-
graphic information is essential. First, publication
makes deniability impossible for policymakers. Sec-
ond, it demonstrates the complexity and indispens-
ability of the cultural landscape in ways that expose
the weak, exploitative nature of stand-alone cultural
programs, such as festivals and museums, sponsored
by Russian officialdom. Third, dissemination of infor-
mation on cultural landscapes can frame an alternative
discourse to those of natural resource exploitation and
contested rights that may powerfully serve the inter-
ests of cultural conservation.
For Russia—a country with many nature reserves
but a poor record of protecting the environment and
sustaining the internationally acknowledged rights
of indigenous peoples—the proposed Yugan Khanty
Protected Territory thus represents a unique
initiative.
Notes
1. The official listing of these peoples is pro-
vided in "O yedinom perechene korennykh mal-
ochislennykh narodov Rossiiskoi Federatsii" (On the
unified list of indigenous minority peoples of the
Russian Federation), 24 March 2000. For overviews
of Khanty culture, see Levin and Potapov 1956;
Kuiemzin 1984; Kulemzin and Lukina 1992; Balzer
1994; and Golovnev 1995. Balzer 1999 is a very
ANDREW WIGET AND OLCA BALALAEVA
valuable ethnohistorical work. Earlier works include
Karjalainen 1995 [1922]; Chernetsov 1987 [1927];
and Dunin-Corkavitch 1995 [1904].
2. The authors thank The John D. and Catherine
T. MacArthur Foundation for their support of field-
work among the Western Siberia Khanty in the men-
tioned projects. Further information about the projects
can be found on the World Wide Web at: http://www/
nmsu.edu/~english/hc/hcsiberia.html
3. Data based on authors' fieldwork at the
Kaimysovy extended family settlement. Upper Maiyi
Yugan River, Surgut Region, Khanty-Mansi Autono-
mous Okrug, June 1996.
4. Alliances between environmental interests
and indigenous interests are widely proclaimed in
the international arena, but they have a mixed record
of success, if measured by amicable cooperation in
the pursuit of mutual interests (see Stevens 1 997).
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PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUCAN
[Njenets ^acred ^ites
as Ethnographic Landscape
GALINA P. KHARYUCHI'
In the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area {Okmg) in North-
west Siberia—as in many other regions of arctic Rus-
sia—the problem of preserving cultural sites and monu-
ments related to local Native people is quite acute
[see Fedorova, this volume]. Environments are chang-
ing and many habitats are being broken up under rapid
industrial development, mainly for oil and gas, of the
indigenous population's lands. The traditional system
of wildlife management, subsistence usage, and land
preservation is deteriorating. In the near future, devel-
opment will begin in the northernmost section of the
West Siberian tundra and may even include the High
Arctic coastland and offshore grounds, where proven
oil and gas deposits exist. In conditions of such rapid
industrial development, the preservation, registration,
and governmental protection of ritual sites as monu-
ments of the ethno-cultural heritage of indigenous
people are acquiring greater urgency.
In 1 990, a new research unit, the Laboratory of Eth-
nography and Ethnolinguistics, an offshoot of the InstiWt
Problem Osvoeniia Severn (IPOS; Institute of Problems of
Development in the North), was established in the city
of Salekhard, the regional center of the Yamal-Nenets
Area. Since 1998, it has been transformed into the
"Center for Humanitarian Research on Indigenous Mi-
nority Peoples of the North of Yamal-Nenets Au-
tonomous Area" (CHR). Representatives of the region's
indigenous peoples—the Nenets, Khanty, and Selkup—
became staff researchers and scientific collaborators.
One crucial field of CHR activities became the map-
ping of sacred sites (or "ritual places") of the area's
indigenous people, which was named a key heritage
goal by the local Association of Indigenous Minority
People of the region, Yamal—Potomkam! (Yamal: For
Our Descendants!). In 1994, two CHR staff research-
ers—Leonid Lar and I—began surveys under this pro-
gram. Lar made a draft map of the Yamal District
sacred sites and prepared it for publication (Lar 1 995).
He later used it for his Ph.D. dissertation, 'The Tradi-
tional Religious Worldview of the Nenets," which he
defended in 2000 (Lar 1 999).
As a Native researcher and a Nenets woman born
into a nomadic reindeer herding family on the Cydan
Peninsula, I was responsible for mapping Nenets sa-
cred sites in my native region, the Cydan Peninsula
(Fig. 46), which is territorially a part of the Taz District
of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Okrug.
Both Lar and I were sharply aware of the scientific
importance of this work, and the impacts of industrial
development spoke to its practical urgency and value.
The immediate task was to identify and document the
remaining monuments of spiritual culture forthe Nenets
people—because the destruction of Nenets sacred sites
in areas that had undergone oil and gas development,
road construction, and other industrial activities was
taking place before our eyes. We did not know how to
create a system for protecting sacred sites, but we felt
that a special administrative ruling or legislative act
was essential to prevent their damage and destruction.
Extensive oil and gas exploration has taken place
on the Cydan tundra since the 1 970s, and several known
Nenets ritual places and sacred sites have already been
1 55
destroyed during the early geophysical and explor-
atory surveys. The indigenous tundra residents, the
Nenets herders and fishermen, have been powerless
against these intruders. The geologists were drilling
holes in our land,-^ and were disturbing the peace of
the Lower World's inhabitants and the spirits of sacred
places. Where possible, Nenets people have restored
the damaged sites and conducted ritual "cleaning"
of the area. But they did not know how to protect
their sacred places.
In December 1 994, 1 first reported on this project at
the Third World Archaeological Congress in New Delhi
in a paper titled "Mapping Nenets Sacred Sites of Gydan
Peninsula" (Khan/uchi and Lipatova 1 998). In 1 999, I
defended a Ph.D. dissertation titled Traditions and In-
novations in the Nenets Ethnic Culture, later published as
a book (Kharyuchi 1999a, 2001). Its second chapter,
"The Sacred Sphere of the Traditional Nenets Society,"
was dedicated to Nenets beliefs and rites related to or
performed at sacred sites, and to their modern transfor-
mation. The map I made of Nenets sacred places on
the Gydan Peninsula (at the scale 1 :2,000,000) was at-
tached as an appendix to my dissertation (Kharyuchi
1 999b; 2001 ;21 6a). Some seventy traditional sacred sites
of the Gydan Nenets that still exist and are revered
today are designated on the map (Kharyuchi 2001 :216-
7). For each sacred site, the following information was
recorded: traditional site name and its interpretation;
origin of the site; events and legends (stories) related
to the site; and its modern preservation status (condi-
tion). Many Nenets traditional sacred sites in the study
areawere first documented more than seventy-five years
ago by V. Toboliakov, a participant of the Gydan Expe-
dition of the Russian Academy of Sciences in 1 926-
1 927 (Toboliakov 1 930). This made it possible to com-
pare the state of preservation, functionality, and
changes of various sacred sites over almost eighty
years, as well as the preservation of the rites and
oral traditions related to them. This chapter dis-
cusses my work in surveying and documenting
Nenets sacred sites and some of the results.
Sacred Places: a Personal View and Fea-
tures of the Ethnographer's Work
Beginning my work, I experienced a deep internal emo-
tional conflict. I, a Nenets woman, born and brought
up in a traditional family of reindeer herders, knew well
the complexity of the task and the challenges I faced.
As a Nenets woman, it was difficult for me to collect
information about sacred sites, because of the tradi-
tional gender roles prescribed from childhood and the
many taboos still practiced in the nomadic Nenets so-
ciety, especially in the sacred sphere. Sacred rituals are
still almost exclusively the men's area of knowledge
and activities. Women are rarely if ever included and as
low-level participants at minor rituals only. All informa-
tion pertaining the origins, clan and family ownership,
and the rites to be performed at sacred places is still
strictly controlled by men. Therefore, women, even
senior ones, are often quite ignorant about sacred sites
and are presumed to be such under traditional system
of beliefs.
The initial stage of my survey was especially ardu-
ous. During my first field trips, or while on short holi-
day visits to tundra camps with my relatives—who are
practicing reindeer herders~l collected some data, in
no way advertising my main interest. I feared the con-
demnation of the elders among my family and clan
people; because of that, I felt that I should address
only youths. The young people assisted me with plea-
sure. As a Nenets woman, I could not ask questions
of the elderly men, nor demonstrate any interest in
sacred places, much less visit and describe them (ex-
cept for special female sites). I also faced many special
obstacles in approaching the sites, because I had not
achieved that advanced age when a [post-menopausal]
woman again becomes sacredly pure, and many taboos,
including those on a woman visiting ritual sites, no
longer apply to her.
It started to change once an elderly shaman from
my clan told me that I should "hold the drum in my
hands" [that is, could and should practice shaman ritu-
PROTECTINC THE INVISIBLE/ SAVE THE YUCAN
als myself]. I was surprised by his words, more so be-
cause this was our first meeting and I was not person-
ally acquainted with him, although he knew about
me. I therefore took his words merely as a joke, as I
had no extrasensory or other special abilities what-
soever. Most of my adult life had been spent in an
urban environment and in another culture. I had gradu-
ated from a high school and a teacher's college under
the Soviet system of government education and, as an
adult, continued to live in the city and communicated
less with my people on the tundra.
Probably, in a traditional society, I would have had
an unusual destiny. After this memorable meeting with
the shaman, it somehow became psychologically easier
for me to engage in documenting Nenets sacred sites.
It seemed as if I had received a "blessing" and could
now approach even elderly men and other senior per-
sons. Not everyone can relate to this theme; maybe, I
thought, it means that it is written in my destiny to do
this work in the name of protecting Nenets sacred
sites and for the sake of my people. And so, although
I have not become a shamanka [female shaman] my-
self, I could approach this sacred field from another
angle—the scientific.
I belong to the community of tundra Cydan Nenets,
a special ethno-territoriai grouping living on Gydan Pen-
insula (Figs. 46, 47). The Gydan Nenets have a special
dialect [of the Nenets language], and they live sepa-
Barents Sea
Kola
Peninsula
J Kara Sea
o
Arkhangel'sk/YNaryan MarJ^^^S^
o"^7/-'
y 5 /
udinlca v
KOMI REPUBLIC
> > /
H
(
^
^
,^"»^_Novyi Urengoy
'"Oi
Tazovskiyv /
to \
\
Khanty-Manslisk '^O.
\
/
46/ /Area populated by the Nenets people in Arctic Russia (dotted line). The study region, the home of the Cydan
tundra Nenets on the Cydan Peninsula, is shown by a diagonal pattern.
CALINA KHARYUCHI 157
rately from other groups of tundra reindeer Nenets by
virtue of our land's remoteness. My parents were rein-
deer herders employed by the Cydan State Fisheries
Processing Plant. Throughout their life, they cared for a
large herd of government-owned reindeer, and upon
retirement, they became private reindeer herders. The
family herding operation is carried on now by my broth-
ers, who live in a tundra camp; they inherited my par-
ents' reindeer together with our family guardian spirits.
I, to the contrary, left the tundra at an early age, gradu-
47/ Calina Kharyuchi (center) during a winter field survey.
ated from Tyumen University, worked for many years
as a schoolteacher, became engaged in anthropologi-
cal research, and defended a dissertation on the his-
tory and culture of my people. Although I live in
Salekhard, I try to visit my relatives on the tundra every
year, to spend some time in my native environment
and with my community. As an anthropologist (eth-
nographer), I am supposed to take a detached view of
my native tradition, observe changes in the lifestyle
and spiritual culture of my people, and to gather field
data, from which I have to make
conclusions and write scientific pa-
pers. This is a challenging path. I am
especially interested in today's
changes to Nenets spiritual culture,
and in the attitudes of modern young
people toward family relics and ritual
sites, and their own performance of
ceremonies and rituals.
It is not easy to get to my native
"roots." First, I fly from Salekhard, to
the city of Novyi Urengoy, and from
there, to the district center, the town
of Tazovskskiy. From Tazovskskiy, I
fly by helicopter to the small north-
ern town of Gyda(in Nenets: Nedya—
a pen for wild reindeer). I leave town
on a reindeer sled, traveling with my
brothers on a long trek across the
tundra to our family camp. Forty ki-
lometers (25 miles) from the town
of Cyda is the Kliel<lne l<lnan soteya
site, literally "hill of the sacred sled."
Sacred sleds with ritual objects [im-
ages of guardian spirits] are left at
this sacred site after the death of
their life-long owners. Two such
sleds have been left on Kliet<lie l<lian
soteya. One of them belonged to the
father of my fellow countryman Port
Salinder (1 91 7-1 998). A former re-
PROTECTINC THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
48/Active Nenets sacred site in Southern Yamal, / 996.
indeer herder and chair of the herders' collective farm
in the 1950s, he moved to town upon his retirement,
lived there until the end of his life, and had no reindeer
of his own. He could not keep his family ritual objects
in a wooden house that was considered spiritually "un-
clean." After his death, his son brought his father's old
sled with all his guardian spirits to this sacred site, where
it remained until recently.
In addition to sacred sleds, antlers and heads [old
skulls] of sacrificed reindeer are left at this place, as
well as traces of "bloodless" sacrifices, such as offer-
ings of food and other gifts (Fig. 48). We stop so that
the reindeer can rest, and we rub our numb arms and
legs. My brothers walk up the hill and leave their offer-
ings at the site. They sip and then pour a drop of
vodkaon the ground regaling the spirit of the site-
then leave the bottle there, placing it among the ant-
lers of sacrificed reindeer. Aloud or mentally, they talk
with the site's spirit, asking for clear weather and a safe
road. I always stay below: a woman cannot go up to
this sacred site.
We travel farther on our reindeer sled across the
snow-covered white tundra. Coming toward us along
this route are other herders from their family camps,
going for supplies or picking up their children in town.
They have been traveling for twenty-four hours or more.
We stop, greet each other, exchange news, and go
our separate ways. Their sled reindeer are tired, but
ours are anxious to head home. But any time they pass
the Khekhe l<han soteya site, all Nenets stop their sleds
without fail and conduct an offering ceremony. Once I
tried to photograph the site from a distance, but this
particular shot failed. So, I do not know what it looks
like in detail and have no recorded image of the site.
A legend about the genesis of this ritual site exists.
Once, a large caravan of reindeer sleds (in Nenets, myud)
was moving across the tundra from north to south.
The day was clear. The leaders of this long caravan
had already reached the hill that designated a water-
shed. Suddenly the sky darkened, the wind rose, and a
GALINA KHARYUCHI
whirlwind of snow began to spin. The reindeer were
falling and fighting about the sleds; the people were
ready to drop. Then they began to ask Num (the Nenets
supreme deity)^ to save them, sacrificing a white bull
reindeer as a symbol of the white whirlwind. But the
weather did not calm down; Num had not heard the
people's supplication.
Then an old Nenets, the head of this clan, having
loosened a sacred sled from the reindeer and sleds,
began to drag it toward the north, from whence the
blizzard was blowing. But it was hard for him; he was
old. Suddenly from out of the snowstorm his small
grandson appeared. The two ofthem dragged the clan's
sacred sled to the hilltop. Before their eyes, the hill
began to grow toward the sky, thus lifting the sacred
sled. Having risen to the height of a medium-sized
khorey [a wooden pole for driving reindeer, three to
four meters long], the hill seemed to stop moving. At
that very moment, the weather changed, as though there
had been no snowstorm. Like partridges, the people
began to shake off the snow. Having collected the rest
of their reindeer and belongings, they sacrificed three
bull reindeer. The people stood the heads and antlers
of the sacrificial reindeer on the hill near the clan's
sacred sled. The caravan moved off. For a long time, in
the distance, people saw the clan's sacred sled that had
been left behind.
I heard this legend in the early 1 990s from Boris C.
Shushakov, who is close to me in age. Born in 1 950, he
lives in the town of Gyda and was about forty years old
at the time. The knowledge of traditional stories con-
nected with the history and spirits of a certain site,
even among the town residents, is evidence of the
reverence for sacred places that is held by modern
Nenets people of middle and even quite young age.
I happened by this site two more times. In the sum-
mer of 1 997, after my father's funeral, we moved deep
into the tundra with the family herd and set up our
family herders' tents not far from this sacred place. Our
family was in mourning, and for an entire year, none of
us could visit sacred places. I was surprised that even
the reindeer and dogs did not go very close to that
place. The next time was in the summer of 2000. 1 had
arrived at my family camp in the middle ofJuly to make
a map of sacred sites. A neighbor from another family
at our camp, coming from the Salinder clan, made a
sacrifice to the sacred sled and ancestral spirits. Nenets
people of the Salinder clan are called khabi and are
considered of Khanty origin. In the middle of summer,
they usually make a sacrifice to ancestral spirits. Inhab-
itants of all neighboring tents must come without an
invitation and participate in the feasting, together with
the spirits. I had my own professional interest in the
ceremony; besides the fact that, as a guest, it was man-
datory that I show respect to the ancestral spirits. The
host of the ritual was a private reindeer herder who had
graduated from an agricultural institute. At one time, he
had worked as a veterinary expert with the collective
farm herd. Now there are many such private reindeer
herders on the Gydan tundra, with high school and even
higher education, who have their own herds with up to
500 to 800 reindeer.
Having moved our family camp from the site
closer to the village, we set up our tents near an
abandoned oil rig (Fig. 49), which was in the middle
of the beautiful, blossoming tundra. Remains of the
rig's metal construction, sticks, boards, and torn bags
from cement and some unknown powder were stick-
ing out of the ground; this place carried a stench.
However, a lot of good wood suitable for making
sled parts was available. On the tundra, only dwarf
birch and rose willow grow, and the only available
wood is driftwood from the shores of the great riv-
ers and the Ob Bay. During free shifts from herd
watch, our men spent time at the abandoned rig and
made sled parts. I photographed this terrible place
and asked a few general questions about tundra sa-
cred sites. Work on my map could only be done
fitfully, as the men were busy with the reindeer and
were going to the rig. But my main informant, sixty-
year-old Khatibi Ivanovich Yabtunai, came for me as
soon as he had free time and said, "Let's play map."
160 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
49/ Nenets children at an abandoned oil rig site.
We went to the back part of a tent, and I spread a
map on the ground and started to mark and write
on it. The other herders came over in stages, and
everyone who knew sacred sites identified them,
and told stories about them.
Traditional Nenets Views of Spirits and
Sacred Sites
In Nenets views, the earth (the ground) is alive, and
each hillock, hill, river, lake, and sea has a custodial
spirit. All spirits, regardless of their function, are valued
as forces that unite the Nenets people. This has been
noted by many authors as a characteristic not only of
the Nenets—both tundra- and forest-dwelling—but also
of their neighbors, the Khanty people [Wiget and
Balalaeva, this volume]. A place inhabited by a spirit
was visited not only by the social group to which the
given spirit "belonged" (or was guardian of), but also
by many of their neighbors, sometimes from very re-
mote areas. Native informants assert that the presence
of sacred sites is an indication of an area belonging to
a given people forever. Among the Khanty, the des-
ecration or destruction of any ritual structures was con-
sidered a trespass on one's clan territory (Kulemzin
1995:70). Although this statement was made in con-
nection with the Khanty people, the concept is fully
applicable to the Nenets as well.
On the tundra, elders frequently warn young people
about adopting a respectful attitude to the earth and
any hill or lake that has its own guardian spirit. In win-
ter, in the white silence of the tundra, especially in
gloomy weather or on a sunny spring day when the
horizon merges with the ground, these places orient
travelers. They are visible from afar and seem to point
the way. The same purposes are served by a burial
ground or cemetery in a high place. If it is the burial
location of an older person, it is often said that "my
grandfather or grandmother has shown me the way."
Places that are sacred in their own nght—Khebidya
(literally, sacred ground: khebidya means sacred, ya
means the ground)—are marked by the highest sacred
importance. Nenets place names signif/ing sacred sites
CALINA KHARYUCHI 161
frequently contain direct information about the sacred-
ness of a certain land feature. Khebidya ya is added to
common place name-formants, such as Ai^o(an island),
to (lake), soti/suti {a plateau with a wide base and gentle
slopes), syeda (a hill), yakha (a river), sokho (a high-
peaked hill with a wide base). Apparently, natural fea-
tures that contain spirits make up the most basic cat-
egory of Nenets ritual sites.
Sacred sites have no precisely established borders
and no marked transitions into the nearby non-sacred
landscape. Usually such sites are located in noticeable
places, near a stone of some special shape, on top of a
hill, or on the shore of lake (Fig. 50). A lake, too, can be
sacred; and, therefore, people are forbidden to fish in it,
or it is mandatory that the first catch be sacrificed to the
spirit of the sacred lake. A shaman determined when a
sacred site should be revered by everyone or by a
particular clan or family, as well as what needed to be
placed there or was considered khekhe (spirit). The sha-
man also determined which image this spirit—the cus-
todian of the given sacred place—has.
Thus, sacred places are actively used cultural sites.
They are usually located in the areas where reindeer
herders live continuously and use for their economic
activities, although particularly practices, such as herd-
ing, fishing or trapping, are traditionally limited or of-
ten completely forbidden at or near the site. This clearly
puts Native sacred sites to the category of "monuments
of spiritual culture." They accumulate significance
through a long history and are characterized by a con-
servatism of form and ways of practicing/performing
certain ritual activities. Such functions allow us to de-
fine a ritual site as a nomadic people's equivalent to a
temple. Actually, northern sacred sites are true open-air
temples for my people. Here one can find all major
spatial and spiritual components of a temple, such as a
strict layout of the sacred space; a sculpture or an ob-
ject of religious significance; the developed attributes
of a ritual at the site focused on this central object or
sculpture; specified norms and rules of behavior for
participants; and a sustained tradition about the for-
1 62
mation and reasons for emergence of the given sa-
cred site. The basic difference between a sacred place
and a temple, characteristic of major world religions, is
the obvious esoteric nature of the ritual site (Gemuev
1990; Gemuev and Sagalaev 1986:154); that is, its
visitation, and even knowledge of it, is open only to a
small circle of devoted or chosen persons.
As other peoples go to pray in a temple, for the
Nenets, such sacred places are temples: "special places
delineated in oral tradition or legends, having a special
sacred value, and possessing power over the people
who belong to a traditional community" (Balalaeva
1999:142). As Balalaeva has noted (ibid.), these places
are sacred in the broadest sense: they connect the tra-
ditional way of life of a people with sacred myths, the
most ancient cosmological planes of mythology, and
religious ritual.
Sacred islands are given special importance by
the Nenets. As ethnographer Andrei Golovnev has
pointed out,
[l]n contrast with the major world religions,
under the Nenets religious beliefs, the most
important temple is not considered the one
that people visit most often, but that (place)
that is nearly inaccessible or is accessible
only to the chosen few (2000:208).
And as Nenets elder Awo Vanuito has stated (Golovnev
2000:232), "the major gods live at the ends of the Earth."
Sacred islands are difficult to access, and this circum-
stance begets the appearance of new customs. Some-
times there is a transfer from the island to the mainland,
to the continental coast adjacent to the island, not of
the sacred place itself, but of all the intended special
rituals to be performed there. Thus, another sacred site
for carrying out a ritual appears on the mainland, and
the coast adjoining the island should also be protected.
For example, the Ngoya-khebidya-ya site has already
been "transferred" in such a manner from Shokalskyi
Island in the Kara Sea to the mainland, and the Yamngon
khantalba sacred site has been similarly transferred from
the nearby Sibiryakov Island.
Restoration of Nenets sacred sites destroyed by
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
50/ Nenets sacred site at Cape Tiutey-Sale ("Walrus Cape"), Northwestern Yamal, 1928.
surveyors and geological prospectors is becoming an-
other new phenomenon. The Nenets people place scat-
tered sacrificial antlers, animal skulls, stones, and other
objects on the original location. In the Nenets' views
of the spirit world, a magic force exists in features that
have an unusual appearance. If a stone sits on a given
place, a shaman could "recognize" that this stone is
none other than one of the forms into which the spirit
has become manifest. When I was twelve years old, I
once went with the children to cut tundra grass, which
is used as insoles for footwear and for mats. A fog
came up unexpectedly, and we lost the way to our
tents. We were lost for a long time, but behaved
quietly and did not panic. We became tired and de-
cided to rest on a hill. On this place, we saw a stone
that looked similar to a seated person. While sitting
around it, we decided that this was not an ordinary
stone, but the spirit of this hill. While we were rest-
ing, the fog passed, and we easily found the way to
the tents. We took the stone with us, and our fa-
ther put it [with other sacred objects] on the sa-
cred family sled.
The Survey Area
Cydan Peninsula is the northeastern-most extension of
the West Siberian plain, roughly between 68°N and
73°N and between the mouths of Taz and Ob Bays on
the west and Yenisey Bay in the east. A large part of
the peninsula is related administratively to the Taz Dis-
trict of Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Okrug. The district
also includes the northern part of neighboring Taz Pen-
insula, which is washed on the north and east by the
waters of Taz Bay. The total area of Taz District is
1 73,4000 square kilometers (66,950 square miles); its
administrative center is the town of Tazovskiy— in
Nenets, Khalmer-sede, which means "Dead Men's Cape."
Three large Native communities, the towns of Cyda,
Antipayuta, and Nakhodka, are in the district territory.
Also on Cydan Peninsula proper are several small vil-
lages and trading posts: Matyuy-sale, Yesya-yakha,
Khalmervonga, Yuribey, Razvilka, Mongatolyang,
Nyakhar-yakha, and Tanamo. The area under the Cydan
Town Council authority has more than 3,000 residents
(3,279 as ofJanuary 1
,
2004), mostly Nenets, including
several hundred nomadic families living in tundra camps.
CALINA KHARYUCHI
By decision of the Yamal-Nenets Okrug administration,
and with the consent of Russian federal agencies, Gydan
Peninsula was given the status of a "specially protected
ethno-natural territory," in which only traditional sub-
sistence activities such as reindeer herding, hunting,
and fishing are allowed.
Surveys and ethnographic research focused on
drafting a map of traditional Nenets sacred sites and
adjoining areas are regarded as critical components
to creating an appropriate legislative base for their fu-
ture protection, which is an ultimate goal of our work.
This should solve several problems. The legislative ac-
tions will protect the homeland of the Northern indig-
enous peoples, and thus will facilitate the preservation
of an ancient civilization of nomadic reindeer herders.
The actions will create additional protected areas for
preserving the flora and fauna of northern regions, which
will facilitate the continuity of natural landscapes and
sustainable development of the North.
In the territory of the Gydan Peninsula, several
"specially protected natural areas" have been estab-
lished by various legislative actions during the last
few decades.
—Gydan Federal Nature Reserve {Cydanskii gosud-
arstvennyi zapovednik)
878,1 74 hectares (3,390 square miles) in area,
this reserve of national significance was estab-
lished by Decree No. 1 67 of the Government of
the Russian Federation on October 7, 1 996. Its
purpose was "the preservation of genetic stock
of the plant and animal species, discrete types
and communities of plants and animals, and the
typical and unique ecological systems of the
North."
—Yamal State Wildlife Preserve, {Yamal'skii prirodnyi
zakaznik)
Of regional significance, the Gydan site, 1 62,000
hectares (625 square miles) in area, was estab-
lished by Resolution No. 322 of the Tyumen
Regional Executive Committee on May 1 9, 1 977,
for a period of ten years. A ruling (No. 66) by
the governor of the Yamal-Nenets Area on Feb-
ruary 11,1 997, extended its validity until 2006.
Its purpose was "[t]he maintenance of the in-
tegrity of natural communities; preservation, re-
production and restoration of disappearing spe-
cies of animals and birds; and preservation of
their habitats, flora, and fauna."
—Gydoyamovskiy State Nature Preserve
{Gydoyamovskiy phrodnyi zakaznik)
Of regional significance, this 765,000 hectares
area (2,954 square miles), is also being planned
for a large section of the peninsula. According
to the preserve's prospectus, it is designated as
a "zoological-botanical" site; that is, it preserves
the arctic flora and fauna.
In the district territory, the creation of two more pre-
serves has been proposed, the status of which will be
specified during the design phase:
—Taz Bay Fishery Preserve
Encompasing Taz Bay, including the mouth and
lower watercourse of the Taz River, a 300,000
hectares area (1,158 square miles), its goal is
preservation of a valuable fishing basin. Pros-
pecting, exploration, and commercial drilling for
oil and gas will be prohibited.
—Messoyakha Preserve
In the middle and lower courses of the
Messoyakha River, 5,000 hectares in area (20
square miles), its goals are the same as listed
for the Taz Bay Preserve.
Besides the existing and planned natural pre-
serves,'' the Taz District features two smaller "natural
monuments":
—Nyamboy, a forest "islet" on the arctic tundra,
considered "a botanical monument"
—Messoyakha, 600 hectares (1 ,482 acres) in area,
in the Lake Lysukai-to area. Renowned for nu-
merous discoveries of fossilized animals: mam-
moths, musk oxen, and so on, it has been desig-
nated as a "paleontological natural monument."
The Russian federal "Regulation for Natural Pre-
serves" also established an additional two-kilome-
ter secure zone, extending outward from the estab-
lished border of protected areas.
Several Nenets sacred sites exist on the Yavay (Evay-
Sale), Oleniy, and Mammoth Peninsulas; on Sibiriakov,
Shokalskiy, and Oleniy Islands, which are part of the
164 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
Gydanskiy Federal Reserve, on the Gydan site of the
Yamal State Nature Preserve, and on the projected
Gydoyamovskiy Preserve. In accordance with the offi-
cial Russian designation of protected areas (nature pre-
serves, monuments, and parks see Shul'gin, this vol-
ume), geological exploration, construction, and other
industrial activities are forbidden or strictly limited within
their boundaries; but the traditional subsistence activ-
ity of the indigenous population is allowed.
Several large fields of fuel and energy deposits have
been mapped and explored in the territory governed
by the Gydan Town Council:
—Shtormovoye (Storm) field, 24,000 hectares (93
square miles) in size, with gas and gas condensate
deposits
—Utrenn'ee (Morning) field, 1 22,000 hectares (471
square miles) in size, with gas, gas condensate, and
oil
—Cydanskoye (Gydan) field, 65,000 hectares (251
square miles) in size, with gas and gas condensate.
Legislative Basis for the Protection of
Nenets Sacred Places
In April 2001 , the Federal Duma of the Russian Federa-
tion enacted the federal law "On the Lands of Tradi-
tional Subsistence-Use of the Indigenous Minority
Peoples of the North, Siberia, and the Russian Far East,"
which had been discussed by the Russian Federal Duma
(Parliament) for many years. According to this law, pri-
ority areas used for traditional subsistence are desig-
nated to provide conditions for the preservation and
development of "historically established" economies
that are the basis for the daily activities and spiritual
culture of Northern indigenous peoples. Priority sub-
sistence use areas include reindeer pastures, clan and
ancestral hunting-and-fishing grounds, natural monu-
ments, and ritual-cultural places. In the neighboring
Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug [to the south of the
Yamal-Nenets Okrug], where the majority of the Native
lands are under industrial development, it has been
proposed that a part of the lands now under industrial
development be withdrawn and designated as priority
subsistence-use areas of the Native population [see
Wiget and Balalaeva, this volume]. A paradoxical situa-
tion thus arose: it is necessary to "withdraw" ancestral
Native lands from industrialists and oil companies in
order to return them to their owners.
According to the enacted laws, "priority subsis-
tence-use areas" in the North are to be secured for
registered "enterprises" of traditional economy(ies)—
that is. Native family or clan herding and fishing coop-
eratives, communities or other economic institutions
employing Native people. In the area under consider-
ation, which is administered by the Gydan Town Coun-
cil, no new registered community or family "enterprises"
have been created by or of local residents as yet. There-
fore, Gydan local authorities or the management of the
Gydan State Fisheries Processing Plant allocate pastures
and assign reindeer migration paths to individual rein-
deer herders or families who graze public reindeer herds
(herds owned by Okrug and local agencies).
In Yamal-Nenets Okrug, the local legislative and
executive authorities think that the actual economic
life-sustaining base of these people is the land in the
so-called "traditional subsistence-use areas." The total
area of these lands in the Yamal-Nenets Okrug is
76,925,000 hectares (297,000 square miles). It is essen-
tial to secure traditional subsistence-use lands for local
residents before any active industrial development takes
place so that the lands do not need to be withdrawn
later, as has been recently proposed for the neighbor-
ing Khanty-Mansi Okrug.
On October 1 , 1 997, a law was enacted in the Yamal-
Nenets Autonomous Okrug titled "About the Regula-
tion of Land Use in Places of Residence and Tradi-
tional Economic Activity by Indigenous Minority
Peoples of the North on Lands of Yamal-Nenets Au-
tonomous Okrug." The creation of communities and
the securing of ancestral lands are being carried out
based on the recently enacted Culy 2000) Russian fed-
eral law, "About General Principles for Establishing Com-
munities of Indigenous Minority Peoples of the North,
Siberia, and the Russian Far East," and Chapter 6 of the
GALINA KHARYUCHI
Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Okrug Law, "About Local
Self-Management in Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Okrug,"
which is titled "The Form of Providing for the Local
Self-Management of Indigenous Minority Peoples of the
North in the Areas of Their Compact Residence." This
law was enacted in December 1 996.
The version of the "specially protected natural ar-
eas" that is known as "Ethno-Natural Parks" is another
form of protection for the indigenous population's lands
in the Russian North [Shul'gin, this volume]. The legal
basis for establishing ethno-natural parks is found in
Section 1 U, "On Natural Parks," of the Russian federal
law (No. 33-F3) of March 14, 1995, "About Specially
Protected Natural Territories." In the Yamal-Nenets
Okrug, a law titled, "About Specially Protected Natural
Territories of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Okrug,"
also was enacted on October 14, 1997. A federal law
titled "About the Bases for Government Regulation of
the Social and Economic Development of the North of
the Russian Federation" (Article 1 2) was enacted June
1 9, 1 996. Another important legislative act is the Yamal-
Nenets Autonomous Okrug Law of October 21,1 998,
titled, "On Reindeer Herding." This law establishes the
legal, economic, environmental, and social bases by
nominating reindeer herding as one of the key tradi-
tional economic activities for Northern indigenous
peoples, it also created conditions for support of effec-
tive economic practices of Native herders and for the
preservation of their traditional lifestyle and culture
{Sbomik zakonov 1 999:493). The federal version of the
same law pertaining to the reindeer herding activities
of the indigenous peoples of Siberia and the Russian
North is still under deliberation by the Russian Federal
Duma (as of 2004).
Presently in the Yamal-Nenets Okrug, lands under
heavy industrial (oil and gas) development are, for the
most part, located in the Pur, Yamal, and Nadym Dis-
tricts, and in the southern section of Taz District, where
major oil and gas deposits have been under explora-
tion and industrial exploitation since the 1 970s. In these
areas, the traditional habitat of the indigenous peoples
is being severely damaged, and several measures are
being taken for restoring traditional economic sectors,
for example, by creating clan- and family-based Native
"communities" [cooperatives or other economic units].
Establishing such communities and registering them as
economic units is one form of securing traditional-use
lands for individual families or clan- and territorial-based
groups. However, by 2001 , in the entire Yamal-Nenets
Okrug's territory, only five "indigenous communities"
had been registered, with a total population of 1 ,251
.
Of those communities, four were in the Pur District and
one was in Priural'sk District. That is why adoption of
the Russian federal law "About the Traditional Use Lands
of Indigenous Minority Peoples of the North" is so
essential for resolving problems related to the land
rights and land ownership of the Russian indigenous
peoples. By the year 2004, the number of registered
"indigenous communities" in the Yamal-Nenets Okrug
grew to twenty-seven, but they still constitute the mi-
nority of the okrug's Native population.
Matters are more favorable in my native area, on
the Gydan Peninsula. The development of oil and
gas deposits there has been put on hold since the
early 1990s, and at this time the industry has no
visible impact on the daily life and the economy of
local indigenous people. Both public sector Native
employees of the municipal enterprise "Gydan State
Fisheries" and individual nomadic families are en-
gaged primarily in traditional economic activities,
such as reindeer herding, fisheries, trapping, and so
on. On January 1
,
2003, there were 1 ,050 Native no-
madic families in the entire Taz District (with a com-
bined population of 5,188); of those, 787 nomadic
families, with a combined population of 2,373, are
under the Jurisdiction of the Gydan Town Council.
As of January 1
,
2004, the total number of domestic
reindeer in the Gydan Peninsula is about 92,000, of
which but 4,000 are owned and managed by the
Gydan State Fisheries Processing Plant [which is a
holdover from the old Soviet economic system] and
about 88,000 belong to individual families of Nenets
166 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
private reindeer herders.
The Program "Cultural Heritage of Indig-
enous People of the Yamal-Nenets Okrug":
Some Preliminary Results
However, the days will eventually come when pros-
pectors and company workers will return to our lands
to resume the aborted industrial exploitation of the
Storm, Morning, and Cydan oil and gas fields, where
dozens of active sacred sites and cultural monu-
ments of the Cydan Nenets are located. We are aware
that such a development may be resumed at any
time, and we should be prepared in the future to
face this challenge to our traditional economies,
lifestyles, and culture.
Preserving the historical heritage of Northern people,
including their reindeer-herding culture and way of life,
is a complicated problem for which the governmental
agencies, scientific institutions, and public organiza-
tions of Russia should bear (and share) responsibility.
Many new federal and local laws support these pur-
poses. Under these new Russian laws, direct responsi-
bility for preserving sacred sites lies with the compa-
nies and organizations that explore and develop the
areas where indigenous peoples reside.
Northern sacred sites symbolize both the unique
core and the most important component of cultural
heritage of the Nenets, Khanty, Selkup, and other Na-
tive people. This core can be easily damaged and even
destroyed by industrial development if left unchecked
and without special means for preservation. Therefore,
the system of protected natural areas that exists now in
Russia should include both natural protected areas and
sacred sites of the Native population. Unfortunately, in
Russia in general and in the Yamal-Nenets Okrug in
particular, very few people are engaged in the study
and documentation of Native sacred sites, much less in
their protection; and current efforts in this field are ut-
terly insufficient [see Fedorova, this volume].
The protection of sacred sites in Russia and the
designation of special status for them were discussed
CALINA KHARYUCHI
publicly for the first time in the mid-1990s only. The
issue was raised repeatedly by representatives of pub-
lic organizations, leaders of Native communities, and
heads of the Russian Associations of Indigenous Mi-
nority Peoples of the North (RAIPON). In 1 998, at the
Eighth General Assembly of the Inuit Circumpolar Con-
ference (Nuuk, Greenland; July 29, 1 998), the President
of RAIPON, Sergei N. Kharyuchi, argued for the need
to include sacred sites and ritual places of Northern
indigenous peoples in the system of protected areas
(Kharyuchi 1 998, 1 999:69-72). Sergei N. Kharyuchi, as
do I, comes from a Nenets herding family from the Taz
District. Soon Kharyuchi approached the governor of
the Yamal-Nenets okrug, Mr. lurii Ne'elov, with a re-
quest for the assistance of the okrug administration in
documenting and protecting these sacred sites. In re-
ply, in 1999 Governor Ne'elov signed a special regula-
tion in this regard (see below).
Until then, only two programs for documenting the
sacred sites of indigenous people had been in opera-
tion across the entire northern section of Russia: on
Vaygach Island in the Barents Sea—by a group from
the Institute of Cultural and Natural Heritage of Russia,
under the direction of Petr Boiarskii (Boiarskii and Liutyi
1 999; Boiarskii and Stoliarov 2000)—and, in the Surgut
District of Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug [Balalaeva
1 999; see also Wiget and Balalaeva, this volume]. On
Vaygach Island, where the Native population is vir-
tually absent and there are hardly any tourists or
geologists, the preservation of Nenets sacred sites
is probably not threatening to anyone. In Khanty-Mansi
okrug, the situation is much worse, and despite a large
amount of work on documenting sacred sites and Na-
tive ritual places, the protection of these places has
not yet been legislated.
In the Yamal-Nenets Okrug, the official documenta-
tion of sacred sites for their preservation was started;
but in the most recent years, Governor lurii Ne'elov
issued the special regulation, "About the Creation of a
Historical-Ethnographic and Scientific Research Center
for Indigenous Minority Peoples of the North" (No. 786,
1 67
December 20, 1 999). Under that regulation, provisions
were made, in particular, for financing the construction
of historical-ethnographic and scientific research cen-
ter (or "complex") in the city of Salekhard. The Scien-
tific Center for Humanitarian Research on Indigenous
Minority Peoples of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous
Okrug (CHR), an ethnographic museum with collections
on Native peoples, an exhibition hall, souvenir work-
shops, and a store, would be housed in its building.
Simultaneously, the Department of Affairs of Indigenous
Minority Peoples under the Okrug administration was
tasked with drafting a Yamal-Nenets Okrug law titled,
"About the Ritual and Religious Places of the Indig-
enous Minority Peoples in Yamal-Nenets Autonomous
Area." Together with the CHR, the department was tasked
to prepare a map of Native sacred sites to be included
in the list of cultural and historical monuments located
on the Okrug territory [see also Fedorova, this vol-
ume]. In the year 2000, a new research and survey pro-
gram, "The Cultural Heritage of Indigenous Minority
Peoples of Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Okrug" was
launched, which developed and implemented special
measures for protecting cultural heritage monuments,
including traditional sacred sites and ritual places.
For this purpose, it was necessary to produce de-
tailed maps of Native sacred sites. In 2000, preliminary
surveys for identif/ing and researching Nenets sacred
sites on the Yamal and Cydan peninsulas were con-
ducted, under a contract with the okrug administration.
I was put in charge of the surveys on the Cydan Penin-
sula, and Leonid Lar was named the principal investiga-
tor for the Yamal District. At first, we used available
handwritten and published schematic maps, which both
Lar and I made during our previous research and in
preparation for our Ph.D. dissertations (Kharyuchi 1 999,
2001 ; Lar 2000). These first maps of sacred sites were
incomplete, as they were executed in fits and starts in
the course of other field trips and short-term visits or
vacations. For the starter, I used the small-scale maps
from my dissertation and the initial text from the sec-
tion devoted to traditions and innovations in the sa-
1 68
cred sphere of the Nenets (Kharyuchi 1999, 2001:81-
1 01 ). Lar also relied on his own materials, including his
sketchy map of Nenets sacred places on the Yamal
Peninsula published in 1 995 (Lar 1 995: 1 67). Only thirty-
eight sacred sites on the entire Yamal Peninsula were
featured on this earlier map, accompanied by a short
text, although Lar has been collecting materials on sa-
cred sites since 1986 (Lar 2000:166). Since 1995, Lar
collected more extensive field data and made a much
more complete map of sacred places. He personally
surveyed many sacred sites featured on the map, whereas
others have been documented from the words of his
Nenets informants who live nearby. In total, Lar has
identified more than fifty Nenets sacred sites in the
Yamal District, with detailed descriptions, site name iden-
tifications, and analysis of their modern conditions.
For the 2000 program, new tasks were formulated,
more sophisticated methods for sacred sites documen-
tation were determined, and the first annual report was
composed in 2001. All our field reports and materials
were submitted to the Department of Affairs of Indig-
enous Peoples of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous
Okrug, which sponsored this program. As soon as fi-
nancing was available in July 2000, I left for the first
field trip in the Taz District. It was necessary to work
onsite with the local Nenets assistants who had critical
information about the sacred sites. Information about
why these maps were being made was disseminated
widely; therefore, the charting of maps and recording
of data on sacred sites involved the nomadic Nenets
population for the first time in the process of state-
sponsored protection of places of cultural significance
and lands of traditional subsistence (Fig. 51). We hope
that, in the future, local residents will be able to partici-
pate directly in land management (security measures)
and development of traditional land use. This is espe-
cially important in light of any future actions on the
development of the oil-and-gas industry on Cydan Pen-
insula and in northern Yamal.
The maps of Nenets sacred sites that Lar and I are
developing will be submitted to the register of cultural
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
51/ Nenets herders work on the map of traditional sacred sites, summer 2001
.
and historical monuments of the Yamal-Nenets Autono-
mous OI<rug. The final stage will be preparing a re-
search report and creating a map titled "Sacred Sites of
Gydan Peninsula" as a classified document "for agency
use." It is worth mentioning that no modern topographic
maps were given to us for the project and each of us
worked with old maps that we had scrambled together
on various occasions in Salekhard. I used an old map
of the Gydan Peninsula produced in 1 960, with a scale
of 1 :300,000 (1 centimeter = 3 kilometers), which fea-
tured several incorrectly located rivers and lakes, as
my informants indicated. During trips and work in herd-
ers' tents, the map became scuffed and torn. Unfortu-
nately, I had neither more detailed maps nor any other
modern equipment on these trips [such as GPS and/or
satellite and air imagery]. In December 2000, when
the preliminary maps of sacred sites were delivered
together with the report, they registered some 125
sacred sites, possibly less than half of all the existing
ritual sites of the Gydan Nenets. The revision and up-
date of the materials collected under the program was
reserved for the 2001 field season. My map of sacred
sites, with the attached descriptive materials, is to be
submitted "for agency use" only; Lar plans to publish
his data eventually as a monograph.
Final maps of sacred sites will be delivered to the
okrug administration and to the Inspectorate on Pro-
tection and Use of Monuments of History and Culture
(created in January 2000). Additional copies of maps
will be submitted to municipal agencies of the Taz
and Yamal Districts, and, through them, to local village
administrations, and to the oil-and-gas and other en-
terprises working in the two districts.
The program "Preservation of the Cultural Heritage
of Indigenous Peoples of Yamal-Nenets Autonomous
Okrug" has been the first positive experience in col-
laboration among the Okrug administration, local re-
searchers, and indigenous people. For the first time
professional ethnographers— natives to their districts
and members of the very same indigenous communi-
GALINA KHARYUCHI
ties (Fig. 52) who are interested in and worried about
the preservation of their people's heritage—have been
involved in this work. Knowledge of Native language
and traditional culture is helping us observe ethical
and moral standards while gathering materials on the
delicate topic of sacred sites, their modern uses, and
the preservation of ritual traditions connected with them.
Of course, the results of the one-year program were
limited, considering the modest funding. In 2000-2001
,
the okrug administration allocated just 40,000 rubles
[about $1400 USD] to Leonid Lar and me for our sur-
veys; we were able to accomplish little for this amount.
In my plans, I had outlined continuing the surveys and
searching for additional or new financing. But our re-
search unexpectedly received international support. In
April 2001, a seminar took place in Moscow with the
participation of representatives of the International Sec-
retariat of Indigenous Peoples, and an agreement for a
new pilot project was signed, called "The Significance
of Protecting Sacred Sites of the Indigenous Popula-
tion of the Arctic: Sociological Research in the North
of Russia." The project was supported by the Russian
Association of Indigenous Peoples of the North
(RAIPON), the Danish Environmental Preservation
Agency (DEPA), the program "Conservation of Arctic
Flora and Fauna" (CAFF), and the Indigenous Peoples'
Secretariat (IPS). For the 2001 surveys, a small amount
of funding was allocated to the Taz District of Yamal-
Nenets Autonomous Okrug, as having some experi-
ence in such studies. Additional funding was given to
surveys in the Olyutorsk District in the Koryak Autono-
mous Okrug in the north of Kamchatka.
This joint international project emphasized that sa-
cred sites of northern indigenous peoples are often
located in areas where the preservation of nature is
also important. Therefore, preservation of such sites
would promote protection of the environment as a
whole. Great attention was given to the ecological value
of indigenous peoples' traditional knowledge about
sacred sites. In the course of the project, the biological
characteristics that make a site "sacred" to local people
1 70
were to be established.
With the 2001 funding, some sociological research
was also conducted and over seventy local residents
—
Native reindeer herders, hunters, and fishermen—were
interviewed. Plans were made to extend the existing
maps of Nenets sacred sites for the entire Gydan Pen-
insula that includes Gydan and Antipayuta tundra. My
former student, Michael Okotetto, of the reindeer Nenets
origin, was appointed as the lead researcher for the
project. Michael used to work as an inspector for the
protection division of the /Vesey farming enterprise of
private reindeer herders in his native Seyakha River
region in the Yamal District. Today he is a staff re-
searcher of the CHR and he is also the head of the
herders' cooperative (obshchina) called llebts, which
means "giving life" in the Nenets language. His knowl-
edge of English was one of the selection criteria for
participating in the project. I became his advisor and
regional supervisor for the fieldwork in the Taz Dis-
trict. Together we composed a sociological question-
naire for interviewing local residents. Our fieldwork was
conducted until September 2001; then we analyzed
the collected materials, questionnaires, and site reports.
By that time, dozens of local residents were involved
in one way or another in reporting information on sa-
cred sites through our survey; and, simultaneously, we
informed local people about our tasks and dissemi-
nated materials on our previous work. Altogether, some
260 Native sacred sites have been mapped and docu-
mented within the study area, including data on the
current status of the sites; its origins; associated tradi-
tional rites; natural environment (such as, physical land-
scape, vegetation, etc.). Our preliminary project report
was produced in 2003, in both Russian and English
versions, and it will be published shortly. Brief results
of our 2001 survey were also published elsewhere
(Kharyuchi 2002a, 2002b, 2003).
Conclusion
In summary, I want to share some personal consider-
ations about the results of my work in the documenta-
PROTECTINC THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
52/ Nenets reindeer herders from the Gydan Peninsula, 2000. These men, now mostly in their 30s and 40s, are
the keepers of the life style and cultural traditions of their ancestors.
tion of Nenets sacred sites in the Yamal-Nenets Okrug
for more than a decade. In my view, personal charac-
teristics of a given researcher are very important to
this type of worl<. IVIale ethnographers have a much
wider access in studying rituals, traditions, and stories
related to sacred places (and even more information
may be open to a Native artist, such as my colleague
Leonid Lar). What is most important is the ability to
visit sacred sites and (engage in) the graphical docu-
mentation and identification of the ritual objects lo-
cated there. Certainly, even to a Native researcher who
grew up in a traditional family, it is hard, both physi-
cally and psychologically, to visit each and every known
sacred site, even for the sake of science; it is less pos-
sible (even for a male Native researcher), to make
sketches and measurements, and take photographs
there. Such actions at sacred sites usually elicit con-
demnation from local people, especially from elders.
According to traditional norms, no woman, includ-
ing a female Native ethnographer, can visit a sacred
site, except for female sites and those that are acces-
sible to everyone. Even today, this taboo is still ap-
plied strictly, even to Native scientists of local origins.
In addition to the restrictions on visiting, there are
restrictions on the specific questions a woman can pose
to men, especially to elders. Naturally, the old men did
not share with me what I could not ask them about.
Also, the attitude toward scientists even from indig-
enous peoples has a dichotomy of "ours / not ours,"
"from our region or an outsider," which has great impor-
tance. For example, in my case, my long and enduring
connections with my native region have helped my
research on Nenets sacred places on the Gydan tundra.
In my native district, most of the people in their forties
and fifties ("the middle generation"), that is, my con-
temporaries, know me well—from the boarding school,
teaching college, and/or my earlier work as a teacher.
Youths and children of school age know my name from
GALINA KHARYUCHI
the curriculum. Elderly people refer to my father's
memory respectfully; and they esteem my mother, who
raised my brothers and sisters, who are also well known
and respected people in the district. The kind memory
of my husband's late father, Nikolai Maximovich
Kharyuchi, who worked during World War II as the head
of the Red Tent Brigade on the Gydan Peninsula [edu-
cational and medical teams that offered services to the
nomadic families before the establishment of local
hospitals and schools], is still alive. His sons are now
well-known people in the district; and, they are my
relatives. 5 This also facilitated my access and worked
greatly to the success of my surveys of sacred sites.
In our tundra district, no one, especially of the Nenets
origin, has ever collected information about Native sa-
cred places, even during earlier campaigns aimed at
the persecution of shamans [in the 1 930s, 1 940s, and
1 950s]. In our area, the attitude toward visiting ethnog-
raphers has always been positive and a little bit indul-
gent because, from the Nenets viewpoint, they usually
are interested in "funny (if not foolish) questions and
things;" but no harm has ever been seen from them.
Leonid Lar, ethnographer, artist, and my partner in the
documentation of traditional sacred places, has talked
about how Nenets women laughed at him when he
asked them to show their needlework pouches so that
he could make sketches.
It is sometimes believed that more can be told to a
"foreign" researcher—that is, to a visitor, an outsider
(i.e., Zen'ko 2000)—than to one of "our own," particu-
larly if such a researcher is a woman, and especially if a
visiting ethnographer is going to pose some delicate,
even intimate (personal) questions about which "one
of us" would never dare to inquire directly. But most
likely, vague and often incorrect information would be
given to such an outside researcher, simply to be rid of
him. We find references to such obviously incorrect
information even in many solid scientific publications.
Of course, the most negative attitude of the local
population is toward oil and gas workers and geologi-
cal prospectors. Nenets elders are afraid of these newly
1 72
arrived, inconsiderate people and of their evil acts in
relation to the tundra and its inhabitants. At the same
time, they think with pity about "those who do not
know sin" and believe that these people will someday
be punished for their desecration of Nenets sacred
places and defiance to their spirits. However, I also
think with some apprehension of the archaeologists
preparing to engage in describing and studying Nenets
sacred sites and burial places (Fedorova 2000:11-2;
Kharyuchi 2000:78). It is difficult to say whether the
tundra people will understand and cooperate with them.
As a Nenets woman, I have a responsibility to fol-
low my native traditions that prescribe certain rules of
behavior (as well as certain restrictions and taboos on
the possession and distribution of sacred knowledge).
But I also recognize my huge responsibility to my
people. Frequently doubt arises about whether I am, in
fact, doing the right thing by being so actively en-
gaged in this work on documenting sacred sites and
traditional ritual places. Will this some day hurt me and
my family, my children or even my grandchildren? Have
the spirits of these places become enraged? Still, I be-
lieve that this work has to be performed in this time; it
happened that this mission fell to me as a Native eth-
nographer. And how else could we protect the most
sacred cultural property of my people? Any deliberate
policy of hiding information on sacred sites, of with-
drawing it from outsiders (such as confidential data-
bases, confidential information only "for our own
people" and so on) is possible on reservations or on
tribal lands. There, people are entitled with the rights to
their land; they control to whom and how access to
their territory is given. In our Yamal-Nenets Okrug and
everywhere in Siberia, there is none of this, which means
that anyone can come to our land (without asking our
permission) and destroy our monuments, pleading their
"ignorance."
Under traditional Nenets society, there was no need
for special protection of sacred sites: people lived by
the customs of their ancestors and did not visit sacred
places without a special purpose [such as to make ritu-
PROTECTINC THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
53/ Traditional Nenets sacred site on Yamal Peninsula, 1928.
als and offerings]. People from other groups who lived
in the villages or traveled through the tundra feared
these places and avoided them altogether; there was
never an incident of defilement or vandalism on their
part. Native people still strictly follow these rules to-
day. But times have changed: geologists, gas, and oil
workers have arrived; and we are not alone in our lands.
In the boundless tundra, we cannot put a protective
plaque at each and every sacred place (Fig. 53). Thus,
local residents themselves must protect their sites,
should put up notices, and must actively protest if their
sacred places are exposed to destruction. However,
many local people are still passive or shy with the
authorities. When they see that their sacred sites are
pilfered from, damaged, or destroyed by the new ar-
rivals, all the tundra people can do is to rely on those
who are more educated, literate, and who are more
skilled in talking to the officials. Many of my rural kins-
men still view such educated Native professionals as
the only defenders of their culture and way of life.
This means that some system of governmental pro-
tection for Native sacred places and other ritual sites is
absolutely necessary. In principle, those Native sacred
sites that are located on the lands of federal nature
reserves or local preserves (and there are quite a few of
them in our region) fall under some protection, inas-
much as access to such areas is strictly limited. At any
rate, that is what is written in federal and okrug regula-
tions about protected natural areas. Accordingly, it is
essential that the regulations on security measures and
limited access to sacred sites be applied widely and
more strictly. To put such sites under governmental
protection, it is important to identify them as sacred
places, position them on a map, and document the navi-
gational/positioning coordinates. A survey should con-
firm whether the site is located within the borders of a
specially protected natural area (preserve, reserve, bio-
sphere reserve, etc.), and determine its dimensions and
biological characteristics (such as landscape, type of
vegetation, and so on).
GALINA KHARYUCHI
All other information about sacred places is identi-
fied and recorded exclusively in accordance with the
wishes and with the full consent of the local Native
population. For example, the keeper (owner) of a fam-
ily or clan sacred site has his full right to withhold
certain information from recording and to share only
the portion he considers necessary. I believe that there
must be some sort of classified information for the
preservation of sacred knowledge and of Native cul-
tural tradition.
The recent survey and documentation of Nenets
sacred sites on the Vaygach Island [in the Barents Sea]
conducted by the Marine Arctic Interdisciplinary Expe-
dition of the Institute of Cultural and Natural Heritage
of Russia can be cited as a model for such an approach.
A mockup map of sacred places on Vaygach Island has
been prepared and a catalogue/directory of local cul-
tural monuments has already been published (Boiarskii
and Liutyi 1999; Boiarskii and Stoliarov 2000). Alto-
gether, some 1 50 natural monuments and more than
230 monuments of local history and traditional Nenets
culture are shown on the map and described in the
catalogue. The significance of Vaygach Island, which is
sacred to the Nenets and is referred to in the Nenets
language as Khekhe ngo (Island of idols), is that this
island has had no permanent Native residents during
the last few centuries. At the same time, this was the
main location of several important Nenets sacred sites
that were visited periodically. The sacred sites of
Vaygach Island held a critical place in the hierarchy of
ritual centers of the Nenets' sacred world. According to
Nenets tradition, the island was the place where the
key Nenets spirits (ancestors or major gods) used to
live and the figures or effigies (wooden sculptures) of
these main spirits were once located.
in 1827, these wooden images were destroyed
(burned) by Russian Orthodox missionaries; on Vaygach
Island alone, more than 400 wooden and twenty stone
idols were destroyed (Lekhtisalo 1 998:64-6; Veniyamin
1855:125). The Nenets believe that after the images
of the main Nenets gods were destroyed, their "spirit
children" flew off the island and settled in many places
throughout the areas of Nenets migrations, from the
Kola Peninsula to the Yenisey River. Many legends
exist related to this dispersal of the Nenets spirits from
the island and across the Nenets area. In the beginning,
two stones—idols of Vaigach-Vesako (Old Man) and -
Khadako (Old Woman)—were venerated. They had four
sons, "who dispersed to various places on the tundra."
Nyu-khekhe (Son-idol / Son-spirit) remained as a small
rock on the Vaygach Island. Minisey was a peak of the
Polar Ural Mountain Range; Ya mal khekhe moved to
the western side of the Ob Bay; and Khar Pod was a
larch glade or Kozmin Coppice in the Kanin tundra
along the White Sea shore (Veniyamin 1855:125). In
1 983, Vaygach Island, with adjoining small islands and
a three-kilometer offshore area, was declared "Vaygach
State Hunting Preserve" of regional value (total area
333,000 hectares or 1 ,285 square miles).
Sacred sites that are not located in the specially
designated natural preservation areas [such as in fed-
eral and local nature preserves, parks, etc.] and, in gen-
eral, all sacred places and burial sites of indigenous
peoples, should be protected as highly valued monu-
ments of cultural heritage. Here the mechanism of pro-
tection is knowledge about their special status and value
to indigenous peoples, that is, education and cultiva-
tion of respect for heritage monuments and for others'
cultural tradition(s). This is especially crucial in areas of
active industrial development and oil and gas explora-
tions, where there are many visitors, and, frequently,
transient people coming in large groups, such as geo-
logical parties and exploration and rig crews. Both ways
of protecting our heritage monuments—either by re-
stricting access to the lands designated under some
natural protection status or via dissemination of knowl-
edge, public education, and cultivation of respect to
Native heritage—should be effective and should supple-
ment each other.
Notes
1 . Translated by Georgene Sink. Edited by Igor
1 74 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
Krupnik and Cara Seitchek. Krupnik's editorial com-
ments are added in brackets.
2. According to Nenets traditional beliefs, the
surface of the ground is a thin border between "this"
and the Lower World. Therefore, to the Nenets, it
was strictly forbidden to dig, excavate, drill or sim-
ply pick at the ground - ed.
3. "Num" also means "sky" and "weather."
4. As of 2004, there were altogether 1 5 areas
under various forms (regimes) of federal or local pres-
ervation in the Yamal-Nenets Okrug, including the
two recently established units, Kharbey "geological
monument" and Syn-Voykar "ethnic territory," with
its special land-use status. Several more units are
currently under planning or preparation, including
the Taz Bay Fishery Preserve, Cydoyamovskiy State
Nature Preserve (both in the Taz District), and Na-
tional Park "Yuribey" in the central portion of the
Yamal Peninsula, Yamal District.
5. Galina Kharyuchi's husband, Sergei Niko-
layevich Kharyuchi, is the president of the Associa-
tion of Indigenous Peoples of the North, Siberia,
and the Russian Far East (RAIPON), and also the Chair-
man of the Duma (local legislative body) of the Yamal-
Nenets Area.
6. Nevertheless, the proposed measures for
protecting Nenets ritual monuments on Vaygach Is-
land, and especially for development of limited tour-
ism on the island, aroused alarm among the local
residents and protests by the Yasavey Association,
which represents the Native population of the Nenets
Autonomous Okrug — ed.
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1855 Samoedy mezenskie (The Mezen Samoyed).
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2000 Traditsionnaia dukhovnaia kul'tura iamal'skikh
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176 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ NENETS SACRED SITES
Land. if T^radit)scapes or j raaition,
Landscapes of Resistance
DONALD G. CALLAWAY
Fifteen years ago, in mid-winter, I took a taxi ride from
Bethel south to Napaskial<. The taxi left down the boat
landing near the Alaska Commercial Company store in
Bethel, drove up an intangibly marked ice road formed
by the frozen Kuskokwim River, and ended by driving
up a bluff into Napaskiak. Halfway through this ride I
chanced to look south and was jolted by a panoramic
view of a layered landscape. The greenish gray of the
Kuskokwim ice, the off white snow on the river-banks,
the nearly black vegetation on the tundra, and the light
buff slice of the sky's horizon pushed down by gun-
metal clouds are all indelible in my memory. I suspect
that almost anyone from any culture would share the
emotional impact of viewing similar landscapes with
such layered contrasts (Fig. 54).
It would be difficult to find a cultural heritage that
views the rivers, streams, and mountains of their envi-
ronment as a simple inanimate backdrop for biological
processes and cultural activity. Admittedly, variation
exists within any society. Many individuals in our soci-
ety have a primarily instrumental view of the environ-
ment, valuing natural resources primarily for their com-
mercial potential (Fisher 2001 :264). Others have devel-
oped a complex aesthetic with deep roots in our cul-
tural history. In fact, many philosophers of environ-
mental ethics imbue the landscape with picturesque,
sublime, and scientific values (e.g. Carlson 2000).
However, despite the widespread aesthetic experi-
ences that bind us all to landscapes, there are diver-
gent perspectives, resulting from differing cultural val-
ues, that are contested in contemporary regulatory
regimes that manage human relationships with their
environment. This chapter describes conflicts between
two different cultural resource management traditions,
forced by history and circumstance, to occupy the
same landscape. It will focus on Alaska and will con-
trast indigenous perceptions and management regimes
with those of Western government agencies.
The concept of "landscape" has manifold interpre-
tations. Mason (this volume) considers some of the
definitions codified in the U.S. National Park Service
(NPS) policy. For example, the NPS uses two generic,
but not necessarily mutually exclusive, types of land-
scape concepts—cultural and ethnographic landscapes.
This chapter borrows from both in defining a landscape
as a geographic area that includes cultural and natural
resources. These landscapes can exhibit cultural and
aesthetic values and can be associated with historic
events or with traditionally associated people or other
actors (e.g.. Western resource managers). In addition,
our consideration of landscape attempts to understand
the relationship between man and "animal,' as well as
the spiritual and ethical connection these entities have
with and in landscapes. While we do not attempt an
exhaustive typology of landscapes, our working defi-
nition includes the relationship of humans to geomor-
phic features, biological domains, and other human
agents.
Indigenous Alaskans' perceptions and experience
of landscape contrast with the Western tradition of de-
fining and managing landscapes. Both cultures' posi-
tions are landscapes of tradition, albeit very different
1 77
traditions. The political reality that empowers the
tradition of Western resource managers to make the
rules creates the context for landscapes of resistance.
In Alaska, as among indigenous groups throughout the
world (cf. Cuha 1 990; Scott 1 985), a landscape of resis-
tance is frequently characterized by a conscious fail-
ure of Alaska Natives to comply with the regulations
of Western management regimes.
This chapter describes how indigenous communi-
ties (liiupiaq, Yup'ik, and Athapaskan) name their land-
scape, articulate their relationships to animals (animal/
persons), and express spiritual values and attitudes. Local
cultural processes form the ethical and epistemologi-
cal basis for landscape management. Our comparison
of Native and non-Native values and attitudes concen-
trates, perhaps unfairly, on non-Native resource manag-
ers in government agencies. The competing views can
be reconciled, not necessarily in the sense of concur-
rence, but in the sense of an agreement to work to-
gether, an accommodation generous enough to respect
and encompass multiple views. While some may re-
gard these overlapping areas of agreement to be an
incomplete, perhaps even unsatisfactory compromise
(Soule 1995), these partial areas of agreement do al-
low for the maintenance and support of the underly-
ing objectives that sustain both worldviews—the re-
spect for and conservation of the natural resources that
sustain us all.
A major caveat is required here at the beginning of
this narrative. Constraints on chapter size, coupled with
a lack of comprehensive information, will by necessity
force the offering of assertions and generalizations as
if there is a homogenous ethnic and cultural attach-
ment to landscape. It is essential to realize that values
and attitudes vary not only between cultures but also
within cultures. Gender, age, life experience, education,
income, and "role" all influence perceptions, attitudes,
and values about the landscape from an indigenous or
Western perspective.
One empirical study, to be described below, shows
significant differences in knowledge, attachment to place
and commodity, versus spiritual values of the land found
in a sample of indigenous community residents, long-
term non-Native residents of Alaska, and non-Native
newcomers. Thus, while there are statistically signifi-
cant differences in measures between cultures, there is
also considerable variability among individuals within
the same culture.
Subsistence as more than an Economic
Endeavor
It is helpful to briefly discuss the underlying political
and legal structures that frame the "subsistence" issue
in Alaska. The 1 980 Alaska National Interest Lands
Consen/ation Act (ANILCA) provides the most impor-
tant parts of that structure. Title VIII of ANILCA, Subsis-
tence Management and Use, details the federal
government's regulatory regime. Section 803 of Title
VIII defines subsistence use as:
[T]he customary and traditional use in Alaska
of fish, wildlife and other renewable resources
for direct personal or family consumption, for
the making and selling of handicraft articles
from the non-edible by-products of fish and
wildlife taken for direct personal or family
consumption and for customary trade, barter,
or sharing for personal or family consump-
tion.
This bureaucratic definition focuses on economic
processes. Subsistence resources do provide suste-
nance and are a major portion of the diet, especially
in small communities where the costs of shipping
store-bought foods are prohibitive. However, nu-
merous research efforts show that from the (pre-
dominantly Native) local actors' point of view, the
harvest of subsistence resources does more than
supply nutrition.
Collective subsistence activities, whether gathering
clams, processing fish at a fish camp, or seal hunting
with a father or brother, often provide the most basic
memories in an individual's life. These activities de-
fine the sense of family and community. They teach
how to identif/ and harvest resources and how to pro-
cess them efficiently and without waste into a variety
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
54/ Sunset on the Yukon River.
of food items. Distribution of resources promotes the
most basic values of Native and rural culture: generos-
ity, respect for the knowledge of elders, self-esteem
for a successful harvest, and public appreciation for
sharing the harvest. No other set of activities provides
a similar moral foundation for continuity between gen-
erations.
Moreover, food preferences are the most conser-
vative behaviors in any culture. The unique preparation
and special taste of foods children encounter as they
grow up stays with them forever. Years later, the taste
and smell of certain foods evoke memories of family
and belonging. The preservation of subsistence as a
valued cultural activity depends on the continued trans-
mission of knowledge about the landscape: where to
find resources and how to ethically obtain them, pro-
cess them, and share them with others.
An Athapaskan Sense of Place
Keith Basso, who has worked for many years with the
Cibecue Apache', concludes that "Apache construc-
tions of place reach deeply into other cultural spheres,
including conceptions of wisdom, notions of morality,
politeness and tact in forms of spoken discourse, and
certain conventional ways of imagining and interpret-
ing the Apache tribal past" (Basso 1996:xv). Similarly,
Athapaskan groups in Alaska have distinct construc-
tions of place.
Tanana
Howard Luke, an Athapaskan elder, is originally from
the Tanana River town of Nenana. In 1937 he lived in
the small community of Chena Village just southwest
of the contemporary city of Fairbanks. Howard has writ-
ten a book. My Own Trail (1 998), a personal history of
his family and community in the Tanana Valley. It con-
tains a map of place names and stories of the region.
As William Schneider (1 998:1 00) writes in his Afterword,
The map is also a natural history of old
channels, good fishing eddies and Howard's
DONALD C. CALLAWAY
record of changes in vegetation and animal
populations. Glimpses and images from this
historical spectrum are the subject of his
stories and the setting for his lessons of how
to take care of the land and water.
About Toghoteelee, a hill just north of Nenana, Howard
says, "If warm weather is coming they could tell, you
could hear it on top of that hill. That used to be their
weather report right there." With reference to the Chena
River that runs through Fairbanks, he notes:
Chena River used to be a wide river, high
water, at one time. Water never did drop. We
don't respect the water and that's the reason
we're losing it. At that time people respect
the water and water just stayed right there
(Luke 1998:103).
These examples provide a small sense of how place-
names are more than mere geographical markers. Places
provide information about or note changes in the en-
vironment, changes that may be caused by failures in
ethical behavior. Ray Barnhardt (1998:xii) observes:
The Athabascan people, who have occupied
the Interior region for well over 1 0,000 years,
have developed a sense of place that is
deeply rooted in cultural traditional and
spiritual ties linked to the natural environ-
ment on which they have always depended
for their livelihood and their life. The hills,
creeks, bogs, and sloughs that show up under
English names on the (JSCS maps of the area,
take on new names and significance when
referred to in the stories by Athabascan
elders.
Dena'ina
The Dena'ina, Athapaskan speakers of the Cook Inlet
region, live a couple of hundred miles south of
Fairbanks and the Tanana River. The city of Anchor-
age, with about a quarter of a million people (over half
of Alaska's population) is located on Upper Cook In-
let. Most of the territory described in the book, Shem
Pete's Alaska: The Territory of the Upper Cook Inlet
Dena'ina (Kari and Fall 1 987), is no longer used by the
Dena'ina people. It is ironic that most Alaskans who
live on a landscape of their own contemporary con-
struction have little awareness of previous occupation
or use. The book contains maps, stories, songs, and
about 720 Native place- names. One of the authors,
James Kari, notes that:
The names and commentary presented here
convey important information about the
traditional economy, population centers,
transportation, and beliefs of the Dena'ina . . .
place names and the stories associated with
geographic features are fine examples of the
Dena'inas' rich and varied oral heritage. . . .
Here, in the south-facing basin beneath the
tallest mountains in North America, the
Dena'ina can demonstrate that they have
used virtually all lakes with food fisheries, all
the major stream basins, all of the most
accessible passes through the Alaska range,
and all lands below 5,000 or 6,000 feet in
elevation (Kari and Fall 1987:4).
The last speakers of the Upper Cook Inlet dialect of
Dena'ina learned place-names while traveling on the
landscape or by hearing the oral traditions of their el-
ders. The Dena'ina speakers reported the place-names
with affection, noting their associations with ancestors
and the land (Kari and Fall 1 987:29). The country Shem
Pete knew covered about 26,500 square miles.
The section below compares place-names from Shem
Pete's Alaska with selected entries from Orth's Dictio-
nary of Alaska Place Names (1 971 ). To facilitate com-
parison between these two naming traditions the fol-
lowing typology was developed, although it is not ex-
haustive nor does it contain mutually exclusive taxa:
—Place-names describing geological features;
—Place-names associated with subsistence activi-
ties;
—Place-names that mark an event that happened in
the past;
—Place-names indicating mineral deposits;
—Place-names that act as trail guides or maps;
—Places that reflect non-edible wildlife;
—Place-names associated with spiritual aspects of
the landscape;
Kari (1 999) notes some underlying contrasts between
the Athapaskan and Western naming conventions. For
example, Athapaskans virtually never name places af-
ter people. In addition, while no peak in the magnifi-
cent Alaska Range lacks an English name, Athapaskan
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
place-names dwindle in number as altitude increases
because seldom-used areas are rarely given names.
Athapaskan place-names define important use areas and
provide an evocative topological index to their cul-
tural history. For the sake of brevity we will illustrate
the typology mentioned above with only one example
(out of many) for each of the taxa.
Place-names describing geological features
~-Dena'ina(Shem Pete 1 987:41 ): Nadudiltnu Li'a, Gla-
cier of River That Streams Join' [McArthur Glacier]
—Western (Orth 1 971): Mushroom Reef (on Kodiak
Island), named by USC&GC in 1 929 "because of the
mushroom shape of the reef." [Note: Like other En-
glish "mushroom" places this is more indicative of
the shape of the structure rather than a guide to
good eating.]
Place-names associated with subsistence activities
—Dena'ina (Shem Pete 1987:44): Ch'k'e'ula Betnu,
'River Where We Chew Something (waterfowl)'
[Chuitkilnachna Creek, prime waterfowl hunting area.]
—Western: Orth (1971) lists no less than 35 "Fish
Creeks" and 19 "Fish Lakes" in addition to 17
"Salmon Creeks" across Alaska.
However, many of those 'Fish Creeks' have little or no
reference to fish or fishing, like the one on the Aleu-
tian Islands that received an arbitrary name beginning
with "F" to correspond to "F" grid by the U.S. Army for
tactical purposes during World War II (as published on a
1 954 Army Map Service map).
Place-names that mark an event of the past
—Dena'ina (Shem Pete 1 987:42) Tach'nach'ninchett,
'Where Someone Put a Man's Head Underwater [south
fork of Cottonwood Slough]. This name derives from a
story about a fight between two men over a single fish.
—Western (Orth, 1971): Murder Cove (Admiralty
Island). Named in 1869 because "traders occa-
sionally anchor here and one small party, while
asleep on the beach, were murdered by natives,
their boat rifled and bodies left to be destroyed
by wild animals."
Place-names indicating mineral deposits
—Dena'ina (Shem Pete 1987: 128): Chish T'el'iht,
'Where Ochre (cinnabar) is gathered,' [Three mile creek].
—Western (Orth 1971): Cinnabar Creek [SW of
Sleetmute "stone people" "people of the whetstone
people"]. Local name reported in 1944 by USGS;
name derived from the deposits of cinnabar, a mer-
cury ore, which were found there.
Place-names that act as trail guides or maps
— Dena'ina (Shem Pete 1987:41) Tubughnen
Nuch'utdali, 'Let's go back to Tyonek.' A sled trail fol-
lows this stream between Tyonek and the base of the
Alaska Range.
—Western (Orth 1 971 ): none
A thorough perusal of Orth (1971) could not provide
examples ofWestern "trail guide" place-names in Alaska,
suggesting a major difference in the linguistic and con-
ceptual construction of the landscape between indig-
enous and Western actors. The contrast is illustrated
by an oral history I conducted in spring of 1998 with
Alex Tallekpaiek in Levelock, a Yup'ik-speaking com-
munity on the Alaska Peninsula. Alex was a gracious
host and out of many memories from that discussion
two stand out: the seriousness of mind and purpose
that is required to find, harvest, and consume food; and
the absolute requirement to always know where you
are. Alex, speaking of the training he received from his
grandfather in the 1930s, constantly underscored the
survival lessons of knowing where you are:
Oh, I started from ten, when I was ten years
old. He used to tell me to, 'You go ahead
and go. I'll watch you while you go. And
then give you help. I'll time you, see how far
you travel. And make sure when you, when
you go, you remember that tree over there.
You mark it, and you go somewhere remem-
ber that tree, that little hill, you mark that,
too. That's your, your marker where you,
where you travel. So when you come back,
you, you know where, where you go. And
steady your hand. Your mountains, your
trees, your creeks and all that. He teach me
all them things, you know. Every time you
travel with dogs and come up on top of the
hill, you stop. Look around. And you look
DONALD G. CALLAWAY 181
where you came, your landmarks, don't
forget. That creek you came across, don't
forget that. ... I never did forget . . . but
when we travel, oh, every time I travel with
him he always tell me, 'Where are we now?
Did you study your landmarks?' I [just say]
'Oh yeah, I remember that little house, that
creek right there.' 'You're right.'
A couple of hundred miles northeast of Levelock,
several Athapaskan groups—Koyukon, Lower Tanana,
Upper Kuskokwim, Dena'ina and Ahtna—have shared
boundaries in what is now Denali National Park. Karl's
(1 999) work on place-names in this area identifies 1 650
features from the five Alaska Native groups who used
the park area. He describes numerous rule-driven fea-
tures of Athapaskan place-names. In many names, pre-
fixes and suffixes systematically orient the speaker's
and the listener's positions on the landscape. A prefix
might indicate the headwaters of a river, canyon, mouth
of a stream, and so forth. Suffixes might indicate up-
stream, downstream, or either bank. Karl shows how
Athapaskan place-names, functioning as signs on a
mental map, are vital for orientation in the band's large
land use area. The names cluster around stream drain-
age systems and a few prominent features (Kari
1999:11).
Place-names that reflect non-edible wildlife
—Dena'ina (Shem Pete 1987:284): Yuditnu 'Golden
Eagle Creek, '[creek on north shore of Ekiutna Lake].
There were few entries in this category, for reasons
that can only be speculated upon. First, the Dena'ina
considered almost all animals to be edible. Ravens,
eagles, coyotes, and wolves were all probably in the
non-edible category. The absence of such names
may represent a sampling artifact, reluctance to name
features after creatures with great spiritual power, or
simply disinterest in naming features after animals
with little utility.
—Western (Orth 1971): Eagle Bluff [near Eagle,
Alaska]. Local name given in the late 1 890s; so
named because of eagles nesting there (Henning,
1965:204).
1 82
Place-names associated with spiritual aspects of the
landscape
The spiritual aspects of landscape reside most
uniquely with individual cultural values and attributes.
This section amplifies the concepts of Dena'ina place-
names with material from the Han, an Athapaskan group
now residing north of Alaska's second largest metro-
politan area, Fairbanks. Interestingly, Athapaskan place-
names that reflect spiritual aspects of landscape can be
readily found in the literature, but this category of place-
names is substantially underrepresented in Western land-
scapes. While spiritual construction of the landscape,
through concepts of wilderness or sacred ground (e.g.,
battlefields, cemeteries, and memorials), can be
found in the histories of various landscapes, they
are not easily obtainable from the Western place-
name vernacular.
—Dena'ina (Shem Pete 1 987:57): Ch'chihiKen, 'Ridge
Where We Cry, [sloping ridge south of Mt. Susitna]:
That big ridge going downriver from
Dghelishia [Mount Suisan] all the way to
Beluga, they call Ch'chihi Ken. They
would sit down there. Everything is in
view. They can see their whole country.
Everything is just right under them. They
think about their brothers and their fathers
and mothers. They remember that, and
they just sit down there and cry. That's the
place we cry all the time, 'cause every-
thing just show up plain (Kari and Kari
1982:1).
—Han (Mishlerand Simeone 2004): Eagle Bluff, near
the village of Eagle (Fig. 55) is known to Han as
Tthee Tawdlenn or "water hitting right in to it."
In contrast to Western painterly or scientific values the
Han, who live on the upper reaches of the Yukon River,
view the landscape as animated with spiritual presence.
Mishler and Simeone (2004:36) explain that this name
conveys more than a physiographic description. Sarah
Malcolm, a Han woman, recalled that the chief "always
said lots of things about the bluff," especially in
speeches; he would even say he was chief of Eagle
Bluff. The authors speculate that these recollections fit
into a common Athapaskan practice where established
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
55/ Eagle Bluff, known to the Han as "Water hitting right in to it. "
settlements are associated with hills that are named
and honored in potlatch songs and oratory as
"grandfather's face":
As dominant features on the landscape,
these hills were symbolic of the strength
and wisdom of the old chiefs or leaders.
The people were said to live beneath or
under these hills as they would live under
the guidance of a strong and moral
leader. The hill, like a good leader, is there
to stand as an example or reminder to
people of how they should conduct their
lives (De Laguna 1 975:91).
—Western (Orth, 1971): A Western sense of the
metaphysical nature of place is conveyed by Lonely
Lake, in the Brooks Range, so named in 1 966 by
Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert F. Staender because when they
set up a base camp at this lake they were com-
pletely isolated.
No Athapaskan place-name that I have come across
provides a sense of abandonment or isolation. This
difference between being on and being of the land-
scape is nicely illustrated in Desperation Lake, a place-
DONALD C. CALLAWAY
name in the Brooks Range Orth obtained in 1 956. Orth
thought wolf hunters probably named it in the 1940s.
In contrast, the Inupiaq (Eskimo) name for the same
place is Tupichalik, meaning "new tent" in reference to
camping along the lake's dry gravel beach.
Non-Indigenous Spiritual Views of the
Landscape
Cemeteries, battlefields, and memorials all have sig-
nificance as sacred and spiritual landscapes in Ameri-
can culture. We all have memories of locations vis-
ited on family vacation and the places where we
grew up may have special and perhaps spiritual
importance. In addition, farm families may have a
strong spiritual connection to the landscape they
have tilled for generations.
Of course, it is no surprise that America, the bench-
mark of world capitalism, has numerous commodity
values for American landscapes. In addition, from cer-
tain perspectives even spiritual values may be cyni-
1 83
cally regarded as being thinly disguised commodity
"fetishes." For non-Native New Age spiritualists, the land
resonates with newfound animism that some view with
skepticism (Lippard 1997:147). One Western spiritual
view of the landscape, however, has a direct feed into
landscapes of resistance: wilderness.
Wilderness
Ansel Adams' photographs present a closely cropped
view of landscape as the sublime.' For some, the beau-
ties of landscapes represent "the last trace of the reli-
gious experience left in materialistic America." Cussim
and Lindquist-Cock 1 988, quoted in Lippard 1 997:1 79).
One might suspect that for wilderness advocates
Ansel Adams pictures capture, in a visual form, those
transcendental qualities of landscape often encountered
in the writings of Emerson, Thoreau, and Muir. As Callicott
notes:
The first notable American thinkers to insist, a
century and a half ago, that wild nature might
serve "higher" human spiritual values as well
as supply raw materials for meeting our more
mundane physical needs. Nature can be a
temple Emerson (1 989) enthused, in which to
draw near and to commune with God. Too
much civilized refinement, Thoreau argued,
can over-ripen the human spirit; ... [building
on their philosophy]. John Muir (1901)
spearheaded a national, morally charged
campaign for public appreciation and preser-
vation of wilderness. People going to forest
groves, mountain scenery, and meandering
streams for religious transcendence, aesthetic
contemplation, and healing rest (1 998:340).
Whatever its etiology, it seems reasonable to consider
this construction of the wilderness landscape as having
spiritual underpinnings.
One problem with the currently received view of
wilderness is its ethnocentrism; it ignores the presence
of indigenous people (Callicott 1998:348). Some crit-
ics of wilderness consider the idea "museumized na-
ture" (Talbot 1 998). From another point of view, imple-
mentation of the wilderness ideal displaces indigenous
people from rezoned "wilderness areas" or restricts their
access to resources in such areas (Guha in Callicott
1 84
1 998). A subtler outcome of excluding humans from
the landscape, but perhaps more devastating in the long
run, is the alienation of local people who can be crucial
to the conservation process. Their exclusion, if their
situation is desperate enough, can lead to resistance
as they actively poach "protected" resources (Talbot
1998:339-40).
Although the situation has not reached an impasse
in Alaska, there is considerable potential for conflict.
The federal government manages nearly two-thirds of
all lands while Native entities now occupy only about
ten percent of their former land base. Lands controlled
by indigenous entities now represent less than two-
thirds of all the wilderness acreage in Alaska (Tables
2 and 3).
Thus, there is a palpable tension as to what are the
attributes of a "wilderness landscape" in Alaska. Con-
siderable finesse is required of land managers as they
seek a compromise between the wilderness advocates'
and local communities' concepts of spirituality and the
landscape. Wilderness advocates are especially con-
cerned about the potential aesthetic impacts to the land-
scape from the technologies (e.g., all terrain vehicles,
or ATVs) rural residents use as they harvest wildlife
resources (Fig. 56).
The National Park Service, ATVs, and "Natural"
Landscapes
Most of the Alaska wilderness areas designated
by ANILCA provide for continued access for rural
populations:
The Secretary shall ensure that rural residents
engaged in subsistence uses shall have
reasonable access to subsistence resources
on the public lands. (Section 81 1(a) of
ANILCA). . . .The Secretary shall permit on the
public lands appropriate use for subsistence
purposes of snowmobiles, motorboats, and
other means of surface transportation tradi-
tionally employed for such purposes by local
residents, subject to reasonable regulation.
(Section 81 1(b) of ANILCA)
The section-by-section analysis of the title further
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
56/An ATV trail through a meadow in bloom.
Table 2/ Ownership of Land in Alaska
MILLIONS
OWNER OF ACERS
Bureau of Land Management 85.0
Fish & Wildlife Service 72.4
National Park Service 52.9
Forest Service 22.5
Department of Defense and
other Federal lands 2.3
State of Alaska 90.3
Native corporations 37.4
Other Private Lands 2.7
Total acreage in Alaska 365.5
amplifies the intent of the phrases "other means of
surface transportation" and "traditionally employed"
to include the
[U]se of new, as yet unidentified means of
surface transportation, so long as such
means are subject to reasonable regulation
necessary to prevent waste or damage to
fish, wildlife or terrain (ANILCA Chapter
Vll:275).
The National Park Service may apply additional restric-
Table 3/ Alaskan "Wilderness" Status Land
% OF
AGENCY
MILLIONS TOTAL U.S.
AGENCY OF ACRES ACREAGE
Fish & Wildlife Service 18.7 97
National Park Service 33.5 91
Forest Service 5.8 17
Total 58.0
tions with respect to access to its lands. Only speci-
fied "resident zone communities" or residents with spe-
cial permits are allowed to harvest park resources. The
designations are usually liberal enough to incorporate
most of the active hunters. The NPS may also restrict
the types of technology used to harvest subsistence
resources.
ATVs are an efficient and convenient form of trans-
portation for harvesting resources, but they can also
create trails of denuded vegetation. Those trails pro-
vide little threat to conservation of nature resources.
However, with respect to aesthetics—and being un-
DONALD G. CALLAWAY
miles 40
57/ Noatak Shaded Relief and Hydrology, with the
imposed boundaries of the Cape Krusenstern National
Monument. Western land managers often draw bound-
aries across watersheds and other geomorphic fea-
tures. These boundaries may have little overlap with
traditional land use.
questionable evidence of man's presence—they can
create considerable conflicts about what a land-
scape can or should contain.
The trails are anathema to Western visitors who
want to have a "wilderness" experience in a national
park. To traditional subsistence users, who consider
themselves participants in the landscape, the trails are
a small price for doing business. Although subsistence
users evince discomfort when the issue is formulated
in the context of respect for the land, their misgivings
are usually set aside when balanced against
practicalities. In essence, as one man noted, "We are
not going back to carrying these loads out by foot."
This is especially true in the contemporary context
where people live in sedentary communities and the
distances involved are much greater. Seasonal camps
once located near available resources no longer exist.
Nor are subsistence users much swayed by preserva-
tionist arguments, for in many cases their extensive
current use of ATVs is occasioned by sports hunting
pressures on local resources that were formerly ob-
tained adjacent to their home use area. Most local
hunters would be happy for shorter ATV trips if the
1 86
resources could be obtained nearby.
Neither side condones damage to the landscape,
although one side views humans and their technology
as an impairment of the landscape's spiritual qualities
while the other sees humans (and their pragmatic use
of efficient harvest technology) as an integral part of
the spiritual landscape. Part of this conflict lies in the
divergent perspectives both sides have on human-ani-
mal interactions. Wilderness advocates assume that land
managers need to prevent human interference with the
"natural" animal populations. In fact, the total exclu-
sion of a human presence is illogical, illegal, and im-
practical.
It is illogical because most wilderness advocates
are themselves at least temporary consumers of the
wilderness landscape. It is illegal in that ANILCA guar-
antees reasonable access to these lands for subsistence
purposes, effectively modifying the Wilderness Act in
Alaska's wilderness areas. Finally, it is impractical be-
cause wilderness areas are not islands. Caribou migrate
on and off such designated areas, and most bird spe-
cies in these areas are neotropical migrants who leave
for the winter. Pollution, climate change, and the inva-
sion of exotic species are all impacts on wilderness
areas. In the absence and perhaps impossibility of strong
enforcement, local communities resist the imposition
of outside management in a variety of ways. Much of
what Western land management personnel perceive as
resource management is really management of a vir-
tual landscape.
Geographic Information Systems (CIS), a
Western "Resource" Management Tool
Federal and state land managers in Alaska use a variety
of tools in their regulatory process. The tools structure
and constrain how they perceive Alaska landscapes. In
this chapter landscape is loosely defined to include
physical features, biological populations (flora and
fauna), and the cultural definitions of the relationships
between the physical, biological and human. Interest-
ingly, indigenous perspectives often truncate this ty-
PROTECTINC THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
pology by not drawing a distinction between animals
(or even geological features) and consciousness. Thus,
animals are aggregated with the social, sentient deci-
sions often relegated only to humans in the Western
perspective.
In contrast, federal and state land managers sepa-
rate landscape components into geological, biologi-
cal, and cultural components. This disaggregation can
be illustrated by considering the CIS themes used by
land managers in Alaska. These layers include topog-
raphy (Fig. 57), river and stream systems, roads, bound-
aries of conservation units (Fig. 58), boundaries of game
management units, vegetation maps, and ecozones.
For some regions of Alaska, social and cultural
information is also plotted using CIS technology,
e.g., community traditional harvest areas for a vari-
ety of species (e.g., moose, caribou, bear, fish, ber-
ries), or use areas during different time periods. Such
information is critical for documenting customary
and traditional uses for eligibility and access deci-
sions. Despite the tremendous amount of informa-
tion that CIS can convey, traditional indigenous views
of the landscape are only weakly reflected in use
area and place name data (Fig. 59). Instead, the data
is abstracted and transformed to meet the decision
context, comfort levels, and expectations of Western
land managers . One kind of information that westerners
often overlook is the indigenous values related to ani-
mals and animal-persons.
The Yup'ik Landscape of Human—"Animal-
person" Relationships
Central to indigenous traditional views of the land-
scape is the issue of human relationships with the re-
sources they depend upon. Some of the best descrip-
tions of these values come from the Yup'ik speakers
ofthe Yukon/Kuskokwim region ofWest Alaska (Fienup-
Riordan 1990). Yup'ik cultural values prescribe the
proper treatment of "animal-persons" and the conse-
quences of violating these rules. Animal souls are infi-
nite, and what humans' harvest are only their "clothes."
In fact many Yup'ik believe that when animal-persons
offer themselves in great numbers, it is clear that hu-
mans are fulfilling their side ofthe bargain by showing
respect. The Yup'ik belief that there is no relationship
between a decline in an animal population and over-
harvesting is in dramatic contrast with Western con-
cepts of game management.
In fact many Yup'ik hunters face a difficult decision
when they come across any animal (Morrow and Hensel
1 992:40). A Yup'ik hunter who is out looking for cari-
bou, but comes across an older male moose out of
season is required by Yup'ik
belief to harvest that animal.
Failure to avail oneself ofthe
gift presented is a profound
Deenng Canbou
I I Game Mngm: units. Subunits
Inuptaq Place Names
Gen. Land Status- Owners
miip Private
[Z3 ^^^^^
Eiv] Native
Slate & Native
[''"71 Major Military
["'
'
'j National Park Service
[v^ U.S. Fish 8, vviidtite Service
gggg Wild & Scenic Rivers
U.S. Forest Service
^iJ^tfi Bureau of Land Management
58/ Present-day land-sta-
tus owners, Seward Penin-
sula, Alaska. Traditional
subsistence users are con-
fronted with a bewildering
variety of land statuses,
each with their own regu-
latory framework. For ex-
ample, the community of
Deering's traditional cari-
bou harvest area now ex-
tends across federal, state,
and Native lands.
DONALD C. CALLAWAY
mark of disrespect that will be noted by the animal-
person and communicated to other animal-persons.
It may lead to the unavailability of that species in the
future. Thus, under Western precepts, to harvest the
moose is to put pressure on the moose population
and ensure its continual decline. Under traditional Yup'ik
precepts, failure to harvest the moose leads to the
same outcome.
Yup'ik are also taught that if they "play" with fish,
the fish will not return the following year. These be-
liefs have led to serious friction with catch-and-release
fishermen. By the Western conservation model, catch-
and-release fishing ensures the survival of the fish
stocks. Local Yup'ik believe that this disrespectful prac-
tice will lead to the eventual disappearance of the fish,
after the fish tell their relatives how they were treated
and discourage them from making the same journey.
Traditional Yup'ik elders believe that the more you
harvest, the more that will return. However, the pre-
• CRNA- Ahtna Place Names (point)
• Towns
/V Roads
Ferry, auto
V RiversA
Park Boundary
Park
Preserve
im Park & Wilderness
Preserve & Wilderness
Canada Coast
cept to harvest resources that present themselves is
overridden by a stronger sanction: harvest no more
than you need. One must exhibit respectful behavior
after the ultimate gift is bestowed, but checks and
balances are also present in the Yup'ik traditional man-
agement regime. Thus, the hunter who comes across
a moose, mentioned in the example above, would not
harvest the moose if he felt the meat would go to
waste.
Fienup-Riordan's (1990) depiction of the Yup'ik
worldview presents a problem of idealization and com-
pression of these dynamic beliefs. In one household
that I talked with in the Yukon/Kuskokwim region of
Alaska, the senior members held (in the main) to tradi-
tional values, the middle-aged and younger adults re-
spected but did not necessarily practice them or agree
with them, and the teenagers and younger members
hardly reflected upon them.
To avoid generalizing one set of values and beliefs
about the landscape to a
whole community, we turn
to the results of a formal
social science survey with
a large sample, controlling
for differences in age, gen-
der, ethnicity, and some
facets of personal history.
Such an empirical and rep-
resentative picture of
peoples' behaviors and val-
ues, while less in depth, suf-
fers less from idealization
59/ Ahtna Place-Names
Each black dot represents
an Ahtna place name, and
black dots in park-shaded
areas indicates the tradi-
tional use of park re-
sources. CIS projections
such as this are used in the
regulatory process as evi-
dence in decisions that
grant eligibility to conduct
subsistence activities on
park lands.
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
and compression.
Knowledge of the Environment
A multi-method research methodology designed to
study the social and cultural impacts of the Exxon
Valdez oil spill (EVOS) involved interviewing 2,728 resi-
dents of communities in the Gulf of Alaska/ This re-
search indicated that personal, psychological, and com-
munity impacts resulting from the EVOS varied dra-
matically with the values imputed to the landscape.
And while these values cannot simply be ex-
plained by Native/non-Native differences, it is
clear that significant differences in degree occur
between these groups. Jorgensen's (1995) analy-
sis of the consequences of the EVOS demonstrates
that Natives' and non-Natives' ideas, sentiments,
and acts were organized quite differently concern-
ing environmental and other ethics. These differ-
ences had an important effect on how the out-
comes of the spill were perceived. Jorgensen (1 995)
notes that in the same environment Natives know
more about wildlife resources than non-Natives;
that Natives more frequently identify spiritual val-
ues rather than commodity values as the preemi-
nent attribute of the environment (Table 4); and
that Natives more frequently report that places in
the environment have special meanings for them
and their relatives (Table 5).
Sixty-nine percent of the 388 key informants in the
EVOS survey were non-Native and thirty-one percent
were Native. Each was asked to identify seventy-seven
natural resources (including marine and land mammals,
fish, marine invertebrates, birds, and plants) in the areas
that person used. Researchers asked which species were
available locally in sufficient numbers. Ninety-five per-
cent of Natives responded to all seventy-seven ques-
tions about resource sufficiency, but not one non-Na-
tive responded to all seventy-seven questions.
The survey research results clearly showed that
nearly half the Native respondents viewed the land-
scape as possessing only spiritual values whereas less
than six percent of non-Natives felt the same way (Table
4). When these findings were presented to a Yukon/
Kuskokwim elder and spokesman, he indicated that in
his region three-quarters, not half, of respondents would
assert only spiritual and no commodity values to the
landscape. His assertion is based on the perceptive
insight that indigenous communities in the EVOS re-
gion have a longer history of repression of traditional
values and the forced introduction of other behaviors
—e.g., commercial fur harvests.
Another question asked whether the respondent had
memories about special places in his area. As Table 5
shows, both Natives and non-Natives have strong sym-
bolic attachments to the landscape, but Natives accu-
mulate many more such symbols. Jorgensen's multi-
variate analysis seems to indicate that long-term non-
Native residents and high-income Native residents
seemed to have borrowed more heavily from the other
culture's repertoire.
Landscapes of Resistance
Both Cuha (1 990) and Scott (1 985) have used the phrase
"landscapes of resistance" in the context of indigenous
resistance to exploitation and management of their tra-
ditional resources. Cuha, writing about peasant resis-
tance in the Himalayas, believes that interpersonal re-
lationships and the organization of economic activi-
ties are intimately linked to the ecological attributes
of the landscape—plants, animals, topography, climate,
and habitat. He hypothesizes that as ecosystems change,
social and production relationships will also change.
In Cuba's account colonial powers forced concepts of
individual land ownership to replace the communally
oriented land tenure practices of local inhabitants. In-
digenous communities who were denied access to for-
est resources responded with a variety of forms of re-
sistance, including labor slowdowns, destroying com-
mercial stockpiles, and ignoring a variety of regula-
tions. Largely because of the resistance, the Western
forestry principle of "sustained yield," a continuous prof-
itable harvest of forest products, was never achieved.
DONALD G. CALLAWAY
After Indian independence from Great Britain, Guha
documents how these historical underpinnings gave
rise to the Chipko (Hugging the Trees) movement, which
in 1 980 forced the Indian government to agree to a
fifteen year ban on commercial forestry in the area.
The Chipko movement also inspired many other indig-
enous communities to resist large dam projects and
commercial use of forests throughout the world.
Guha concludes that an indigenous ideology (like
Chipko) that articulates a traditional view of the land-
scape can forestall commodity uses of natural resources.
In addition, any outside interest (commodity or con-
servation driven) that fails to take into account the
"moral economy" of traditional landscapes (and the
traditional rights embedded in such landscapes) are
also bound to fail.
In Alaska, traditional views of the landscape— in-
cluding knowledge of place, communal use of resources,
ethical tenets as to the reciprocal nature of human/
animal relationships, and the spiritual sense of topog-
raphy—have been challenged by a dominant outside
perspective that claimed power to manage and inter-
pret the landscape. This outside perspective saw the
land as property and "animal-persons" as commodities
lacking sentience. The dominant culture that did im-
pute spiritual attributes to the landscape thus excluded
humans as a feature. These opposing perspectives led
to local resistance to Western management practices.
In my research experience in more than fifty rural
Alaska communities, I have always been struck by the
contrast between the formal regulatory regime of West-
ern land managing agencies and actual behavior evinced
by local communities. Western managers depend on
seasons (when a species may be harvested) and bag
limits (how many and what type, e.g., young males only)
to accomplish their conservation goals. These man-
agement procedures rely on the willing compliance of
local communities or an effective threat of law en-
forcement. For example. Morrow and Hensel note that:
Enforcement of waterfowl hunting laws has
always been sporadic, with local resistance
Table 4/ Spiritual vs Commodity Values Associated
with the Environment (from Jorgensen 1998:95)
ETHICS AND SIGNIFICANT
SYMBOLS ATTACHED TO NATIVES NON-
ENVIRONMENT (%) NATIVE (%)
Table 5/ Special Meanings Associated with the Envi-
ronment (from Jorgensen 1998:94)
SIGNIFICANT SYMBOLS NON-
ATTACHED TO PLACES IN NATIVES NATIVE
LOCAL ENVIRONMENT (%) (%)
1
.
None 4 7
2. A Few 24 44
3. Many 28 44
4. Many, which have 44 5
accumulated over two
or more generations
sometimes effectively thwarting agents'
efforts. The most famous incident was the
Barrow Duck-In of 1961. When several native
men including a state legislator were arrested
for spring bird hunting [banned by regulation
at that time - D.C.] 300 Inupiat (1 38 of them
holding dead eider ducks which they claimed
were taken illegally), gathered in the commu-
nity hall (Chance 1990:146-47). Faced with
arresting much of the community, enforce-
ment agents backed down.
Yupiit remember past repression [by law
enforcement officers that fine individual
hunters and confiscate subsistence technol-
ogy - D.C.] and are discreet about swan
harvesting. The legacy of repression is also
kept alive in a large repertoire of told
narratives about acts of "civil disobedience"
such as armed stand-offs with authorities. One
ubiquitous story concerns shooting holes in
the floats of a Fish and Wildlife sea-plane so
that it is unable to land and arrest offenders
1
.
The environment, or 31
features of it (rivers, forests,
coal seams, oil deposits, fish,
sea mammals, etc.) are viewed
as commodities, that is, items
whose values are established
in the marketplace and are
available for purchase or sale.
2. Combination of commodity 54 60
and spiritual views.
3. The environment, or features 46 6
of it, are viewed as being
endowedwith spirits to which
significant cutural symbols are
attached (e.g., helpfulness).
Thegeneral environment is not
conceptualized as a commodity.
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
MONTH Jan Feb Mar April May June [July Sept Oct. Nov. pec.
Caribou
Moose
Sheep
Bear
Rabbit
1
Beaver and Muskrat
Pike and Whitefish
;
Ptarmigan and Grouse
Fur Trapping
Traditional Tetlin Harvest Cycle Contemporary Tetlin Harvest Cycle
60/ Contemporary and Historic Annual Cycle for the Community of Tetlin, Alaska. This graph shows that traditional
times ofharvest for a variety ofspecies in historic time (shaded area) has an imperfect overlap with the regulatory
seasons of the contemporary Western management regime (Halpin 1 987:31 ; Guedon 1974:43, 45). Note: Sheep
are not included in the contempory annual cycle regulations.
(with disabled floats, the agents can only fly
home, since they must beach the plane after
a single landing). Such tales are told with
pride and humor in the vein of "Robin Hood
vs. the Sheriff's men." (1992:44)
The Western regulatory regime requires valid and rep-
resentative data on the status of wildlife stocks and
the current harvest levels of those stocks. To establish
bag limits, biologists estimate the current population
and then, using a variety of statistical models, deter-
mine some level of sustainable harvest. However, the
underlying data supports for both these processes are
often questionable. The lack of reliable resource popu-
lation data is compounded by the fact that self-re-
porting mechanisms for harvest levels are also unreli-
able. When anthropologists collect harvest information
in face-to-face interviews, under promise of anonym-
ity, and compare these results with reported tag and
permit data, actual harvest levels are often ten times
higher than the official estimates.
As will be detailed below, official seasons, espe-
cially in areas away from road-connected communi-
ties, are followed insofar as they overlap with tradi-
tional behaviors. Usually, employing the efficiencies re-
quired of subsistence pursuits, animals are harvested
when they are available (or when they present them-
selves) and in quantities linked to need and processing
capabilities and not to an existing bag limit (Fig. 60).
Federal and state regulatory structures are the prin-
cipal connection between local hunters and govern-
ment land managers. Regulations concerning bag lim-
its, seasons, and harvest reporting are the primary means
by which land managers and their biologist advisors
seek to conserve and manage wildlife populations.
Spaeder et al. (2001) document a history of consider-
able conflict between customary practice and gov-
ernment regulation in Northwest Alaska. They show
that throughout this history a significant number of
regulations were incompatible with traditional prac-
tices; despite the fact the traditional practices were
non-wasteful and posed no threat to the conserva-
tion of the resource. The wildlife regulations applied
to Alaska Native hunters were inappropriately im-
ported from another context where they were used
to regulate sport hunters.
A brief example (drawn from Moore 1 984: 1 0) illus-
trates the illogic and the impracticality of game regu-
lations in the face of customary and traditional views
and behaviors. Only twice a year, for a short period, do
caribou migrations normally bring animals within range
of a local village (Fig. 61). During the spring migration
the animals have little body fat left after the long win-
ter and are considered undesirable by local hunters. If
the official harvest season for caribou does not coin-
cide with the fall migration (when the animals are in
DONALD G. CALLAWAY 191
prime shape for harvesting) then that community, which
may derive half its nutrition from caribou, is out of luck.
Naturally, under these circumstances the community
ignores the seasonal restrictions.
Hunters from rural communities actually see the
caribou on the landscape and note its availability and
condition. Western perspectives of the landscape do
not see the tundra or the caribou; they see a stochastic
model that they believe allows them to predict and
conserve the ongoing caribou population. Currently
(since the herd now numbers 500,000) seasonal restric-
tions are liberal but bag limits could become a source
of conflict. Bag limits are fifteen caribou per day. How-
ever, caribou are usually at some distance from a com-
munity, and it is expensive to locate and transport the
harvested animals. Customarily hunters take what they
need for their household and to redistribute in the com-
munity. Thus, when they chance upon a herd they may
take twenty to forty animals and return to the commu-
nity immediately to prevent spoilage. Although they
could take a hundred animals in a week without any
impact on the health of the herd, they can only legally
take fifteen animals per day. Because such a restriction
is completely impractical given their circumstances, they
violate bag limits by taking what they need when the
animals are available.
A number of potential violations are created in this
harvest scenario. It violates game laws to give away
harvested meat, completely in contradiction to tradi-
tional values that demand hunters redistribute and share
their harvest with their extended family, elders and com-
munity members in need. Nor can extended family
members pay for the gas used by the hunter without
committing a violation. Almost none of the few hunt-
ers who obtain a hunting license actually carry it with
them. Customary practices such as driving animals to-
ward awaiting (and hidden) hunter are illegal. Few hunters
send in harvest reports. It is not surprising that a hunter
ignores, resists, and resents Western management regu-
lations when his traditionally efficient practices may
net him thirty citations on any given hunt. These cita-
1 92
tions can result in the confiscation of his snowmachine,
his rifle, and hunting equipment and several hundred
dollars in fines.
Although only a limited number of pages apply to
any specific community, villagers rarely read the state
(1 12 pages) or the federal (172 pages) booklets on
game regulations. Many villagers are unaware that com-
mon sense practices such as shooting beaver (they
can only be trapped under current regulations) or chasing
game with a snowmachine violate the law. A survey
of twenty-seven Kiana residents concluded that no
one in the community, except the Alaska Department
of Fish and Game (ADFG) license vendors, understood
the hunting and trapping regulations (Regulation Re-
view 1 989:22). In another study, a Kotzebue resident
said; "Local people have a hard time sifting out the
important regulations from the unimportant ones"
(Spaeder et al. 2001 :33). The large number of regula-
tions, a lack of English language or reading skills, and
the fact that regulations are rarely enforced by either
state or federal officials provide little incentive for tra-
ditional hunters to learn or follow game regulations.
Compliance with Western management regimes most
often occurs when regulations are consistent with cus-
tomary practice.
Non-compliance also has the potential for serious
friction in the community, as newcomers, such as non-
Native teachers, have reported season or bag limit vio-
lations. However, for many younger subsistence hunt-
ers, non-compliance has become a norm and signifies,
among other things, a resistance to outside attempts to
control their perceptions of traditional landscapes. A
number of analysts have suggested self-regulation and
local enforcement as a possible solution to this con-
flict. Several Kiana residents called for a revitalization
of traditional elder-based authority entities. In a sense
land managers would have to delegate some of their
authority to allow misdemeanor violations to be heard
and ruled on by local leaders. One Kiana respondent
who advocated this approach stated, "I would rather
face the game warden than the elders if I wasted
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
61/ Alaska Native caribou Inunt.
game (Spaeder et al. 2001:39). This solution omits
any mention of the Western management practices
of seasons, bag limits, or reporting requirements, and
instead focuses on violations committed against a
shared view of the traditional landscape (i.e., the
overarching prohibition on waste). In an important
sense, this commitment to avoid waste is at the heart
of all conservation efforts, Western or traditional, al-
though it may have little to recommend it to many
wilderness advocates.
Landscapes Reduced to Biological Models
The literature on statistical modeling of biological (and
geological) processes is enormous. We focus on the
models provided by biologists and ecologists because
it is their advice that land managers seek in construct-
ing resource management plans. Biologists often, but
not exclusively, base their advice on the outcomes of
their modeling efforts. One form of statistical model is
termed "density dependent." As Pimm (1991:359)
notes, "Perhaps no other topic dominates traditional
population ecology more than does the discussion of
whether density changes are density dependent.""
Two simple examples will illustrate the uses of this
type of statistical model. The first comes from a debate
begun in the 1940s about modeling halibut popula-
tions. Essentially one side believes that changes in
population density can be solely ascribed to fishing
pressures. In this density dependent model, the num-
ber of halibut recruited each year to the halibut popu-
lation is directly related to how many halibut fisher-
men catch. From a management perspective, decreas-
ing the catch will increase the halibut population.
Burkenroad's competing "density independent" model
states that for any particular year fishing pressures play
only a small part in halibut recruitment and that the
major impact on the increase or decrease in halibut
numbers is due to "climate forcing." Climate forcing
links changes in the ecosystem to variation in ocean
currents and water temperature (Hare n.d.). These
DONALD C. CALLAWAY
62/ Mentasta Caribou Herd Density Dependent Model.
A density dependent model comparing actual harvest
with simulated harvest levels that would have occurred
had the cooperative management protocol been in
force at that time.
changes range from annual or seasonal, interannual (El
Nino) to interdecadal (Pacific Decadal Oscillation). Re-
cent evidence suggests that decade-long oscillations
in temperature are related to zooplankton biomass
bloom (i.e. increases in the amount of zooplankton
available) that may, in turn, increase halibut larvae sur-
vival as larvae and juveniles feed in near surface waters.
The second example deals with a critical manage-
ment problem related to the Mentasta Caribou Herd,
part of whose range intersects Wrangell-St. Elias Na-
tional Park and Preserve. The herd decreased from 3, 1 00
animals in 1 985 to fewer than 900 in 1 994. In a coop-
erative agreement to allow some subsistence harvest,
a simple density dependent model (Fig. 62) was used
to calculate herd size with harvest through time. The
model provided a decision tree for establishing har-
vest levels: If the two-year mean fall calf recruitment
(number of calves surviving into the fall) was greater
than eighty, a hunt could occur, while a recruitment of
less than eighty would eliminate any hunting. Other
provisos included limiting the hunt to bulls only if the
past two-year mean bull to cow ratio was greater than
35:100 (Mentasta Caribou Plan 1995).
Interestingly, as in the halibut example, a density
dependent model that works for the Mentasta Herd
would not be appropriate when applied to the much
larger Western Arctic Caribou Herd (WACH). Now num-
bering over half a million animals, the WACH fluctuates
in size from fewer than 75,000 animals to the current
maximum in cycles that span decades. However, re-
search in Canada and other areas indicates this boom
and bust cycle has nothing to do with levels of human
or other predation, and is more directly linked to cli-
mate change. In this case, precipitation and snow cover
influence the caribou's access to the lichen they de-
pend on for food.
In both these examples, resource managers view
the landscape as abstract and in a sense a virtual land-
scape. When indigenous views of the landscape con-
flict with model outcomes, a contested landscape be-
gins to occur. A typical outcome is a complete rejec-
tion of the resource agencies' landscape, reinforcement
of traditional perspectives, and the creation of a land-
scape of resistance.
In the case of the WACH, local harvesters' reactions
to what ADFC biologists believed was a precipitous
decline of the herd in the mid-1970s provides an im-
portant example of the difficulties of managing wild-
life when harvesters and managers have divergent per-
ceptions of how many animals populate the landscape.
In the 1 970s caribou were counted using aerial surveys
without the benefit of recent enumeration techniques
such as radio collars or photo census. Agency manag-
ers and biologists believed that the herd had declined
because of human and animal (especially wolf) preda-
tion (Fall 1976).
Working from this density dependent model of the
landscape, biologists responded to what they believed
to be a crashing population by severely restricting har-
vest. Managers were faced with attempting to set a re-
gional harvest quota on the basis of what little harvest
data they could obtain from local residents (some of
whom they paid fifty dollars a month to act as village
reporters), or assessments from pilots. After harvest by
humans was determined to be approximately 25,000
caribou peryear between 1 952-1 973, the Board ofCame
abruptly limited harvest from the WACH, a herd that
had had no seasons or bag limits for seventeen years,
1 94 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
to 3,000 bull caribou for the 1976-1977 hunting sea-
son (Davis and Valkenburg 1 978).
Soon after these restrictions were in place, relations
between harvesters and the ADFC reached a crisis point.
Local people did not believe the biologists' assertion
that caribou had sharply declined, because many of
them saw large numbers of caribou on the landscape,
even passing through their village (Davis 1976).
To this day, most local residents do not believe
that a significant caribou decline occurred during
that period. A recent survey in the area showed
that seventy-eight percent of villagers believed
the caribou population had nof declined since 1 970,
while seventy-seven percent of managers believed
that the herd had declined (Man and the Biosphere
1995).
Despite new regulations and the threat of ar-
rest, the local harvest of caribou during that crisis
period probably exceeded the quota established
by the Alaska Board of Game. The majority of har-
vesters simply did not comply with "compulsory"
harvest reporting provisions. In 1977, ADFC re-
ported that for the entire range of the herd, only
nineteen percent of the hunters had returned per-
mits as required by law (ADFC 1977). This is the
landscape of resistance through noncompliance.
It is not completely clear to what degree the
1970s caribou crash reflected a precipitous de-
cline of the magnitude asserted by ADFC or
whether it resulted from incomplete surveys that
omitted a significant portion of the herd. How-
ever, in 1 978, ADFC biologists found 1 06,000 cari-
bou in the herd, almost twice the number of ani-
mals that agency biologists had believed were
present two years before (Kruse 1995). Since it is
unlikely that the herd size would double in two
years, it appears that inaccurate data manipulated
in an inappropriate model lead to a distorted per-
ception of what was happening on the landscape.
Most of Spaeder's respondents did not view
harvest by humans as a key factor controlling the
DONALD G, CALLAWAY
overall size and distribution of a wildlife species.
They widely believed that if local people harvest
only to meet their needs, without waste, animal
populations would be maintained. In Table 6,
Spaeder (2001 :66) summarizes differences between
Western and indigenous knowledge as it relates
to "management" practices.
When Differing "Traditional" Views of
the Landscape Meet: A Case Study from
Bethel, Alaska
In the traditional view of the landscape, animals are
sentient, respect requires the remains of animal-per-
sons be returned to the water or land, practices con-
form to the seasons of the landscape, and words have
power. In the Western view, resources are commodi-
ties, animals and the landscape are acted upon, not
with, and bureaucratic rules and statistical models serve
as the basis for conservation efforts. One of the best
examples of the meeting of different constructions of
the landscape leading to frustration and resistance is
found in Morrow and Hensel (1992:47-9). Using tran-
scripts from public fisheries meetings held in Bethel in
the early 1 990s, the study clarifies opaque exchanges
between regulators and local Native fishermen. West-
ern land managers seem unaware of the nature of tradi-
tional landscapes. Whereas the fisheries biologists are
very concerned about fish returns and are actively con-
sidering closing the fishery. Native elders, based on
years of observation and experience, counsel that it is
an ill-considered decision.
Elders attending the public meetings tried to ex-
plain salmon behavior to the regulators. They noted
that there were clear signs of abundant fish, based on
local people's long experience and observations. They
said weir counts were low because the sentient fish
avoid low water conditions. One elder pointed out that
on another system where water levels were higher, fish
were ascending normally (ibid.:47). The meeting tran-
scripts reveal the biologists' patronizing dismissal of
the elders' observations. The outcome of this subsis-
1 95
tence closure was dramatic. The salmon harvest, which
forms up to seventy percent of the wildlife diet in these
riverine communities, was lost. The small amount of in-
come gained from the commercial fishery—income that
households depended on for cash to purchase boats,
motors, fuel, and nets—was also lost.
Part of this distressing interaction comes from dif-
ferent conceptions about how the environment works.
For the Yup'ik, conservation requires practices that sig-
nify respect for the environment. Animals possess sen-
tience and intent. Their absence is by conscious deci-
sion, usually affected by human behaviors that breach
reciprocal trust and respect. Changing weather pat-
terns, reduced fish stocks, and absent game are all
attributed to a human failure to respect nature. By con-
trast, non-Native scientists assume that resource de-
cline is caused by overharvesting, habitat destruction,
or climate change.
Even the way one speaks about the land and its
resources has a dramatic impact on relationships.
Yup'ik speak of the absence of fish as a temporary
consequence of conditions such as wind direction
or water level. Non-Yup'ik managers, on the other
hand, explicitly voice their concerns in terms of de-
clining fish populations. The Yup'ik, who believe fish
can hear and understand human speech, are under-
standably nervous that the biologists' assertions
would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. In the tran-
scripts Yup'ik speakers were careful not to say there
were not enough fish. Resource managers thought
the Yup'ik response was predictable given their eco-
nomic and nutritional investment in keeping the fish-
ery open. Fisheries managers wanted local fisher-
men to admit, given sonar and weir counts, that the
fish were not returning. This in turn increased the
anxiety of local people who felt that such an ad-
mission was tantamount to guaranteeing the out-
come.
In his concluding remarks to the fishery man-
ager, the elder tried to communicate the conse-
quences, from his view, of a fisheries closure.
the fish are coming in response to people's
need. When they come, they must be taken:
a decision to close the fishery will allow
them to pass and they may be offended and
not return in future" (ibid.:49).
This edited quote points out the most important stric-
ture on human/"animal-person" relations. Not to har-
vest an animal that has consciously decided to present
itself is a profound breach of respect that may lead to
the animal and all its congeners deciding never to re-
turn. What wildlife biologists saw as a conservation mea-
sure, was seen by Yup'ik as a disrespectful act that could
lead to catastrophe.
Developing a Shared View of the
Landscape
The question of whether to conserve ethnographic
landscapes seems poorly formed. Views of the
landscape vary between and within cultures. How-
ever, as Table 6 indicates, all the landscape views
considered in this chapter share a commitment to
the conservation and continued utilization of wild-
life (albeit in a non-consumptive mode for wilder-
ness advocates). The art in achieving this objec-
tive is not to insist on the priority of any view in
toto. With respect to the issues discussed in this
chapter, a number of processes have been identi-
fied that allow selective overlap or acceptance of
multiple viewpoints. Cooperative management
techniques lead these mechanisms. If we break
resource management regimes down into four ge-
neric activities:
—Research
—Allocation
—Enforcement
—Regulation
one can show how combining multiple views of the
landscape can lead to a shared (or at least agreed
upon) perspective.
196 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
Table 6/ Characteristics of Scientific and Traditional Knowledge Systems
Knowledge System
Characteristic
Mode of data
collection
Temporal Scale of
knowledge
Western Resource Management
Science
Based on experimentation and
systematic direct and indirect
observations. Knowledge base and
management framework seen to be
Short-term populations surveys
providing a synchronic perspective.
Traditional (Local) Knowledge
Based on less systematic ground-
based observations. Ecological
knowledge linked to myths and
place-based narratives.
•Long-term observation coupled with
intergenerational knowledge providing
a diachronic perspective.
Spatial Scale of
knowledge
Large scale (i.e., for moose, entire
watershed; for caribou, herd range)
Smaller scale (i.e. traditional
subsistence harvesting zones; for
some big game species, large portions
of a watershed)
Locus of knowledge Knowledge held by wildlife
professionals. Management system
hierarchically organized.
Knowledge diffuses, seen to be
increasing with harvesting experience.
Goal of knowledge
base
Establish generalized principles
explaining and predicting the
status and behavior of wildlife.
Understand the dynamics and behavior
of wildlife in the local area.
Assumptions about
system dynamics
Populations can be maintained at
or around a stable equilibrium point.
Populations can be controlled by
harvest, predation and habitat
enhancement. (Population models
emphasize density dependent
variables.)
•Many species seen to have population
cycles. Harvest and predation can
affect populations, though animal
population dynamics remain largely
autonomous.
Goal of management
and harvesting activities
•Species manipulated or controlled
to achieve sustainable yield.
Goal is to respond and adapt to system
surprise (uncertainty).
Ecological systems
structured by:
Bio-physical forces Bio-physical forces and unseen super-
natural forces
Preferred conservation
strategies
Regulate uses, control of means,
methods, seasons and bag limits;
access open to all user groups.
Control (limit) access to traditional
use territories.
Spaeder et al 2001:66. Table adapted from
Wenzel 1987.
Berkes 1995: DeWalt 1994, Feit 1988: Usher 1986: Usher and
Research
As discussed above, a determined effort is underway
to establish a cooperative management board for the
Western Arctic Caribou Herd (Western Arctic Caribou
Herd 2003). One management function that all parties
have agreed on is in the area of research. To overcome
the impasse between land managers and local com-
munities about the size of the WACH, a number of
cooperative research arrangements have been put into
place. Two efforts stand out. First, caribou surveys are
DONALD C. CALLAWAY
now carried out with local hunters on board the planes.
Before the current agreement, indigenous hunters regu-
larly complained that observer planes missed pockets
of caribou. Local hunters, who have carefully moni-
tored the migration of the caribou in their area, now fly
with the observers. Both sides benefit from this pro-
cess: biologists attain more valid estimates of herd
size, and local hunters are more likely to believe the
estimates when their input is an integral part of the
process.
1 97
In addition, biologists are now recruiting hunters
to collect a series of measurements on each caribou
they kill, including proportion of body fat, condition of
bone marrow, presence of parasites, and gross body
weight. Local hunters use traditional knowledge to
maintain a dialogue with the biologists (who put these
measurements into a variety of models) as they jointly
assess the health of the herd. Efforts such as these
tend to lead to convergence on estimates on herd
size and the health of the herd, although the sides may
still diverge substantially as to why and how these
outcomes have occurred.
Allocation
The Kilbuck Herd, numbering about 7,000 caribou,
ranges mainly in the Yukon-Delta National Wildlife Ref-
uge in Western Alaska. In 1990, the Kilbuck Caribou
Herd Co-Management Regime was jointly established.
The participants included eighteen Yup'ik Eskimo vil-
lages, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and the Alaska
Department of Fish and Game (Spaeder 1 995). Using a
density dependent model of herd dynamics (an appro-
priate model given the small herd size), the working
group agreed to a permit-based, bulls-only harvest, lim-
ited to five percent of the total herd. The group next
addressed the potentially difficult issue of how to di-
vide the initial annual harvest quota of 125 animals
among eighteen villages, which varied in community
size (70-550 people), proximity to the herd, and cus-
tomary use of the resource.
Once the allocation limit was established, the task
of distributing permits was delegated to the Native
members of the group. Instead of arguing about
need ("our community is larger and needs more per-
mits") or precedence ("our community has harvested
these animals for hundreds of years and you never
hunted them"), these representatives decided to di-
vide the permits equally among the eighteen com-
munities. This egalitarian solution reflected the Yup'ik
view of the landscape. For example, interviews with
Native respondents suggest that this decision ex-
1 98
presses the Yup'ik value of sharing.
Respondents stated that they felt it was
important to share things over which one
cannot extend ownership, such as big game.
No one "owns" the caribou, respondents
asserted, just as one cannot own the fish in
the ocean. This decision also serves as an
example of one way that native groups
attempt, where possible, to embed their own
values within a regime whose character and
structure is decidedly non-Native (Spaeder
1995:24).
The Mentasta Caribou Herd, mentioned above, provides
another interesting example of the allocation issue.
When fewer than thirty caribou are available to harvest
under the management plan, permits for these caribou
were given to elders in the most traditional and long-
established communities. Designated hunters were al-
lowed to harvest the caribou and provide them to the
elders. During one year, only one caribou was harvested
because hunters did not make extraordinary efforts to
meet the harvest quota as the herd was relatively inac-
cessible during the year. This fits with the traditional
practice of harvesting only those resources that can be
efficiently obtained.
A compromise landscape emerges in both these
examples. The communities' decision to restrict their
harvests goes along with but does not necessarily agree
with the biologist's view of how caribou operate on
the landscape. In return, the biologists allow the com-
munity to allocate how the caribou are obtained and
distributed without necessarily agreeing with the
view of reciprocity between humans and animal-
persons.
Enforcement
Non-compliance with resource management is a basic
mechanism of resistance for local people. Despite the
fact that several models of cooperative enforcement
exist in Alaska, most land managers believe that en-
forcement cannot be delegated to local or tribal enti-
ties. In addition, law enforcement personnel tend to
have a very circumscribed view of the landscape linked
to regulation and violations of seasons and bag limits.
PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
Given the vast expanses of Alaska landscapes and
the limited number of enforcement personnel, how-
ever, most village residents' behavior is based on their
own tenets and values. Enforcement prosecution, in-
cluding fines and confiscation of hunting equipment,
seem to be counterproductive in the long run (e.g., the
1961 Barrow Duck-In).
Regulation
ANILCA mandates the implementation of Regional
Advisory Councils, composed of local subsistence us-
ers, who develop proposals to the Federal Subsistence
Board on hunting eligibility, seasons, and harvest lim-
its. The councils' recommendations on their proposals
carry considerable weight with the Federal Subsistence
Board. In fact, the board may only reject the councils'
recommendations on proposals for a few circumscribed
reasons, such as potential harm to the resource. Thus,
ANILCA provides for the incorporation of local experi-
ence and perspective of the landscape into Western
management practices.
While the text of ANILCA assumes that local rural
residents know a lot about local fish and wildlife popu-
lations, it also seems to imply that the absence of a
Western resource management regime is the absence
of fln/ management regime. This common misconcep-
tion results in Western land managers' anxiety that with-
out the strong hand of bureaucratic organization, local
communities, now armed with Western technology, will
over-harvest wildlife resources and threaten their
viability.
This fear is both a product of ignorance, failing to
be aware of indigenous conservation practices, and
the classic error of affirming the consequence with re-
spect to the premise. In this case Western conserva-
tionists invent a concept, i.e., "the tragedy of the
commons," and then project this circumstance into
any situation that lacks armed enforcement offic-
ers. Recent historical research has called into ques-
tion the formulation of this concept. Resources held
in common in seventeenth century Europe often had
informal checks and balances. In addition, numer-
ous anthropological treatises have documented the
existence of formal and complex indigenous man-
agement regimes (Brightman 1993).
Despite these problems, the Regional Advisory
Councils have provided a forum where divergent
views of "landscape relations" have been able to
co-exist. None of the constituencies have aban-
doned their views; rather they have expanded their
awareness to admit that other perspectives exist. Bi-
ologists still use statistical models and eschew the
sentience of animals; traditional harvesters still be-
lieve that landscapes are animate, that one must en-
gage in reciprocal practices with animal-persons, and
that statistical models are suspect when they con-
flict with their own experiences on the land. A co-
operative approach that leads to a general agree-
ment about the size and health of "resource" popu-
lations provides the trust or "social capital" that al-
lows both sides to ignore the different processes
that lead to similar conclusions.
Postmodern arguments trumpet the demise of a
privileged perspective, however, at the same time;
actors do not have to agree on the "true" nature of
the landscape to respect one another. Co-manage-
ment and cooperative endeavors require not the same
view but an agreed upon vision. Such shared vi-
sions are reciprocal gifts, where both sides sacrifice
their clothes to share the same spiritual journey. I
hope this paper has shown that the imposition of
one's cultural view of the landscape on other actors
is, in the end, self-defeating. Active awareness of
other perceptions of the landscape will most effec-
tively allow land managers to achieve their conser-
vation objectives.
Notes
1
.
Southern congeners of Alaska's interior
Athapaskan communities. Apache and Alaska
Athapaskan languages while mutually unintelligible,
are closely related and form part of the same lan-
guage family
DONALD C. CALLAWAY
2. This is not to say that current indigenous
practices do not incorporate the latest western GPS
technology in their subsistence practices.
3. Although Lippard (1997:179) characterizes
his pictures as "tranquilizing" and "misleading."
4. The survey was done in 1987-1991 under a
contract to the United States Department of Interior,
Minerals Management Sen/ice, Anchorage, Alaska
5. Although we decline to discuss the applica-
bility of these density dependent models, in gen-
eral we agree with Pimm when he states, "And yet, as
a community ecologist, I find the usual discussions
of these issues incredibly circumscribed." (Pimm
1991:359)
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202 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ LANDSCAPES OF SURVIVAL
~y"!ie W!io!e ^tort) of O^r [and":
nog;raphic Landscapes in (janibeii, ^t. Lawrence ]sian A, Alaska
IGOR KRUPNIK
As cultural change and modernization has overtaken
many Indigenous settlements across the North, one of
the most visible signs is the profound transformation
of the physical landscape. When old teachers' reports,
elders' memories, and historical photographs are
matched against today's local settings, time and again
it looks as if events separated by a few decades took
place in a different physical and social space— in terms
of the general look of Native communities, their social
composition, dwelling type, and relation to and the use
of the surrounding area.
Other changes related to the way(s) people men-
tally organize their environment are invisible but, nev-
ertheless, profound. An anthropologist checking early
accounts or comparing notes of the same community
some ten, twenty, or thirty years later, would easily rec-
ognize the difference in types and number of local
place names, nature of stories about the area, set of
local features used as spiritual and identity markers,
and others. Such shifts in socially recognized and cul-
turally organized environment, the "ethnographic land-
scape," may progress even faster than the real physical
transformation of a given place. Often, such mental pro-
jections of the same physical landscape can be surpris-
ingly disconnected, if not worlds apart, particularly in
the cases of population or language shift, rapid accul-
turation, and/or other breaches in cultural continuity.
Because of that, various chronological phases of the
local "ethnographic landscape"— if not clearly distinct
"landscapes" (in plural)—may be identified or construed
at one physical location. Similarly, archaeologists rec-
ognize subsequent cultural phases of an ancient vil-
lage and/or independent local settlements via strati-
fied site excavation. Unlike archaeologists, who un-
cover physical traces of ancient sites from the ground,
it remains to cultural anthropologists and local histori-
ans to retrieve and recreate such old mental construc-
tions, former ethnographic landscapes, from people's
memories and written records.
This paper is an attempt at construing a 200-year
history of the changing ethnographic landscape(s) of
one Native Alaskan community, the village of Sivuqaq/
Cambell on St. Lawrence Island. Sivuqaq/Gambell is
by no means unique in undergoing a dramatic physical
and social transition through the centuries. Unlike other
Native Alaskan communities, however, it enjoys one
of the best-documented records of change in its his-
torical environment. This record was accumulated
through extensive archaeological excavations at nearby
ancient sites, and through several recent oral history
and educational programs undertaken by community
members, often in cooperation with anthropologists
(Akuzilleput Igaqullghet 2002; Crowell 1985; Sivuqam
Nangaghnegha 1 985-89; Silook 1 975; Yupik Language
1 989). Voluminous narratives, archival documentation,
and historical photographs produced by early visitors
to St. Lawrence Island are also available. The present
synopsis of the changing ethnographic landscape at
Sivuqaq/Gambell is based on such a survey of existing
records; it has been made possible thanks to the dedi-
cated collaboration of many of today's elders, who shared
their knowledge and historical memories of their Na-
203
tive village (see below, Acknowledgments).
This paper is also an effort in "applied preservation
ethnography." As new types of dwellings replaced old
ones, and the main village site expanded across its
traditional location, huge portions of local heritage
were all but abraded, both physically and mentally.
Some sections of the old village are currently under
water; others have been dramatically transformed by
new construction. Many more were lost through ne-
glect, abandonment, insensitivity of new construction
projects, and thinning of the once thriving cultural tra-
dition.
In this respect, Sivuqaq/Gambell is hardly different
from any other historic town, whose rich cultural heri-
tage is threatened by population growth, moderniza-
tion, and new living standards. Hundreds of such his-
toric settlements in the U.S. and elsewhere have wit-
nessed their old houses being replaced by modern apart-
ment buildings, and their cobblestone streets trans-
formed into parking lots and strip malls. As in Sivuqaq/
Cambell, it is often left to fragile human memory to be
the sole guardian of the vanished local scenery other-
wise preserved in old museum photographs, paintings,
and historical records. This paper discusses some mod-
ern strategies in heritage documentation and the ap-
propriate community policies that may be applied to
preserve the legacy of the long-gone ethnographic land-
scapes in a living Arctic town.
The Setting
The community of Sivuqaq/Gambell (population ca.
650) is located on a flat gravel spit attached to the
rocky Cape Chibukak, the northwestern tip of St.
Lawrence Island, on the Bering Sea coast (Fig. 63). The
island has been American territory since 1 867, although
the village is situated much closer to Asia than to North
America (mainland Alaska). Barely forty miles of water
separates it from nearby Chukchi Peninsula, Siberia, and
the tops of the Siberian mountains are visible from the
village on a clear day. Local residents, with the excep-
tion of a handful of contract schoolteachers, are mostly
Native Yupik Eskimo. They call their village (and the
whole island) Sivuqaq and themselves Sivuqaghhmiit,
when speaking in their language, Yupik. The official
name of the town, Cambell, was designated in 1 899 to
honor its first white missionary-teacher who drowned
in 1 898. Native residents use both town names, although
"Cambell" is commonly preferred when talking and writ-
ing in English.
The late anthropologist Charles Hughes produced
an emotional image of dramatic changes that were twist-
ing and shaping the old village of Sivuqaq/Gambell.
On his first visit in the summer of 1 954, he called the
landscape he observed "the torn grass:"
Evidence of significant shifts in the Cambell
Eskimos' way of life presented itself even
before we have reached the village on the
mile-long journey from the point of
landing. . . . Fourteen years earlier [i.e., in
1940] the entire gravel spit stretching from
Mt. Chibukak out to the sea was covered
with grasses and other plants, making a
thin matting of vegetation over the loose
pebble underneath. . . . Nothing marred the
smoothness of this green plain except the
two or three archaeological sites—remains
of old villages—in which the Eskimos dug
for specimens. . . . But now most of the
covering was gone, turned over and
churned under by tractors of the construc-
tion crews and military bases. . . .The
destruction of the thin edge of green on the
seaworn pebbles was merely a symbol of a
much larger set of circumstances, which had
come to Cambell in the (last) fourteen years.
Now hundreds of empty oil drums, rusted
and filigreed by the rains, snows, and sea
spray, dotted the gravel spit. ... As we
approached closer to the village, we came
across twisted and bent sections of steel
matting, intended, a couple of years before,
for an airplane runway to link Cambell
regularly with the outside world (Hughes
1960:16, 20).
Today the oil drums and metal debris have been cleaned
up, and scattered patches of meager grass covering
the spit can be seen again. No visible signs remain of
the old military sites and installations that marred the
landscape and epitomized the harsh image of change
as observed in 1954 (Mobley 2001). But the once-
"pristine" gravel spit is now covered with a sprawling
204 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF CAMBELL
63/ Aerial view ofCape Sivuqaq with the Sivuqaq (Cambell) Mountain, Troutman Lal<e, and the village ofCambell
at the bottom right end of the spit.
modem town of some five hundred residents, inhabit-
ing dozens of new family houses, public and store
buildings, and an impressive new schoolhouse. The
gravel cover is again turned over and churned under—
this time, by the tracks of the Honda four-wheelers that
serve as major transportation in the community. In fifty
years, the whole village has literally been on the move:
not only in time, but also in space. Only a handful of
older buildings remain at the former village site a half
mile away.
The present-day town of Sivuqaq/Gambell is split
into two distinct parts about a half mile apart. The
"new village," of several dozen modern residential
houses and many modern public buildings and ware-
houses, is located on the flat gravel plain between
the lake and the northern shore of the cape (see
maps and description in: Callaway and Pilyasov
1993; Crowell 1985; Jolles 2002; Jorgensen
1990:26, 28-9; Mobley 2001:10-12, 18-19). The
"old village" made of more traditional houses sits
on top of a small ridge that descends to the west-
ern shore. The "new village" was established in the mid-
1 970s; before then, all residents lived at the "old" site.
Judging from several C-1 4 dates obtained from the
ruins of old dwellings and abandoned ancient sites, the
area has been populated for the last 2,000 years, if not
longer. Ancient people lived here very much like the
present-day residents, primarily by hunting walruses,
seals, whales, and other marine mammals, and by fish-
ing, hunting birds, and collecting greens and berries.
They traded actively with other communities on the
island and with the villages on the Siberian (and
later Alaska) mainland (Ackerman 1 984:1 08-1 3; Mason
1 998:260-5). The overall shape of the inhabited area at
Cape Chibukak (Sivuqaq), however, has changed sub-
stantially over the last 2,000 years, as the flat gravel
plain or foreland attached to the rocky cape (Sevuokuk
Mountain) has been gradually expanding to the west
and to the north.
Physical Changes in the Sivuqaq/Gambell
Landscape
Henry B. Collins, Smithsonian archaeologist who con-
ducted excavations at and around Sivuqaq/Gambell in
IGOR KRUPNIK 205
1929-1930, produced the first outlines of "historical
landscapes" of the area, based on his surveys of local
ancient sites (Fig. 64):
Immediately to the south of the present
village [today's "old site"] are the pits of
earlier houses of wood and whale bones,
some of which were occupied until the end of
the last century. Sunken caches or meat
cellars, built entirely of whale bones, are well
preserved, some, in fact, being still in use.
Near the head of the lake the ruins of this
recently abandoned site merge imperceptibly
into those of an older and more extensive
site, known to the Eskimos as Seklow-
aghyaget [Siqiuwaghyaaget], "many caches."
About half a mile to the northeast a grass-
covered midden, marking the site of another
old village, rises conspicuously from the
gravel plain; this site the Eskimos call
levoghiyuoq [Ayveghyaget], "place of the
walrus," from its resemblance to a herd of
walrus lying on the ice. Some 200 yards south
of levoghiyoq, and at the foot of the plateau,
is still another old site known to the Eskimos
as Miyowagh [Mayughaaq], "the climbing up
place" (1937:33).
According to Collins, these ancient sites were, in fact,
the landmarks of the changing shape of Cape Chibukak,
as the series of successively younger beach ridges were
built by the retreating surf zone and shore currents, so
that the old village sites had to be moved repeatedly
to remain closer to the beach. Thus, the Mayughaaq
site and another ancient settlement. Hillside, higher up
above the slope of the Sevuokuk Mountain, were the
oldest in the area. The site of Ayveghyaget, located
some 200 yards closer to the present-day northern shore
and separated from Mayughaaq by four beach lines,
should be dated from a later period. The site at
Siqiuwaghyaaget was populated next and was inhab-
ited until the end of the pre-contact period (i.e., about
AD 1 700), when people relocated the village closer to
the expanding western shore. About 1 00 to 1 20 years
later, they moved again to build a precursor of the
historic village on a higher ridge. Since then, the vil-
lage moved several hundred yards farther northward
along the western shore, as all the historical houses of
the late 1 800s and early 1 900s were located north of
the abandoned underground dwellings
(Collinsl 937:33-4, 1 940:546). These settlement shifts
might have caused substantial reconfiguration of the
local ethnographic landscape(s), even if people contin-
ued to exploit the same area, with more or less the
same type of economy.
It is hard to say whether the old sites at and around
Sivuqaq/Cambell were occupied by one residential
population or by distinct communities that moved from
one place to another through the centuries, as the land
was physically changing under people's feet. It is quite
likely that, at least, the three latest settlements—
Siqiuwaghyaaget, Collins' "old section" (sometimes
named Mangiighmiit by today's elders), and what is
known today as Cambell "old site" (i.e., historic village
of the 1 900s)—were inhabited by related communi-
ties. The sheer proximity of three sites argues for their
continuity. The connection between the "old section"
and the historic village of the late 1800s and of the
1 900s is also supported by local oral tradition.'
According to Collins, at some point during the
eighteenth century, people started to build semi-
subterranean dwellings at the "old section" site, to the
south of the historic village, along the elevated gravel
bar between the lake and the sea (Collins 1937:189;
Fig. 50). Today's residents call this type of house nenglu
in Yupik, and igloo when speaking in English. Collins
argued that the houses at that "old village" site were
abandoned "some forty or fifty years" before his visit,
that is, before 1880 (Collins 1937:190, 261). Today's
elders remember these houses from "grandfathers' sto-
ries" only:
My grandfather also told me about the old
underground houses, nengiu. They used to
live in these nenglus when they were young. I
think he was born in a nenglu house. They
used to make roofing of whalebones and
they put walrus hides on top but particularly
very big pieces of ground (sod). It was very
warm, just like a good roofing. They put
many whalebones on top, so that it could
keep these big pieces of ground (sod) on the
ceiling. (Who lived in this house?) I think, his
parents used to live there, Temkeruu's
206 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF CAMBELL
64/ Outline map of Cambell and vicinity, at north-
west end of St. Lawrence Island (Collins 1 937: 1 89).
[grandfather's] parents; maybe, also their
brothers and family. . . . Maybe, they once
lived in one nenglu but as far as I remember,
they always had different (separate) living
quarters—two or maybe three (residencies) in
one nenglu. They called it saaygu. They got a
door and they somehow separated this
nenglu into (family) living quarters. They used
clay lamps, number of them for light and
heating.
(Have you ever seen such a house?) Yes, in
the camp Tapghuq there was a nenglu that
used to be of my father's side grandfather's
relatives. It was Aymergen's nenglu. It was not
ruined yet when I first saw it. They used to
stay at the Tapghuq camp along with my
grandfather and family. ... But Aymergen's
old nenglu was still staying there, although it
was probably many years ago when they used
to stay [to live] there (Avalak/Beda Slwooko
1 999; Akuzilleput2002A09).
At some point about the mid-1 800s, the semi-subterra-
nean winter sod-houses at Gam bell were swiftly replaced
by a new type of above-ground winter dwelling,
mangteghapik, with an inner chamber made of walrus
and reindeer skins (see descriptions in: Jackson 1 903:28;
Geist and Rainey 1936:12-13; Moore 1923:346-9;
Sivuqam 1989:100-5). According to archaeologists
(Collins 1 937:261 ; Geist and Rainey 1 936:1 2), this type
of winter house was introduced from Siberian Yupik
villages across the Bering Strait, presumably because
of increased contacts. Most of the present-day elders
age seventy and older were born in such houses and
remember it well. This shift obviously made a great
impact on the overall appearance and the general con-
figuration of the village. As the underground sod-dwell-
ings at the "old site" were abandoned, people were
building new skin-covered houses farther north, along
the beach ridge. Hence, the whole village was gradu-
ally moving northward.
This village landscape of dome-shaped, skin-cov-
ered houses surrounded by smaller tents or frame cab-
ins, vertical whalebone rafters, boat-racks, and meat cel-
lars is depicted in many early photographs of Sivuqaq/
Gambell from the 1880s and until the 1930s. Unfortu-
nately, no photographs or good accounts of the vil-
lage exist before 1 881
.
The most significant event in the recent history of
St. Lawrence Island occurred in the winter of 1 878-
1 879, when a terrible famine, probably coupled with an
epidemic, wiped out more than half of the island's popu-
lation. Several villages were completely destroyed, and
many communities barely endured with few survivors.
With the death of so many people, the pre-famine
social geography of the island made up of several
settlements, clans, and tribes, was almost obliterated.
The village of Sivuqaq was less affected by the
tragedy than, probably, all other large communities on
the island (see contemporary reports and estimates in
Doty 1899:187, 217; Hooper 1 881 :1 0; Muir 1917:108;
Krupnik, 1 994; Mudar and Speaker 2003). A portion of
its population survived, preserving some cultural con-
tinuity with the earlier residential community. Many
survivors from other settlements hit by the famine
moved to the area. They were joined by several Yupik
families from Siberia, eager to leave their mainland
villages because of a similar combination of bad
weather, poor harvest, and mass starvation. These people
brought with them their specific customs and group
names, as well as memories of distant places and land-
scapes. This mixture of local and introduced traditions
IGOR KRUPNIK 207
was the foundation on which the present-day com-
munity of Sivuqaq/Gambell, and its culturally organized
environment, "ethnographic landscape," was created.
Construction of the government school-building in
1891 and the arrival of residential white teachers in
September 1 894 marked the second major documented
event to reconfigure the historic village of Sivuqaq/
Gambell. Carpenters from the ship that transported the
lumber from San Francisco (Gambell 1910:3; Jackson
1 903:29; Akuzilleput2002.267) erected the school build-
ing ("a strong, plain structure, forty feet in length by
twenty in width") in 1 891 . From 1 894, with the arrival of
the first teachers, and for decades thereafter, it served
as the only public building in the village, combining
the functions of schoolhouse, teachers' residence, Pres-
byterian mission, and community hall.
Vene Gambell, the first teacher, claimed that the
schoolhouse was built "on the outskirts" of the village
(Gambell 1 91 0:3); one of his photographs in 1 897 de-
picts a large empty space at one side of the school
Oackson 1 898:36). The practice of the time was to place
schoolhouses (and the teachers) some distance apart
from the Native residential area. Today's elders, how-
ever, remember the old school building of the 1 920s
and 1 930s located at the center of the community, sur-
rounded from all sides by Native houses. That sug-
gests that the village of the late 1 800s was made of
several dispersed house clusters or neighborhoods, with
plenty of free space in between (Fig. 65).
The next significant event in village history was
the "big flood" of 1 914 (or 1 91 3). Several accounts of
the "big storm" of 1914 were first recorded by anthro-
pologists Alexander and Dorothea Leighton in 1 940;
many of today's elders recount similar stories they heard
from their parents (Leighton 1 940; see Akuzilleput2002).
The storm reportedly created a huge wave that flooded
a whole section of the historic village. It wiped out
several houses and an entire small neighborhood lo-
cated at or close to today's beach. That forced the resi-
dents to move out and to rebuild their houses on higher
ground in the central portion of the village, close to
the school building. As a result, the former spatial struc-
ture of the village, made of several separate neighbor-
hoods was dramatically transformed:
There were a lot of houses made of walrus
hide (in Gambell). Some of them are under
the sea now, especially two of them that I
know belonged to the Tungiyan's and
Anangti's. . . . Our house was where the boat
racks are now. To the north was Temkeru's.
Farther north from Temkeru's was Kaningok's
and to the west of the meat racks was
Nemayak's. These three houses were also
located where the boat racks are now.
At that time the beach was farther down and
there was no erosive waves back then. At
least the waves did not go beyond the banks
of the beach.
Back in those days when the waves started
getting bigger than normal, we (also) moved
from our original place to where we are now.
The waves weren't really that big but every-
body decided to move (Lloyd Oovi in
Sivuqam^ 985:] 0-] 7).
As some families were forced to move their dwellings
to the center, those who lived at the southern end de-
cided to leave for good. Shortly after the storm of 1 9 1 4,
they moved to reindeer herders' camps in the interior
of St. Lawrence Island. Eventually, they settled at the
new village of Savoonga, forty-five miles from Gambell.
Anthropologist Riley Moore, who visited the vil-
lage in 1912, shortly before the "big flood," reported
that some families were already using lumber frame
houses during the summer months "but they (the resi-
dents) move into Native houses built of [walrus] hides
and driftwood as soon as cold weather begins" (Moore
1 923:350). It was the prohibitive cost of imported lum-
ber that kept the number of frame houses low. By
the 1 930s, however, the transition to lumber houses
was almost complete and the last traditional skin-cov-
ered dwelling was dismantled in the summer of 1940
(Hughes 1960:16). Still, an old tradition of using two
types of residences during the year—a winter house
and a summer skin tent (gw/gu)—persisted, as almost
every family kept separate lumber structures for its sum-
mer and winter occupation. This combination ofwooden
208 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF GAMBELL
65/ St Lawrence Island Yupik women and children in front ofa traditional semi-subterranean house, nenglu, 1 889,
one of the earliest historical photographs of Sivuaqaq/Cambell, showing the very dispersed nature of the old
village, with plenty ofempty space in between the house clusters.
structures, boat-racks, scattered whalebones, and ver-
tical jaw-poles made a picturesque image of the vil-
lage, as seen from many photographs (Fig. 66) and
visitors' accounts:
As approached from the direction of the sea,
the village was seen as a cluster of wooden
houses arranged roughly in three straggling
rows running parallel to the western beach. In
front of the houses and typical of practically
all Eskimo settlements were the many whale-
bone racks within easy reach of the water,
onto which whaleboats and skin-covered
Native craft were lashed.
The center of the village was clearly the
square bounded by the newly constructed
schoolhouse and teachers' quarters, the
community store, the nurse's residence and
dispensary, and the Presbyterian mission, the
oldest building in the village and the first
permanent white construction, which dated
from the late 1 890s and for many years
served as church, school, and community
meeting hall. The fifty or so Eskimo houses
were constructed of lumber imported from the
mainland, and they could be grouped by a
casual glance into two types. . . . The first
type of house was typically the summer
dwelling place, and the second was the
structure in which a family spent the winter.
Most families had a house of each kind
(Hughes 1960:1 5-16).
In the 1 930s, some lumber houses were transformed
into winter dwellings, with old-style sleeping places of
reindeer skins (agra) built inside. Families stopped us-
ing seal-oil lamps for heating and cooking, and switched
to coal and oil fuel stoves. Then, the skin-covered sleep-
ing places were dismantled as described in Akuzilleput
(2002:412):
I was born in 1 926, and our old (winter) house
was still there. Then my uncle Waamquun
built another house of a similar shape to the
old winter home. The whole frame-house, but
with this (round-shape) front, like the old
winter-home. And he put the same agra
inside. But soon after that it was gone, when
they put the heater inside. And after that
they just moved to their summer house year-
round.
I was probably five or six years old, when my
uncle built this new house and put the agra
inside. But later on there was no more agra.
They made a full room and a little door, so
that we could go in and out. And we started
to use kerosene heater or other heater to heat
IGOR KRUPNIK 209
the room. And stopped using seal-oil lamps. I
was probably ten years old, when it happened
[1935 to 1938]" (Anaggun/Ralph Apatiki, Sr.,
1 999).
We did the same thing at about the same
time, in the later part of the (1 9)30s. But our
family was using a wood stove. And also
kerosene lamp for the light, until we finally
got electricity here. It happened about 1940
(Akulki/Conrad Oozeva, 1999).
Then all people remodeled their homes. They
changed their inner rooms, they put lumber
instead of fur (wall covers) inside. And also
made doors and windows instead of these
reindeer skins we used to go under. They made
the same winter houses but just put lumber on
the outside instead of the walrus hides with
ropes (Kepelgu/Willis Walunga, 1999).
The 1 940s to the 1 9605 also witnessed several major
construction projects run by outsiders at or close to
the historic village. First, the new housing section for
the personnel of the Civil Aeronautics Administration
(CAA) was built a short distance from the village, begin-
ning in 1 943. After World War II, two U.S. military bases
operated near Gambell between 1948 and 1958 (Hughes
1 960:295-304, 351-3; Mobley 2001 ;8-l 0). A small air-
strip appeared to the south of the historic village in
1 940, which was expanded during World War II. Several
old pits, meat-cellars, and whole sections of the "old
site" were destroyed by this construction. Finally, dur-
ing the 1 960s, a huge new schoolhouse was built in
the middle of the village near the central public place.
The historic school building erected in 1891 and later
transformed into a Presbyterian church, was torn down,
marking a symbolic end to the era started in 1891 to
1894.
A far more radical shift happened during the 1 970s,
when new state and governmental funding became avail-
able in Alaska due to increased oil and gas tax rev-
enues. Between 1 972 and 1 982, a new town was built
on the exposed gravel spit between the lake and northern
shore, about half a mile (500-1 ,000 meters) from the
old village. Some fifty new family houses were con-
structed, accompanied by several public buildings
Corgensen 1 990:1 54-7). These buildings were erected
in regularly arranged rows, with no linear connection
to the main axis of the old village. Some families, nev-
ertheless, chose to stay in their old houses close to the
western beach. As a result, the overall area now occu-
pied by the community has increased almost tenfold.
The system of the "old" and "new" village sites (almost
thirty years old now) is likely to be preserved for years,
since several family houses in the "old village" have
been remodeled and even upgraded for continuous
occupation.
The Social Construction of Landscape
As change swept through the village of Sivuqaq/
Gambell, outside visitors and Native residents kept re-
markably different images of the same site. To outsid-
ers, it was a chaotic conglomerate of clumsy skin-houses,
lumber cabins, and boat-racks arranged in irregular group-
ings and "straggling rows." For the residents, their vil-
lage was a highly organized universe, a network of
well-defined and tightly knit units and neighborhoods
that influenced every form of subsistence and social
activity. In analyzing historical narratives, one has to
grasp and reconcile those two different mental con-
structions. Unfortunately, early visitors left few refer-
ences to the spatial composition of the traditional com-
munity, whereas the residents' perspective on the orga-
nization of their village was not documented until re-
cently. The first Native account of life in Sivuqaq/
Gambell in the early 1900s was published in 1985
(Sivuqam 1985:10-17, Lloyd Oovi's narrative and
map), while another critical resource, a village cen-
sus and map made by Paul Silook in 1 930, remained
virtually unknown until few years ago (see Akuzilleput
2002:383-97).
Outsiders until the early 1900s (Moore 1923) did
not recognize the core element of the village social
order, the patrilineal clans (ramket). Otto Geist made
some vague references to "sections," into which the
traditional village of Sivuqaq/Cambell was divided;
these "sections" were reportedly occupied by families
"[that were] closely related by blood or by communal
210 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF GAMBELL
66/Cambell's landscape as ofsummer 1 930, with a modernized lumber house, drying racks, boats, and remains
ofa bowhead whale hunt in the foreground.
interests" (Ceist and Rainey 1936:1 1). Today's elders
remember such clusters of houses occupied by related
families as the way their community was organized
spatially and socially in their childhood years (Akuzilleput
2002:400, 407-8):
The relatives, the clans used to live close
together all the time, from the old days.
Pugughileghmlit tried to stay together and
Sanighmelnguut on the other side" (Kepelgu/
Willis Walunga, 1999).
As far as 1 remember, we lived together with
my grandparents from my mother's side. My
grandfather's name was Temkeruu. . . . The
nearest house to us was (that of) Aatghilnguq,
my grandfather's younger brother, and his
family close-by. And another nearby house
was of other close relative, Qanenguq. And
Mangtaquli, another close relative, was close-
by too. But Aatghilnguq, my grandfather's
younger brother and family, was the most
close to us (Avalak/Beda Slwooko, 1999).
I think, most of the families, the clans tried to
stick together. But after this big storm, when
many houses were destroyed, they started
moving their houses to the higher grounds.
Since that time, it somehow started to be
taken apart [the close kin residencies]
(Akulki/Conrad Oozeva, 1999).
The spatial position of residential kin neighborhoods
was not documented until the exact location of most
of the family houses revealed in Paul Silook's and Lloyd
Oovi's maps had been checked against village cen-
suses of 1 91 0, 1 920, and 1 930. In the early 1 900s, the
village consisted of at least six such neighborhoods.
At the southern end, there was a group of skin-houses
belonging to the Qiwaaghmiit clan, originally from Si-
beria. Slightly to the north of the Qiwaaghmiit, families
from two villages abandoned after the famine of 1 878-
80, Nasqaq [Nasqaghmiit] and Nangu-pagaq
[Nangupagaghmiit], formed their own tiny neighbor-
hood. When the Qiwaaghmiit moved to reindeer camps
following the flood of 1914, the site occupied by the
Nasqaghmiit and the Nangupagaghmiit became the
"new" southern end of the village.
Members of the Pugughileghmlit clan built at least
two more separated house clusters closer to the old
beach area and farther north of the Nangupagaghmiit-
Nasqaghmiit residences. Both clusters were abandoned
IGOR KRUPNIK 211
after 1914, when several houses were washed away
by storms. The Pugughileghmiit then moved their
houses to the central area near the school building.
The area to the north of the old schoolhouse was oc-
cupied by a large neighborhood of the Sanighmelnguut
clan, also from Siberia. Finally, the northern end of the
historic village was the residential area of the small
Uwaaliit clan (literally, "the northernmost people"). A
few smaller house groups belonging to other clans
created additional tiny neighborhoods.
Similar clan-based residential neighborhoods ex-
isted in many Yupik communities in Siberia, from which
several Gambell clans had originated. In the Siberian
Yupik villages, clans or clan sub-sections (close family
groups or lineages) exerted substantial territorial con-
trol over many components of the village landscape
(Krupnik and Chlenov 1 997). These included the boat-
racks area; sites for underground meat storages, boat
launching, and landing at the beach; areas for clan and
family/lineage rituals off the main village; places where
sled dogs were kept; and lineage and/or clan sections
in village graveyards. Such a spatial organization prob-
ably existed in a similarly organized community of
Sivuqaq/Gambell during the late 1 800s and early 1 900s.
It could be reconstructed from today elders' memories
and stories passed from older generations.
There is surprisingly little indication in the early
records of any higher form(s) of socio-territorial divi-
sion in the community, other than clan and kin residen-
tial neighborhoods. William F. Doty, the schoolteacher
in 1 898-1 900, made a brief reference to two "factions"
in the village, one which was affiliated by marriage
with the "Indian Point Natives," or the people from the
Yupik village of Ungaziq on the Siberian mainland.
These two factions, reportedly, "two or three years ago
[were] on the verge of fighting, but at present appear to
respect a truce" (Doty 1 900:1 89). The lack of evidence
is even more puzzling, as present-day elders have strong
memories of two former "halves" of their old village,
the Akingaghmiit {people of the southern side) and the
Uwatangaghmiit{peop\e of the "farther," or northern side)
that existed during the early- and mid-1 900s (Akuzilleput
2002:404).
The side to the north of the old school building,
of the central place was called Uwatanga,
uwatangaghmii, and the other side, the southern
side was called Akinga, akingaghmii.
Uwatangaghmiit—Akingaghmiit. Our family was
from the Akingaghmiit, from the southern side
(Anaggun/Ralph Apatiki, Sr., 1 999).
That was how we remembered the old village
[of Gambell]... They probably made this
division between the north and the south side
to make it easier to describe (the village), to
understand. Otherwise, it would be one whole
big village (Akuiki/ Conrad Oozeva, 1 999).
Because the old schoolhouse was so small,
every time they had to bring people together,
one half of the village goes in one hour and
then another side, the southern side (of the
village) goes in another hour. Our family was
included into the "northern side" (Kepelgu/
Willis Walunga, 1999).
Such a "south-north" opposition created a well-balanced
spatial system, similar to the one that existed in the
largest Siberian Yupik communities, Ungaziq (Chaplino,
Indian Point) and Nevuqaq (Naukan—see Krupnik and
Chlenov 1 997). The space "in between" thus made the
ideal spatial center, the most logical village public
space. This central place in historic Sivuqaq/Gambell
was indeed the favorite community site for wrestling,
racing, and other athletic competitions (Fig. 67); it was
called Qellineq ("something that gets packed down from
pressure"). In /A/ct/z/7/epwf (2002:406) it is described thus:
In the middle of the (old) village, somewhere
in this area, there was a place called Qellineq.
It was the place where they all got together
for wrestling, weight-lifting, running. There
were rocks for lifting. But this place is gone
now, all gone (Kepelgu/Willis Walunga, 1999).
We lived very close to the center of the
village, to the old school building. They used
to have a place there, it is "old" new houses
now. . . . where the young people used to
build their muscles. It had a lot of big-size
rocks and also a big circle where they used to
run. This place was something like an annex
near the old school building. . . . And many
other people in these old days, they wake up
212 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF GAMBELL
67/ Two men wrestle, while other villagers watch nearby, atQellineq, the traditional village public space near the
"old school" building in Sivuqaq/Cambell, St. Lawrence Island, 191 2.
early in the morning and run to that central
area, every morning. Just to watch younger
people running or wrestling or doing some-
thing (else) (Avalak/Beda Slwooko, 1999).
One of the most favored men's pastimes at the qellineq
ground, beyond wrestling and racing around a special
running circle (aqfaquq), was rock-lifting. A set of huge
round-shaped boulders used as lifting stones was once
a remarkable social feature of Gambell landscape
(Moore, 1 923:365; Akuzilleput, 2002;1 94);
The traditional recreation area (Qellineq) used
to be where the elementary school is now
located. There were a lot of big round-shaped
rocks (uyghaget). These rocks each weighed
from 60 to 400 pounds each. Maybe even more.
These rocks were brought there by only one
man, Neghqun. He must have been very strong
because the rocks he carried were huge (Lloyd
Oovi in Sivuqam 1 985;1 2-1 3).
Reconstructing Other Components of
Sivuqaq Ethnographic Landscape
Other landmarks in and beyond the historic village site
were parts of shared ethnographic landscape created
by the community over the years. The beach and the
surf zone was always the key component of the vil-
lage area, as men launched their hunting boats almost
every morning and brought the animals they killed to
butcher, process, and to share the food. The beaches
off the historic village have different names: Aywaa or
Paamna, on the northern side, and Uughqa or Saamna
(literally "south side, one down below"), along the west-
ern shore. The storage racks for skin-boats (Angyilghat)
were built both to the west and north of the tip of the
cape called Singikrak. Three names were used for sec-
tions of the beach area: Imun, the lower zone behind
the first beach ridge that flooded during the high storms
only; Aatneq, the surf area where children played; and
Qaasqaq, the highest portion of the beach (pers. com.,
Kepelgu/Willis Walunga 2001; Fig. 68). The boat-rack
area was also used for special spring offering ceremo-
nies, eghqwaaq, performed separately by each kin-based
boat crew (Sivuqam 1989:162-3).
The beach was the main focus of community daily
life for most of the year, but other areas were used
IGOR KRUPNIK 213
farther away from shore. Children needed a place to
play, and women always looked for places to gather
water, collect grass, greens, and berries, and discard refuse.
The dead had to be buried. Many family and clan ritu-
als were performed outdoors, often at a significant dis-
tance from the village. Finally, there was a need for
both physical and social place for community enter-
tainment, sport events, and meetings with visitors and
guests. In the "old times," there was the never-ending
need for community defense against raids from other
island villages and from nearby Siberia, requiring a sys-
tem of look-outs and fortified positions in case of en-
emy attack, and protected shelters for defense. Addi-
tional "defense perimeter" was created by dog-sled teams
carefully positioned on the village outskirts, so that
the main community area was literally encircled by the
guarding ears of the sled dogs (pers. com., Branson
Tungiyan 2001 ).
The site of the old underground houses {Nenglulluget)
south of the village was famous for its tall grass, picked
in summer by women and girls and used as insula-
tion inside the roofs and walls of skin winter houses
{Sivuqam 1 989:1 02-4). Farther south, and at some dis-
tance from the historic village, lies a former meeting
place for the Pugughileghmiit, people who lived in the
village of Pugughileq, at Southwest Cape. William F.
Doty (1900:206, 231) described witnessing a compli-
cated ceremony of greeting the visiting Pugughileghmiit
in the fall of 1 898. A special place used for community
ball games was once located "in back of the village."
There, men would play against men with a wooden
ball, and girls against boys using a softball (ibid. :1 93;
Silook 1 976:24; Sivuqam 1 985:22-3). When visitors from
Siberia arrived at Cambell, ball games usually occurred
in three locations: at the southern end of the west beach
{al<ingan qaasqaa), north beach {uwatangan qaasqaa),
and east of the village (tunutangani [the back area];
Sivuqam 1 987:1 38-9). Other sites for wrestling and rac-
ing competitions were located at the western beach,
at the central area (Qellineq), and along the northern
shore. The circular route for foot-racing, Kilgaaqu, nearly
two miles long, was an important component of the
local landscape. During the summer, "often parties of
fifteen to thirty [men and youth] may be seen running
upon this track" (Moore 1923:364).
There was a special place for arrow-shooting prac-
tice, off the "old village" site (Nenglulluget) called
Pitegseghaghvik (pers. com., Kepelgu/Willis Walunga
2001 ). Collins referred to "three rows ofjumping stones"
(nanghiissat) located on top of the Cambell Mountain,
about two miles from the village. According to his Yupik
assistants, those stones were once used by young men
while training to become runners or strong warriors
(Collins 1 937:354-5). A documentary made in 1930 and
preserved at the National Anthropological Archives,
Smithsonian Institution, shows Collins' assistants duly
demonstrating such training practices.
Little information exists on the location of the com-
munal graveyard before the move to the historic vil-
lage. Cambell, the first teacher between 1 894 and 1 897,
claimed that
formerly the dead were interred near the
houses; later they were placed in a cave(?) or
an old house, of which there are three or
more now partly filled with bones. Now when
a death occurs, . . . four to ten men drag the
body over the ground about a mile to a rocky
bluff 600 feet high. Children are placed at the
foot and important persons near the top, while
those of low degree are stationed midway
(Cambell 1898:143).
Ceist reported the same distribution of individual
burial sites along the mountain slope during the
1 920s (Ceist and Rainey 1 936:30). The present-day
community graveyard is located at the same place,
about one-and-a-half miles from the historic village,
on the rocky slope of the Sevu-okuk Mountain. There
is even a reference to the special "suicide place"
east of the village, where people used to end their
life near a big rock, brought from the mountain by a
strong man, Neghqun (Sivuqam 1 989:1 67).
Otto Ceist, who spent the winter of 1928-1929
in Cambell, referred to
several places of worship . . . located at
214 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF CAMBELL
many places between the cape mountain
and the village, particularly near the shore of
the lake. All had small fireplaces often
containing freshly charred wood. Offerings
[to the deceased ancestors] were put under
large rocks, with several reindeer skulls and
antlers from Siberia and polar bear skulls left
at these places by worshippers (Geist and
Rainey 1936:30).
Such family or, more often, lineage ritual sites were
used for the fall memorial ceremonies, AghqesaghWq.
In Siberia, each Yupik village had several family sites
or a whole area with many sites located close by
(Krupnik 2001 b: 307-1 5). These sites were still in use
in Sivuqaq/Cambell during the 1 930s (Fig. 69), as seen
from the following story:
Ataayaghhaq would often go to offer
sacrifices (aghqesaghtutuuq) down [from the
old village] where the new housing is now
(about 1 50 yards north of Troutman Lake).
The altar [ritual site (aghqesaghtughvik)] was
along the lake shore somewhere between
where Anangiq's and Kegyuuqen's houses
are now. Ataayaghhaq never used matches
to start a fire at his altar. . . .Ataayaghhaq
would let us know when he was going to be
doing these things. He would call only
youngsters to come along on his sacrificing
trips. Our family place of sacrifice was around
Tapeghaq [a site by the lake] (Nuughnaq/
Ruby Rookok, 1984; Sivuqam 1987:145-7).
Evidence of the ancient fortifi-
cations and defense structures
was seen in the remains of old
whalejaws "jutting out from the
sand between the sea and the
lake" east of the historic vil-
lage. These bones were report-
edly the few surviving remnants
of many such jaws erected as a
barricade for protection in case
of invasion by the Siberian
people (Geist and Rainey
1936:26). Another old defen-
sive structure noted by Collins
(n.p.) was made of whale jaws
to the south from the village
(Akuzilleput2QQ2:227). Today's
residents still remember stories
heard from elders about an old
"fortress" of whale jaw bones
(maniitet)—now completely
destroyed—that was once
built near the lake, so as not
be seen from the beach. It was
reportedly surrounded with
68/ Map ofSivuqaq/Cambell
area, with major local place
names, drawn by Willis
Walunga, 2001.
/tp/<^(r^/zoo I
IGOR KRUPNIK 215
stone walls and used as a shelter in case of an attack
from the sea (Eskimo Heritage Program 1 979). Stories
about such raids by boatloads of warriors from Siberia
figure prominently in the folklore of the Sivuqaghhmiit,
the people of Cambell (Silook 1 976:4, 1 1 3-4).
A network of historic trails was another important
component of the local ethnographic landscape. Al-
though most transportation was done by boat (in sum-
mer) and dogsled (in winter), there were several estab-
lished traditional trails, some with special names that
connected the village of Gambell with the nearby settle-
ments (see Sivuqam] 989: 1 76-9).
The adjacent seascape—with its system of shore
currents, tides, ice leads, and established hunting ar-
eas—featured prominently in both physical and cul-
tural environment. The sea and ice off Gambell, where
major subsistence hunting occurred, was watched con-
stantly; and it was the focus of daily talks, community
concerns, valued cultural expertise, and knowledge
transmission. Dozens of local terms identified every
variation in sea, ice, and weather conditions, including
many terms for types of shore ice and beach ice forma-
tions {Sikumengllu Eslamengllu 2004).
Local ethnographic landscape and seascapes were
also filled with dozens of personal and place names, as
well as with innumerable stories and shared memories.
Such an oral tradition—the body of transmitted stories,
memories, names, and images—was the "core" of every
documented cultural environment built through gen-
erations of human occupation, use, storytelling, and
spiritual affiliation. Transmitted via shared narratives, it
helped maintain a strong bond between the commu-
nity and its utilized space (Fair 1 999:29). Several dozen
old place names, stories about the origins of the vil-
lage of Sivuqaq/Gambell, and other historic sites in the
area have been recorded (Sivuqam 1985,1987, 1989;
Akuzilleput 2002; Yupik Language 1 989). Many are still
recalled by today's elders and are now used in Yupik
cultural curriculum at the Gambell village school.
Finally, every successive ethnographic landscape
was always but a segment of a larger cognized space
—physical, social, and spiritual— in the minds of its
residents. Before 1878, when St. Lawrence Island was
densely populated, earlier ethnographic landscapes had
been obviously construed as a network of smaller
spaces belonging to individual villages. Of those,
Sivuqaq/Gambell and its nearby communities, such as
Meregta, Nangupagaq, Nasqaq, as well as more distant
villages like Kukuiek, Pugughileq, were the key ele-
ments of the islanders' cultural universe. The situation
changed dramatically after all other settlements on the
islands were abandoned after 1 880. That left the area
around today's Gambell as the only viable social land-
scape on the island. Nevertheless, the tradition related
to the old sites survived, and many abandoned vil-
lages were quickly restored as family hunting and fish-
ing camps. Subsequently, these "other places" were re-
incorporated into the village ethnographic landscape
of the late 1 800s and early 1 900s. They remained the
sites of family and clan origins and identity; the focus
of constant longing, personal attachment, detailed lo-
cal knowledge, and of innumerable narratives transmit-
ted over generations.
That traditional ethnographic landscape changed
dramatically when the Yupik people of St. Lawrence
Island, once followers of traditional shamanistic world-
views, became devoted Presbyterian Christians, mainly
during the 1920s and 1930s Oolles 2002). There are
few references to those earlier spiritual landscapes where
humans shared the land and the sea with various game
spirits, "site masters," malignant spirits, wghneghat, and
other supernatural beings. One can draw certain paral-
lels with the way(s) the Yupik people in Siberia re-
garded their universe up to the 1 950s and even in the
1 980s (Krupnik and Vakhtin 1 997:243).
Evolution of Sivuqaq/Gambell Ethnographic
Landscape(s)
Henry B. Collins, a Smithsonian archaeologist, was the
first to outline an almost 2,000-year sequence of an-
cient occupational sites and major related cultural
stages at and around Gambell (Collins 1931:138-42,
216 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF CAMBELL
69/ Traditional sacrificial site at the outskirts ofSivuqaq/Gambell, St. Lawrence Island, 1 930.
1937:32-5). Collins' approach may be used to build a
similar framework in the evolution of local ethnographic
landscape(s) that followed transition in cultural/occu-
pational stages. Of course, such a synopsis of changes
in local ethnographic landscape is a product of many
guesses. The main challenge here is to find the way
and proper justification for one to identify contigu-
ous stages in an age-long transition versus what may
be regarded as separate (independent) landscapes.
This issue will be addressed at the very end of this
section.
Whatever scenario may seem plausible to an out-
sider ethnohistorian, it would never be the only ver-
sion available, as the saga of village history has—and
probably always had—several interpretations. Some
gaps between the scientists' records and the narratives
shared by today's residents of Sivuqaq/Gambell (only
a small portion of which is written down and available
in English) can be bridged. Other discrepancies, par-
ticularly with regard to absolute dates, the size of the
pre-contact island population, and the links between
ancient and more recent communities would be harder
to accommodate. Likewise, the story of the "early days"
in Sivuqaq/Gambell area and of people's relations to
the surrounding landscape remains a work in progress
in the minds of its residents and in anthropologists'
writing alike.
Old "Prehistoric"Sites (Mayughaaq, Ayveghyaget)
The people of Sivuqaq evidently preserved some
historical tradition related to many abandoned an-
cient sites in the area by the time both Collins and
Geist started their work in 1 927-1 930. Ancient sites'
names were quickly recorded and a few stories re-
lated to the old villages were documented (e.g., Geist
and Rainey 1936:12). Those ancient sites are still
featured in some narratives related to the origins of
the community of Sivuqaq/Gambell {Sivuqam
1989:178-9). The site names, however, are recent
rather than age-old place names and are clearly
based on words from the present-day St. Lawrence
Island Yupik language. Similarly, no present-day clan
IGOR KRUPNIK 217
traces its origins to those ancient sites; nor have
any former associated clan names been reported.
The continuity gap notwithstanding, the ruins of
ancient sites around Sevuokuk Mountain and stories
related to them were somehow (re)incorporated into
the local ethnographic landscape of the late 1800s
and early 1 900s—as they obviously are today.
The Siqiuwaghyaget Village (1 500 to 1 700)
Surprisingly, no similar stories have been recorded re-
garding the later village site near the Nayvaaq
(Troutman) Lake that was reportedly populated until
the 1 SOOs-l 700s (cf. Collins 1 937:1 89). No present clan
or family on the island traces its origins to former resi-
dents of the village. Evidently, no viable oral tradition
related to the Siqiuwaghyaget community was around
even seventy years ago, when both Collins and Geist
searched for stories about early area settlements. This
is the most stunning gap in the area's continuity; save
any focused effort by today's elders to retrieve stories
they once heard from their forefathers, that old ethno-
graphic landscape is lost.
The "Old Site"(l700s to the 1850s)
Very little is remembered of the later community known
as Manighmiit that resided in several underground
houses closer to the beach and south of the historic
village of the 1 900s. The only observation of that com-
munity belonged to a Russian Navy captain. Otto von
Kotzebue (1 81 7), offering hardly any clue to the physi-
cal and social setting of the time (Kotzebue 1821:195-
6, cited in Collins 1937:21). Still, some elders of today
claim that their grandparents or great-grandparents were
born at the "old site" with the underground dwellings,
Nenglulluget, and, hopefully, some memories of that
old landscape may still be recorded.
The Pre-famine "Historic Village" (before
1878)
We know some general facts about the size, physical
shape, and the composition of the pre-famine com-
munity and of its landscape. The village was then quite
big and located slightly more to the south, compared
to the village of the 1 900s. It was already composed of
several clans and clan residential neighborhoods, and
was undergoing a rapid transition from semi-subterra-
nean houses (nenglu) to surface skin-covered dwell-
ings (maiigteghapil<). Thanks to increased contacts with
whaling ships after 1 850, lumber was brought in, so that
the first wooden constructions appeared.
The most important transformation was probably a
spreading-out and a gradual northward advance of the
more compact earlier settlement. It was advanced by
the arrival of several distinct clan groups, such as the
Pugugliileghmiit, "people from Pugughileq" at the South-
west Cape, and the Aymaraml<etdan from Siberia. Both
groups obviously built their separate clan neighbor-
hoods away from the earlier "old site."
There is little chance, however, that we can recon-
struct the pre-famine ethnographic landscape in any
detail, unless some yet unknown documentary records
are available. We know almost nothing about the way
the village was organized before the famine and where
the houses of those who perished and of those who
survived have been located. Elders of today are reluc-
tant to share the old "famine stories," reportedly, be-
cause their parents and grandparents were unwilling to
talk to them about that tragic experience.
The "Preschool" Village (1880 to 1894)
There are many more general references and little spe-
cific data about the village landscape during the short
period between the famine and the arrival of the first
teachers in 1 894. Many old houses and several sec-
tions of the early "historic village" might have been
abandoned, as their residents perished during the fam-
ine. New houses were built and new clan neighbor-
hoods were established by survivors from other island
villages and by Siberian migrants. Based on today's
fragmentary narratives, the post-famine village was
more a combination of isolated kin (clan) hamlets than
218 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF GAMBELL
70/ Beach area in Sivuqaq/Cambell in 1 889, witin sun
tineir sl<in roofs removed for summer drying of the fit
the coherent settlement known from the later days.
The northernmost group, the Uwaliit, lived almost one
kilometer apart from the southernmost cluster of houses
at the opposite end of the village area. Many empty
spaces were available (Fig. 70), which were readily oc-
cupied by the incoming clans, with each group trying
to create the network of subsistence, storage, ritual,
and burial areas of its own.
The "Skin-house" Village (1894 tol9l4)
This is the first ethnographic landscape of the past for
which several records exist, including narratives of early
schoolteachers, historical photographs, village censuses
with personal names (of 1900 and 1910), and elders'
memories. The village of Gambell around 1 905 had at
least three main residential neighborhoods or big house
clusters standing quite apart from each other (Sivuqam
1985:10-25). Most probably, the new schoolhouse
erected close to the central area (Qellineq) gradually
emerged as a center of social gravity and community
integration. As more and more winter skin-dwellings
were built closer to this new core area, the community
started to look more like an integrated village.
r tents, storage racks, and winter wooden houses, with
area.
Overall, the landscape of the early 1900s can be
reconstructed with substantial details, including personal
stories related to activities and events at specific areas.
The stories are still shared by today's elders, despite
the fact that many sections of the early ! 900s village
were destroyed through the flood of 1 91 4, beach ero-
sion, and house relocation.
The "Early Lumber-house" Village (1914 to
1935)
This is presently the core ethnographic landscape of
the so-called "historic village" that is solidly docu-
mented in many photographs, village censuses, and
elders' narratives. Its basic spatial feature was the bipo-
lar and almost linear structure of the village, with the
schoolhouse and the community area, Qellineq, at its
center. Several new houses had been built at and around
this central public area, so that by the late 1 920s there
was no visible gap between the Uwatangaghmiitinonh-
ern) and Akingaghmiit (southern) sections of the vil-
lage. Both sections consisted of several clans and fam-
ily/lineage groups.
Several areas and structures outside the main vil-
ICOR KRUPNIK 219
lage were critical elements of this ethnographic land-
scape, such as the village cemetery, racing and meet-
ing places, sacrificial sites, trails, and various public spaces
(see above). Whereas many of these features have been
physically destroyed, the virtual landscape is still re-
membered in exquisite detail by many today's elders,
born during the early 1 900s.
The Lumber-house Village (1935 to 1 948)
That village is similarly well remembered by an even
greater number of today's seniors. Some evidence ex-
ists that its social landscape became more simplified,
as fewer traditional rituals in and particularly out of the
village have been performed (Sivuqam 1985:52-3).
Racing, wrestling, and other traditional athletic com-
petitions became less common, replaced by church
ceremonies and July Fourth public celebrations. The
end of regular summer visits from Siberia eliminated
another key element of village communal life, together
with the sites and areas used for it.
Modernized "Old Village" (1940s to early
1970s)
This was another short-lived landscape that underwent
rapid transformation. The construction of new housing
for the Civil Aeronautics Administration (CAA), a per-
manent airstrip, and two military camps outside the vil-
lage introduced some new and alien components to
the local setting.
Despite that, the village of the 1 950s and 1 960s
still had a general look of a traditional Native com-
munity (see pictures in Hughes 1960; Bandi 1984;
Wicker 1993), although parts of its traditional land-
scape were quickly eroding. Construction of the new
schoolhouse created a major dent in the center of
the historic village site, as the old schoolhouse was
torn down and the central public space, Qellineq, de-
stroyed. The former wrestling and racing area was also
taken away by the new school building, and the huge
lifting stones were dumped outside the village. The
elders reportedly kept gathering at the old public space;
but little by little, this practice ceased as did daily ath-
letic competitions, wrestling, and other traditional open-
air activities.
During that era, at least one traditional-like compo-
nent was added to the local landscape at the beach and
boat-rack area {Qaasqaq). When tractors and other heavy
equipment became available in the 1950s, local whal-
ing captains started to pull the heads of killed bow-
head whales (skulls with jaw bones and baleen) onto
the beach in front of their houses. There are currently
eight groups of skulls and/or individual skulls with Jaw-
bones along the boat-rack area. Each is remembered
by the name (or family) of the captain who killed the
whale. The skulls were left as "trophies," and no rituals
were reportedly performed at their placements
(Akuzilleput 2002:422).
"New Village" (1 970 to present)
Finally, construction of the "new village" on the gravel
spit plain to the east of the historic village began in the
1 970s. This created an entirely new ethnographic land-
scape. Most of the village's public activities were relo-
cated to a new communal space, Qemgughvik, near the
new IRA building. The "new village," with its regular
lines of modular housing units, made the former com-
munity division of the Akingaglimiitand the Uwatangagh-
m//r obsolete. Some of the new houses were built right
at or very close to the old family ritual sites (Aghqesagh-
tughviget) near the lake. Many former subsistence areas
were abandoned, like collecting tall grass for house
insulation. The underground meat-cellars went unused,
and four-wheelers and snowmachines replaced dog
teams. Yet, the community preserves its traditional beach
and boat-rack area outside the historic village and the
old graveyard on top of Sevuokuk Mountain. Several
families also maintain residence or keep up their old
houses at the "historic" site (Fig. 71 ).
Discussion: Preserving Sivuqaq/Gambell
Ethnographic Landscapes
Such a multi-layer historical "stratigraphy" of the
220 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF GAMBELL
71/ Section of the "old village" ofSivuqaq/Gambell, 2001
.
Sivuqaq/Gambell area offers certain guidelines, upon
which the overall succession of its ethnographic land-
scapes could be construed. If the continuity in com-
munal life, in shared memories, and in people's identity
is to be taken as the main criterion, the sequence of
the post-1880, or the "pre-school," "pre-flood," "lum-
ber-house," and the "modernized" village settings rep-
resent stages in one "ethnographic landscape." That
landscape, nevertheless, had incorporated elements
of several earlier settings, including those from the an-
cient communities that once lived at the Mayughaaq,
Ayveghyaget, and Siqiuwaghyaget sites, with which
the later residents of Sivuqaq/Gambell had hardly any
direct ties. These old village sites represent remnants
of the previous ancient landscapes. Of those, nothing
but modern names, some physical traces, and a few
related stories remain.
Enough evidence exists to argue that a gruesome
population loss during the famine of 1878-1880
caused a huge gap in local landscape continuity. Al-
though the community itself was quickly restored, it
preserved but a fraction of the old residential popula-
tion; the survivors were then mixed with and culturally
incorporated by the various groups of migrants, who
built a new social system (cf. Krupnik 1994). One sign
of the new spatial order was the move of the vil-
lage graveyard to a place some 1.5 miles away, to
the slopes of the Sevuokuk Mountain. The emerg-
ing linear shape and the "South-North" (Akingaghmiit-
Uwatangaghmiit) division of the village site was another
sign of a profound landscape reorganization caused
by the famine. A similar break in landscape continuity
took place almost a hundred years later, when the
"new village" was constructed at its present site, al-
most a mile away from the "old village."
As newer types of dwellings gradually replaced
older ones and the main village site moved several
times over the centuries, many components of the ear-
lier ethnographic landscapes were all but abraded, both
physically and mentally. In this respect, the village of
IGOR KRUPNIK 221
Sivuqaq/Cambell is hardly different from many historic
towns and villages that weathered dramatic cultural
change and historically insensitive development
wrapped as "modernization. " Scores of such communi-
ties made great progress in protecting their legacy via
preservation efforts—restoring old buildings; bringing
new residents and tourists to the once emptied streets.
It is much harder, though, to recreate the mental or
memory framework of the old landscape. Here, few
protective or economic measures would suffice; rather
a combination of policies is needed that will match
preservation with cultural revitalization, education, and
other public programs. The story of today's Sivuqaq/
Cambell is quite instructive in this regard.
First, the village of Sivuqaq/Cambell, and St. Law-
rence Island in general, underwent substantial changes
in its legal status over the last thirty to fifty years. Once
a Native territory, it came under the de facto U.S. Coast
Guard supervision in the 1 880s and became a govern-
ment reindeer reservation in 1903. The first system of
local government, the IRA council (under the Indian
Reorganization Act [IRA] of 1934) was established in
1 939; the locally elected City Council (since 1 963) and
Native Corporation supplemented it (since 1971, see
Callaway and Pilyasov 1 993:27; Little and Robbins 1 984:
53-8). Today, Sivuqaq/Cambell is, again, a self-admin-
istered community, with almost all its land, surface, and
subsurface resources administered by the local Native
corporation owned by Native shareholders.
Second, the physical connection of the community
to its traditional village and the surrounding landscape
remains basically unbroken. Most of today's residents
cross the old village site every day when they go out
hunting or come from the beach area. Several families
continue to live at the "old village" permanently. Third,
the present-day community is blessed by a very strong
and dedicated group of elders, who are the guardians
of local knowledge, cultural heritage, and of a thriving
tradition of storytelling. Narratives about the "old vil-
lage" are duly recalled; they are commonly shared, re-
told in public, and taught at the local school under the
Yupik language curriculum program (see below). Those
stories remain a critical channel for community coher-
ence and continuity. Fourth, the modern community of
Sivuqaq/Cambell generally maintains the old social
system on which it was founded, the clan and extended
kin network. Several clan and family groups still iden-
tify certain areas in the old village, or across the nearby
landscape, as places of special value to their tradition.
Thus, the old landscape contains not only a past heri-
tage, but it persists as a fully functional terrain for today's
living community.
This view of local ethnographic landscape as a con-
temporary functional cultural terrain is critical in de-
signing any strategy for its preservation. Traditionally,
attention has been focused on the protection of
Cambell's unique archaeological sites. Native resi-
dents, visiting diggers, and professional archaeologists
in search of old artifacts and fossil ivory have long
exploited those ancient sites. By 1 980, most archaeo-
logical sites around Sivuqaq/Cambell were badly dam-
aged by generations of excavations and unregulated
digging (Crowell 1985, 1987). In 1988, five prehistoric
sites at or around Cambell had lost their national land-
mark status, because their archaeological and historic
value had essentially been destroyed by artifact dig-
ging activities. They are still listed on the National
Register of Historic Places (Mobley 2001 :2).
Little can stop "subsistence digging," as the island-
ers' excavation of ancient sites is often called (Staley
1993:348; Mobley 2001:2). All land on St. Lawrence
Island is privately owned by the village corporations
of Cambell and Savoonga, and no current federal or
state antiquities laws apply to protect the island's ar-
chaeological resources. Many elders acknowledge that
unregulated digging is destroying the most valuable
component of cultural heritage (Fig. 72); but no solu-
tion is in sight unless other sources of income become
available, as the sale of archaeological artifacts pro-
vides critical income to many families (Crowell 1 987:2;
Jorgensen 1990:172; Staley 1993:349). Competition
over old artifacts and ivory also explains people's re-
222 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF GAMBELL
72/ Viewofthe former Siqiuwaghyaghet site, now almost destroyed by "subsistence digging," 2001
.
sistance to any heritage regulations that may limit ac-
cess to and freedom of excavation at the ancient sites.
The preservation of the historic ethnographic land-
scape is, however, a different story. No commercial value
has been identified for the old village site and no out-
side body challenges the Sivuqaq/Cambell village
corporation's control over the land management in this
area. Hence, the village corporation, in cooperation
with the IRA council and the mayor's office, could es-
tablish a regime aimed at protecting the old site. To-
day, the corporation has no protection strategy for the
historic village area; nor is there a shared recognition
of its special cultural value. The shortage of funds,
coupled with the elders' aversion to new construction,
has saved the historic village from a large-scale reno-
vation so far. Smaller efforts, however, are eagerly sup-
ported, like the recent initiative in digging for old whale-
bones for resale to commercial artists and souvenir
shops on the mainland. Some land is also owned by
agencies other than the village corporation, such as
the airstrip area at the southern edge of the historic
village, which are under the control of the Department
of Transportation (Federal Aviation Administration).
Plans exist to expand the village airstrip to make it
suitable for bigger planes, but this construction would
threaten the large section of the "old site " with remains
of semi-subterranean houses near the lake.
Beyond site protection, several other strategies may
be used in historical landscape preservation at the "old
town " of Sivuqaq/Cambell, such as: education; histori-
cal documentation; community re-creation; creation of
a local museum and/or cultural center; and regulated
tourism. Even in a small town of 650 residents, this
creates a challenging need for coordination, if not con-
sensus, among many different local players.
For example, cultural education is the prime respon-
sibility of the Cambell village school system. It com-
bines local elementary, middle, and high school; but it
is placed under the overall supervision of the Bering
Straits School District administration located some 500
miles away, in the mainland town of Unalakleet. Since
1 987-89, the Cambell school has established the Yupik
IGOR KRUPNIK 223
Language and Culture Curriculum (Grades K-1 2) devel-
oped by local educators. A highly knowledgeable and
enthusiastic Yupik teacher, Christopher Koonooka, is
currently teaching a Crade-9 course named "The His-
tory of St. Lawrence Island" (including the history of
Sivuqaq/CambeW), in one class per week. Unfortunately,
no visual materials, such as historical photographs and
old maps are used, and no teacher's guide is available.
When talking to students, it is obvious that a few hours
of classes hardly suffice to project elders' stories onto
today's terrain and into the minds of those born in the
very different setting of the modern village site.
Many local programs, such as the Yupik Lan-
guage and Culture Curriculum at the Gambell High
School, the Eskimo Heritage Program of the
Kawerak Inc. in Nome, and the regional Elders'
Conferences could address documentation of the
Sivuqaq/Gambell ethnographic landscape history.
Some outside efforts may be helpful; individual
scholarly research projects have much to contrib-
ute, too. As this chapter illustrates, there is no
shortage of both written and oral resources to docu-
ment the local ethnographic landscape history, but
no special brochure, catalog, or illustrated guide-
book is available. Pending adequate funding, a
popular history of local ethnographic landscape
can be produced. It may be formatted as a re-
gional heritage report; illustrated community
sourcebook; a bilingual collection of elders' sto-
ries; Native heritage curriculum; site-survey re-
port; area ethnohistory; catalog of local place
names—or any combination of the above (e.g.,
Akuzilleput 2002; Burch 1981; Fair this volume;
Koutsky 1 981
;
Sivuqam 1 985; Ublasaun 1 996; Yupik
Language 1 989).
A re-creation (both physical and mental) of certain
historic spaces and related activities is another estab-
lished strategy to strengthen people's connection to
their former cultural environment. The residents of
Sivuqaq/Gambell had a successful experience in such
a re-creation: in 1 976, as a part of the U.S. Bicentennial
activities, they erected a modern replica of the
mangteghapik, winter skin-house, and nenglu, old semi-
subterranean house, at the southern end of the village.
Both buildings were not maintained properly and even-
tually went into disrepair.
At present, the town of Sivuqaq/Gambell has nei-
ther a local museum nor a cultural center to display its
history and heritage, save a small exhibit of traditional
ethnographic objects in glass cases at the village high
school and an even smaller private display of archeo-
logical artifacts at the main corporation building. Nei-
ther is open on a regular basis, and neither feature old
photographs or other images of the former historical
landscape. Discussions about building a small local mu-
seum or a community cultural center continue; but short-
age of funds is prohibitive. With some imagination and
local initiative, alternative strategies could be explored.
A few abandoned winter houses of the 1 930s are still
standing at the historic village site. The interiors can
be restored and filled with traditional daily objects and
historical photographs, perhaps hosting a display on
the former ways of village life, a small tourist center
(see below), or an educational facility for the history
classes under the Yupik Language Curriculum.
Finally, regulated commercial tourism could make
a substantial contribution, by bringing needed funds,
professional expertise, and public attention to the pres-
ervation of the local ethnographic landscape. Since
the early 1 990s, Gambell has been put on the route of
many Arctic boat cruises; each year one or more tourist
ships visit the town and unload dozens, sometimes,
hundreds of tourists onto its streets. Usually, the tour-
ists are taken to the public meeting place, Qemgughvik,
at the "new village," where they are entertained by the
village dancing team, often followed by a spontaneous
trade in ivory carvings and other craft souvenirs, and
by the tour to the old site, offered by local residents.
The town, however, has no brochure or historical booklet
to offer to its visitors; nor is there a program for guide
training, established historical tours, or consistent tour
narrative. The village corporation is the prime agency
224 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ VILLAGE OF GAMBELL
to manage tourist activities and to authorize further
investment to make better use of local historical re-
sources. So far, very little groundwork has been done,
and no assistance has been sought from the National
Park Service and many individual researchers, who hap-
pened to work in the community.
Conclusions
The village of Sivuqaq/Cambell on St. Lawrence Island
offers a remarkable set of ancient and recent ethno-
graphic landscapes in various stages of preservation. It
has rich archaeological resources, with a 2,000-year
record of culture change that is backed by solid scien-
tific excavation and thoroughly documented museum
collections. It enjoys abundant historical photography
and is home to a thriving Native community, one that
is strong in its cultural roots and in knowledgeable
elders. For the first time in decades, this community is
now in control of its land and has the rights to protect
and to manage its historical resources.
At the same time, the village of Sivuqaq/Cambell
offers an excellent testing ground in what could be
done to preserve Native ethnographic landscapes across
the North; how this could be done; and why very little
has been done so far to advance such preservation.
Because of the island's specific legal status, no state
and federal heritage protection regime is in place to
exert outside pressure. It remains for the local commu-
nity to take full responsibility and install the system of
heritage efforts it deems desirable.
Today, the people of Sivuqaq/Cambell possess the
legal rights, cultural knowledge, and the awareness they
need for such a mission. It is almost like a "blank check"
to be invested in community heritage preservation; but
it will not be valid for a long time. Whereas govern-
mental agencies are looking for strategies to protect
local ethnographic landscapes, it is the story in Sivuqaq/
Cambell and in many other Native communities across
the North—that really matters. Whether this is going to
be a story of community success or failure, it is worth
recording.
Acknowledgments
This reconstruction of Sivuqaq/Gambell's ethnographic
landscapes is based on an approach developed during
an earlier ethnohistorical survey of traditional Yupik
communities in Siberia (1975-1987), undertaken with
anthropologist Michael Chlenov. I also received en-
couragement and inspiration from Ernest S. Burch Jr.,
who has proved that 200-year-old Native cultural land-
scapes could be successfully reconstrued via painstak-
ing examination of ethnohistorical records and elders'
narratives (Burch 1 981 ; 1 998). The study of Cambell land-
scapes emerged as an outgrowth of an earlier coopera-
tive heritage project (1998-2000), sponsored by the
National Science Foundation (OPP #9812981). I owe
special gratitude to Willis Walunga//<e/?e/^w of Cambell,
who introduced me to the riches of his community's
history and who was my major source of local exper-
tise ever since. I also want to thank many current and
former residents of Cambell Stephen Aningayou/
Kiistivik
,
Ralph Apatiki Sr.,/Anagguh, Ora Cologerngen/
Ayuqi
,
Clarence Irrigoo/M/mg/w, Hansen Irrigoo/
Pulaaghuh, Winfredjames//<ww/w , Conrad Oozeva/Akulki,
Raymond Oozevuseuk/Awetaq, Beda Slwooko//4i/a/a/c,
and Branson Tungiyan/L/n^w^/t/ . They were very gener-
ous in sharing their historical knowledge and personal
memories. My colleagues, Aron Crowell, William
Fitzhugh, Ingegerd Holand, Tonia Horton, Rachel Ma-
son, Charles Mobley, and Cara Seitchek offered valu-
able comments and criticism. The study was accom-
plished thanks to the support of the Arctic Studies Cen-
ter, Smithsonian Institution; Cambell IRA Council; and
Western Arctic National Parklands office of the National
Park Service in Nome.
Note
1. This paper was written in 2000-2001 as a
follow-up to the St. Lawrence Island Yupik Heritage
project (Akuzilleput 2002). More discussions of
Cambell's history and social system may be found
in several recent publications, including Blumer 2002,
Jolles 2002, Mason 1998, Mason and Barber 2003,
Mudar and Speaker 2003.
IGOR KRUPNIK 225
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IGOR KRUPNIK 227
air
(] 5?4-5-2005)
ill *y"ribute
HERBERT ANUNGAZUK
The field of anthropology harbors a cluster of many
interests. It is afield that attracts many disciplines deeper
into the depths of additional learning otherwise un-
foreseen in the societies they represent. Anthropology
has had its foot inside the mesh of arctic study for the
last century, but it seems that only within the last four
decades has a new generation of anthropologists be-
gun to pave the road to human sciences that is proper
to the culture and heritage of arctic people. There is
always exceptional time involved in working with the
Indigenous community; but the time spent will have
formed lasting friendships that are rarely severed in the
lifetime of a person. It is always a sad time when one is
asked to produce a tribute about someone you have
worked with, especially in a field that probes into the
depths of your being and your culture.
Sadness was certainly felt by many when word was
received that Susan Wilhite Fair was no longer a part of
the world that has been created in the universal effort
to learn and understand northern cultures. I had not
expected to work in depth with Sue, but I began work-
ing with her following the unexpected passing in 1 997
of her able colleague, Edgar Nunageak Ningeulook of
Shishmaref, Alaska, a lifelong student of the culture
and heritage of his people. Several of Sue's papers
contain information that is intimate to the people of
Shishmaref. Her early work as a manager in an art co-
operative may have formed an interest to pursue stud-
ies in folklore because from art begins a story, and
from this Sue may have formed a solid interest to study
the ways of northern people. In my understanding of
Sue Fair, one of her greatest interests was in the place-
names of the land that reverberated into realness in
any land. The place-names were christened upon the
land before time became numbers, and in the thoughts
of the generations who know the names, they con-
tinue to sing the gift to the people who knew that
the land would provide for them. Thus, Sue knew
and understood that the people had a special mean-
ing with place.
Sue blended herself well into her work. She under-
stood the stories of the land that the people told dur-
ing her work with people who are of the land (Fig. 73).
She noted the statement of Edgar's mother, Hattie
Ningeulook, when she included "These kinds of sto-
ries they always tell, our parents and grandparents. They
say that in those days past, the earth possesses them."
Her note in what may be her final essay in "Eskimo
Drawings" that "the comparison of written records with
oral traditions is one of the most rewarding and pains-
taking jobs of the folklorist and historian" is a lasting
statement to anyone.
Sue's work included other subjects that are also
recognized as a part of the people among the people
of the Bering Strait. In our existence, she saw that the
effort to continue surviving in such a harsh land was a
reality that the people continue to face, despite the
new reality that the people are facing today. Sue had
projects that are not finished; so some of the work that
she began before her passing may never be completed.
228
I saw Sue for the final time during the celebration and
presentation of the Eskimo Drawings exhibit in IVlay
2003. Sue, and I, and many distinguished participants
had been approached by Dr. Suzi Jones of the Anchor-
age jVluseum of History and Art to provide a paper that
would enforce the forthcoming publication that was to
follow.
Sue's experiences in the art world were extensive,
and they include being the guest curator in several
installations throughout Alaska. She was especially
proud of her work in the Maniilaq Health Center in
Kotzebue that was completed in 1 998, and the art and
ethnographic displays in the Yukon-Kuskokwim Health
Center in Bethel.
Sue was born in the nation's capitol, Washington,
D.C., on June 22, 1 948. We found in the celebration of
her life that her early education began in "southern
Indiana public schools." She received her B.A. in An-
thropology later in life than most from the University
of Alaska in Anchorage, and she furthered her studies
non-stop until she received her doctorate after com-
pleting graduate studies in Folklore and Folklife at the
University of Pennsylvania in 1994. Her dissertation
was Native Art in the Public Eye: The Affirmation of Tra-
dition, which was in press in 2002 as Alasl<a Native Art:
Tradition, Innovation, Continuity. Sue served as adjunct
or half-time professor of anthropology and art history
in several locations with the University of Alaska. She
most recently held a joint appointment with the En-
glish Department, Southwest Center at the University
of Arizona in Tucson.
Dr. Susan Wilhite Fair passed away in Tucson, Ari-
zona, on June 1, 2003. She is survived by one child,
Michael Louis Kaputak Fair.
73/Susan Fair and Edgar Ningeulook (Susie 's collaborator, also deceased) interviewing Gideon Barr.
229
\Jame5 of places, (^thcr'J^imcs:
Remembering and [documenting [_ands and Landscapes
near ^hisKmare f, Alaska
SUSAN W. FAIR
These kinds of stories they always tell, our
parents and grandparents. They say that in
those days past, the earth possesses them.
(Hattie Ningeulook, Shishmaref, 1981)
The accurate, contextual, and comprehensive collec-
tion of place-names (toponyms) and the enormously
rich varieties of data associated with them must be a
key force in the long-term preservation of Native eth-
nographic landscapes, for the northern cultural, linguis-
tic, and physical landscape is steadily changing, as it
has always done. In the Inupiaq village of Shishmaref
in Northern Alaska, many young people do not know
the old toponyms, although some are inventing new
place-names. Place-name study and resulting publica-
tions (and maps) may ultimately serve to bond younger
people with these lands, now within the boundaries of
the Bering Land Bridge National Preserve, an area of
roughly two and three-quarter million acres managed
by the U.S. National Park Service. Also, the barrier is-
land upon which Shishmaref is located is rapidly being
lost to the sea. Residents have voted to move. In a
generation or two, the village itself may be a "memory
landscape" preserved only in names and stories.
This essay follows several previously published
works written about place-naming around Shishmaref,
Alaska (also referred to here as Kigiqtaq and the Saniq-
Saniniq coast). I discuss here how our community-based
collaborative Shishmaref research was conceived, how
we conducted the work, and what, ultimately, will be
produced with these data. During this project, we refer-
enced many scholars who have collected and inter-
preted place-names in various ways in the last century.
While the information in most of those books and es-
says remains classic, informative material, it includes
only a fragment of the audiotaped and field-gathered
information actually collected by their authors. Exist-
ing popular and scholarly literature on place-naming
illuminates the importance of such studies, and the fin-
est examples illustrate the way in which members of
these groups—insiders and residents—perceive the
land. Most of this literature, however, is not written for
Native audiences.
Early in the history of anthropology and folklore,
scholars recognized the central importance of place to
Native American peoples. Boas' "The Study of Geogra-
phy" (1887), his research in Baffin Land and Hudson
Bay (1901-1907), and his work among the KwakiutI
(Kwakwaka'wakw) (1 934) broke ground for subsequent
research. Waterman followed with a study among the
Yurok (1920), as did Kroeber for the entire State of
California (1916; also 1939). Kniffen's "Pomo Geogra-
phy" (1 939) was another milestone. More recently, the
compilation and analysis of place-names has been trans-
formed by Basso's work with the Western Apache (1 996,
1988, 1986, 1983) and Gelo's writing on Comanche
narrative (1994).
In the North, Brody's 1982 Maps and Dreams is
considered a classic. Cruikshank's essays on Athabaskan
place names (1 990, 1 991 ) are superb Canadian com-
munity-based works. Rankama's 1 993 work with the
Sami exemplifies Scandinavian research. Alaska
place-name scholars include Thornton, working with
230
the Tlingit of southeast Alaska (1995; 2000) and
Kari and Fall, with Shem Pete's Alaska, on Dena'ina
Athapaskan(1987).
Few Native American scholars or authors have writ-
ten about their own perceptions of land, about naming,
or about toponyms, however, although they often speak
(orally) about the topics with great eloquence.' Native
writers of fiction and Native poets discuss the land
more frequently, perhaps because lyrical works are more
suitably read aloud, just as a place-name and its socio-
cultural context are customarily told, not written. These
important works underscore Native links between tra-
ditional (past and present) emic expression, family, folk
belief, and the natural world.
IntheShishmaref area(Fig. 74), Inupiaq place-names
like Tapqaq and their translations ("sandy shore") were
first recorded by Russian explorer and trader Ivan
Kobelev in the 1 790s, who worked in the service of
the Billings expedition (Ray 1975:6). Dorothy Jean
Ray's (1 983 [1 964]) studies of northwest Alaska place-
names were amplified by elder Morris Kiyutelluk of
Shishmaref, working with Kathryn Koutsky to collect
data in support of the Alaska Native Claims Settlement
Act of 1 971 (Koutsky 1 981 ). What resulted were lists of
names included in more comprehensive ethnographic
works. Koutsky and Kiyutelluk's research was fol-
lowed by Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) interviews
with Cideon/Kahlook Barr Sr. and other local collabo-
rators in 1 988, then with Jeanne Schaaf s interviews for
the National Park Service's Shared Beringian Heritage
Program (Schaaf 1 996). Place-names are imbedded in
most of these interviews. My work with Edgar/Nunageak
Ningeulook, sponsored by the National Park Service
and the National Science Foundation, followed in 1993
and later.
This discussion focuses on how liiupiaq people in
Shishmaref name, feel about, and function within the
landscapes where they live and travel, hunt and gather.
Naming, effect, performance, competence, and history
are intertwined dynamically here in the act of place-
naming and in the retelling of toponyms. These pro-
cesses are explicit and creative, and in the high con-
text environment of a Native village, much of the cre-
ative process is shared. This is just as true of place-
naming as it is of storytelling and the production of art.
Our goal has been to look at toponyms as both ve-
hicle and symbol of cultural ideology, while recogniz-
ing them as cultural artifacts within the ethnographic
landscape.
The transmission (and retention) of place-names and
the accompanying preservation of local data associ-
ated with them remains an important part of daily life in
Shishmaref. Local tales and anecdotes are anchored in
landscapes known intimately to their tellers; all con-
tain references to specific sites and, often, to personal
names. Yet the transmission of this information is usu-
ally casual and unremarkable, as the days when young
men gathered in the more formal social environment
of the qazgri (men's house) to listen to such tales are
long past and the morals of the tales are often lost on
today's youth. A trip up the Saniq coast toward Cape
Espenberg mirrored this reality for us. As wind and wa-
ter thrashed our boat. Captain Harvey Pootoogooluk
narrated the shape and history of the land to Edgar/
Nunageak Ningeulook. He spoke continuously, al-
though it was difficult to talk or hear. His words were
not for amusement, but spoken as traditional lessons.
Each named site, even if it has disappeared into the
sea, was reiterated as a holistic conglomerate of present-
day activities, Inupiaq history, associated genealogy,
traditional beliefs, and moral lessons.
The Function of Place-names in the
Inupiaq Landscape
Inupiaq toponyms and associated folktales underscore
human ties with the Earth, local landscape, and destiny,
providing predictive models of what it means to be
Inupiaq. During traditional times, place-names were pre-
served and transmitted orally in community and ex-
tended family contexts because the information im-
bedded in them was essential to daily life. In Alaska, as
modernity encroaches upon and in many ways is wel-
231
corned by rural Native peoples, the physical landscape
of many villages and towns has changed dramatically
along with the cultural landscape. Yet, knowledge of
the land and sea remains paramount to both literal and
psychological survival. Although Native villages have
been transformed and ancient social networks modi-
fied, the core Inupiaq values of living in close interde-
pendence with land and sea, and of using these great
resources wisely and with moral understanding, con-
tinue.
The Ihupiat and their lands are inseparable. Brown
defines this relationship as one of kinship—Earth is a
relative: "A dominant theme in all Native American
cultures is that of relationship, or a series of relation-
ships that are always reaching further and further out"
(1989:1 1). Shishmaref elder Hattie Ningeulook spoke
of land in Inupiaq terms by saying "the earth possessed"
her people (1 981 ). She meant, literally, that the Inupiat
could not be separated from earth or sea without a
profound loss of identity. Like other Northern Native
peoples, liiupiat commonly identify individuals and
communities by their connection with landscapes and
localities, general and specific. Identity is configured
in several ways: individually, around extended family
kin groups, and communally, as people who inhabit
an entire region (Schweitzer and Colovko 1994:51).
Continued preservation of traditional familial and re-
gional identity remains very important, especially for
people who have resettled during historic or recent
times (either voluntarily or through forced cultural
change) into hub-communities like Shishmaref. Docu-
menting place-names and associated data is a way to
preserve this identity and to keep a people's historical
landscapes alive.
LEGEND
Boundary for Bering Land
Bridge National Preserve
Approximate Boundary line
Kigiqtaamiut Lands
<D Small Boat Harbor
<I> Boat (Umiaq) Rack
^ Known Place-name,
Old Settlement
Arctic Ocean
Bering
Sea
74/ Northwestern shore ofSeward Peninsula, Alaska (the Saniq-Saniniq coastline), showing major traditional com-
munities and Native place-names, documented from the present-day Inupiaq elders.
232 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
Communities throughout this area are adjacent to
lands managed by the U.S. National Park Service (NPS);
residents use NPS lands places they or their ances-
tors have named—for subsistence hunting, gathering,
and fishing. The majority of residents here are Inupiat,
although the region is now designated for "multiple
use" by (mainly) non-Native administrators. A "wilder-
ness suitability review" conducted when the preserve
was established concluded that all federal lands in the
preserve were eligible for wilderness designation (NPS
1985). But "wilderness" is an invented concept that
Inupiat do not necessarily support. Leopold stated un-
equivocally to conservation-minded Western idealists
that "raw wilderness gives definition and meaning to
the human enterprise" (1 966[1 949]:279). Conversely, E.
Estyn Evans calls the concept of natural environment
"an abstraction" for many cultures (1 972:5 1 8). Certainly
"raw wilderness" is neither a reality nor an ideal for
Inupiat—nor for most Native Americans. The Inupiat
and their ancestors walked, used, named, and lost these
lands to the sea for thousands of years.
At the village, town, regional, and national levels.
knowledge of names and place continues to renew
and maintain a deep sense of self and community.
Gathering information toward this end was an impor-
tant goal of this study. A profound example of this
process occurred on September 1 1 , 2001 , as all Ameri-
cans—Inupiat and other Native Americans among
them—reacted to a tragic event, to history being
made. Now, there is a particular urban landscape named
"Ground Zero." Ground Zero is a young toponym that
provides a large lesson in evaluating the worth and
meaning of a place-name (which may sometimes seem
small or remote) and its associated context, conse-
quences, and meanings. Perhaps non-Natives should
look to Ground Zero for a model of how much a top-
onym can mean, of the enormous weight a place-name
can bear as they research the histories of other groups
and manage their lands.
In the Inupiaq village of Shishmaref, as among other
Native American communities, the naming of specific
sites, localities, and general regions is one of the most
important ways in which people transfer communal his-
tory, recall significant family events and heroic indi-
X
4r
r"
/I R C T I C OCI M A/
75/ Hand-drawn map of the Saniq area, produced by one of Tom and Ellen Lapp's Inupiat herder apprentice
students, probably by Thomas Sokweena (Sokeinna) orJames Keok in Wales, Alaska, 1902.
SUSAN W. FAIR 233
viduals, convey moral lessons, and underscore soci-
etal rules. Throughout Alaska, toponyms also serve to
preserve language, annotate boundaries (those of dia-
lect and ethnicity), and draw attention to particular geo-
graphic features, which in turn refer to extended family,
safety, and subsistence. The landscape is a text, pat-
terned culturally in particular ways. Knowledge about it
is transmitted traditionally through oral history, gener-
ally related while at the place itself.
These ancient patterns of sociocultural transmission
have changed considerably in the twentieth century."^
This study began at a time when many knowledgeable
elders—those who saw the turn of the nineteenth to
the twentieth century—are passing away. With each of
their deaths, traditional knowledge of the landscape
diminishes. Thomas Thornton, working among the
Tlingit, notes that the documentation of toponyms
has resulted in the revitalization of some names in
Southeast Alaska. Likewise, Herbert Anungazuk ac-
knowledges that young Saniq-Saniniq area Inupiat know
less about the land and its names than they once did,
but expects a "surge of interest" in this knowledge as
this and other projects progress.
People of the Shishmaref Area
Arctic River, there is always someone there too,
so they call those people Agugvigmiut. . . . Each
area had an old site and there are always some
people that's been living there. The people are
called by the landmark's name (Gideon Kahlook
BarrSr., Shishmaref, 1 987; emphasis added).
Shishmaref elders, like many Native Americans, call
themselves and their kinsmen "real people." When tell-
ing stories about the region, some Inupiaq collabora-
tors say that select narratives were handed down from
the Ihupiapiat, "first people," or "genuine real people" of
the region. Traditional settlements along the Saniq-
Saniniq coasts from Wales to Shishmaref, on to Cape
Espenberg, and beyond to present-day Deering were
scattered at regular intervals at resource-rich locations,
occupied by extended family groups. In times past,
these people did not think of themselves as one soci-
ety; small local communities, in fact, sometimes feuded
bitterly. Families of the Saniq-Saniniq region, like all
Inupiat, referred to themselves as belonging to their
winter settlement; Qividluamiut (of Qividluaq) or
Kigiqtaamiut(from Old Shishmaref). These semi-perma-
nent winter "family tree settlements," as Shishmaref el-
der Charley Okpowruk called them, served as base lo-
cations while families moved seasonally for subsis-
tence purposes. An extraordinary hunter (umialiq) and
his family, living in close proximity to his brothers,
other male relatives and their families, dominated each
community. Most of those men served as crew mem-
bers during the ugzruk (bearded seal) hunt and con-
tinue to do so. Later, some were employed as reindeer
herders and apprentices.
Shishmaref area residents speak several Inupiaq
sub-dialects. In present-day Shishmaref, speakers of the
Ikpikmiut, Kigiqtaamiut, Qividluamiut, and Pitaamiut
(Pimiuli) dialects can still be identified. Dialectical dif-
ferences in the region are often very subtle, but they
are important in understanding the lay of landscape
and the nature of the sea, as well as one's identity and
origins. A misinterpretation of a name's meaning in an
unfamiliar geographic area may disorient a traveler.
Along the Shishmaref area coast, for example, the term
Saniniq refers to a sandy beach, translating as "land
between two points." The coastline from Cape Espen-
berg to Deering is also called Saniniq, but in the Pimiuli
dialect of that area, the term translates more accurately
as "shallow ocean," indicating that the coastline must
be known well and traveled with care (Barr 1 991 ; Burch
1994;395).
Geographic and societal identities were virtually
inseparable for the Inupiat (pers. comm., Charles Lucier,
November 28, 1 996); thus, river drainages and discrete
landscapes often functioned as societal boundaries. In-
dividuals and family members would have been inter-
changeable, in a sense, with particular sites, place-names,
and even landscapes and ecosystems. During this
project, village collaborators divided mapping and analy-
234 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
sis into three major areas defined by drainages and by
proximity to other Inupiaq nations:
—The Saniq coast and interior west of Shishmaref
nearly to Wales, a village historically allied to
Kigiqtaq;
—Serpentine Flats and the interior upland
regions; and
—The coast eastward to Cape Espenberg.
The latter includes some of the Saniniq coast toward
Deering, as well as mountainous areas and portages
leading into the Inmachuk and Niqianaqtuuq ("place
with brants") river drainages.
The first non-Native credited for visiting Kigiqtaq
was Otto Von Kotzebue, during his voyage of 1816-7
on the /?wr/7c(Van Stone 1 960:1 45). Observing the coastal
lowland, Kotzebue remarked that the local- and ex-
tended-family settlements that Kobelev had tentatively
mapped along the coast indicated "a numerous habita-
tion" (Koutsky 1 981 a:40). The term Tapqaq, first recorded
by Kobelev as the name for this coastline, described
"lakes, ponds, and pondlets thrown down like pieces
of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle along the lonely tapqaq
(sandy strand) between Shishmaref and Cape
Espenberg" (Ray 1 975:6). Local inhabitants were called
Tapkakmiut and the best-known "people of the sandy
shoreline" were the residents of the Shishmaref area,
though the term tapqaq also applied to several other
Seward Peninsula locations (Ray 1983:233-4).^
Along the western Saniq coast, the focus of our
National Science Foundation study, the largest tradi-
tional communities were Kigiqtaq, Sinnazaat, Ikpek, and
Milletagvik, at one time each with fifty to eighty resi-
dents. There were no major inland settlements in this
region, except for Ipnauraq ("small bluff," "rocky wall,"
or "little bank") near the mouth of the Serpentine River.
The village was abandoned after many residents ate
tainted fish and perished, although some contempo-
rary residents still attribute the incident to witchcraft,
for a shaman's charm could cause incidents like this
(pers. comm. Edgar Ningeulook, 6/94; Koutsky 1 981 :22;
^'WWfe -....-V.....
..........w,....v,.,.„„.... .............
.
-J--^...---^-^--^ ~
76/ Watercolor of the Messenger Feast, or Wolf Dance, by Headman E-too'-ach-in-na (sic) of Ipnauraq, near
present day Shishmaref One of a series of painting of festivals and susbsistence life created for Nome's Judge
Wickersham in 1 902, it is unclear if this particular event took place in Ipnauraq or in a neighboring village where E-
too'-ach-in-na may have visited.
SUSAN W. FAIR 235
Ray 1983:213; D. Ningeulook 1997). Today, Ipnauraq
is a popular fish camp and winter landmark for those
traveling by dogsled across the ice to and from
Shishmaref. Charley Okpowruk said that Ipnauraq once
held Messenger Feasts (Wolf Dances; Fig. 76) to which
Old Shishmaref residents were invited for exchange
feasts: "Our elders that we caught, they say Wolf Dance
is not a fun [secular] dance. . . . Their kalukaq (box
drum) was heard nearly twenty miles from here." (C.
Okpowruk 1 998; also Fienup-Riordan 1 996:38-41 ; Fair
2001). This would indicate that Ipnauraq was a large
village suitable for archaeological investigation.
Each of these now abandoned communities was
thus located in a landscape replete with names and
infused with kinship relations of critical importance to
its members. Old Shishmaref/Kigiqtaq was partially de-
stroyed during historic times by Kauwermiut warriors
from Mary's Igloo as residents clustered inside qazghit,
enjoying winter festivities. Milletagvik, which served
as a mission and reindeer herding station overseen by
Sokeinna and his wife Elubwok, both from Wales, was
affected by the 1918 global influenza epidemic; and
nearby Wales was devastated. Residents of Sinnazaat,
which may have had as many as twenty homes during
historic times, perished long ago from eating tainted
Beluga whale meat, as elders recall. During Ningeulook's
boyhood there was a graveyard at Sinnazaat with many
traditional burials: "The site is no more because ero-
sion has taken it away. Erosion occurred from both the
lagoon and ocean sides. There is not a trace left of all
the graves, either. . . . Some of the graves were so
dense that they had to be piled on top of one another.
These were all above-ground burials" (D. Ningeulook
1997).^
Ikpek, home of the Olanna family, was spared such
a tragedy, and was occupied year-round by a few resi-
dents as late as the 1 950s, although a government
school had been established in Shishmaref in the 1 920s.
Ikpek was the last traditional Saniq community to re-
sist modernization. Families there lobbied for a school,
but it was never built; many Ikpekmiut chose to keep
their children at home on a seasonal basis while they
hunted and trapped. Itinerant missionaries traveling the
Saniq coast converted many Ikpek residents from tra-
ditional practices to the Christian faith, however, and
Ikpekmiut were drawn to Shishmaref by the Lutheran
Church. Ultimately, Ikpek was converted to a seasonal
camp and Native allotment site, albeit a significant one,
and its residents moved out to Brevig Mission and
Shishmaref.
Consequently, Shishmaref became the hub village
for the northern Seward Peninsula Saniq coast and Ser-
pentine Flats. Former coastal residents brought with
them Inupiaq dialects and sub-dialects as well as affili-
ations with settlements that had not always been friendly
with Kigiqtaq. They also circulated distinctive origin
stories, folktales, personal narratives and memories, as
well as graphic arts featuring their home landscapes, in
addition to toponyms. Now, residents who tire of the
size and faster pace of Shishmaref, or who marry out-
side the village, often move to Brevig Mission, Wales,
or Deering.
Geographic Context: The Saniq and Saniniq
Coasts, Serpentine Flats, and Uplands
Long strands of windswept barrier islands, saltwater
lagoon systems, and beaches lace the northern Seward
Peninsula coast of the Bering Strait and the Chukchi
Sea for more than 1 00 miles from Cape Prince of Wales
northeast to Cape Espenberg. Contemporary Shish-
maref is situated on Sarichef Island (a.k.a. Kigiqtaq, lit-
erally, "island"). Barrier islands are by nature narrow, frag-
ile, and transitory. Neither Sarichef Island nor any other
area coastal, island, or bluff mainland locations have
ever been stable enough to support major communi-
ties (especially with large infrastructures) for long peri-
ods of time, although today, Shishmaref has grown to
more than 600 residents. Historic photographs of
Shishmaref illustrate the gentle appearance of sod
homes arranged in two rows down the length of
Kigiqtaq in the center of the island, grassy paths lead-
ing between. By the early 1 920s, a few rectangular
236 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
77/ The village ofShishmafef, late 1 920s, showing a lumber house with sod buttresses in the center, traditional
iglu homes (grassy hummocks) throughout, its safe oceanside beach to the north (right), and the white frame
government school and quarters in the central background.
"lumber houses" were interspersed. These frame homes
were coveted, although they were less efficient than
traditional dwellings and many were buttressed with
sod for insulation (Fig. 77).
Across the many lagoons that separate these is-
lands from the mainland, the coastal lowlands undulate
gently, sparkling with tundra lakes and string bogs. Each
low rise gives navigational guidance or bears meaning
for Inupiaq travelers—some of these toponyms very
likely have been in continuous use since before
Kotzebue's 1816 contact. Several large rivers along
the Saniq coast drain into the Chukchi Sea or into the
lagoons, including the Nuluk, various branches of the
Serpentine, Aaghuqviiq (Arctic), and Espenberg."^ Beyond
Cape Espenberg along the shores of Kotzebue Sound,
the Saniniq coast, major drainages include an estuary
formed by the Niqianaqtuuq River, as well as the
Goodhope, Pish, and Inmachuk Rivers. These water-
ways, all used by Shishmaref and Deering residents,
provide freshwater fish and anadromous salmon, and
serve as transportation routes into the interior.
The repertoire of the late Gideon/Kahlook Barr Sr.
included a traditional tale about Itivyaaq, one of the
tributaries near Cape Espenberg in his home region,
which illustrates the use of such waterways, portages,
and corridors."" Allusions to the competitiveness of
Inupiaq boat captains (umialiitor "big men"), as well as
illustrations of the flexibility and diverse use of animal
skins are enmeshed in this narrative (Fair n.d.). Specific
geographic references and practical hints in the narra-
tive may assist someone traveling the same route to-
day, for the old portage is used regularly as a snow-
machine trail between Shishmaref and Goodhope Bay
(NANA 1 992). Barr's comments about his father, Makaiq-
taq, demonstrate that use of the land as well as the
social role of skin boat captains was changing even at
the turn of the nineteenth to twentieth century:
"There's a story behind this Itivyaaq River,
how it's used," he said.
One time there were two skin boats returning
from Kotzebue where the big Eskimo trading
center is. Coming back from Kotzebue, they
SUSAN W. FAIR 237
have to go through Kotzebue Sound be-
cause of the weather conditions (on open
seas). And while they were camping at the
mouth in two boats, well—One decided to
go through Itivyaaq.
To go overland, as you follow this Itivyaaq
River, you go a ways, and you have to go
overland [by portage] to another river that
goes out to Shishmaref Lagoon. . . . They call
it North Fork or East Fork, that is part of the
Serpentine River. . . . And they only have to
go less than a mile to drag their skin boat
from Itivyaaq on into what they call Kialiik.
And then, from there on down the river, on
the North Fork River—what we call Kialiik.
No problem, it's deep.
The further you go out, the narrower it gets,
and on to Itivyaaq going up. The closer you
get to the overland portage [itibliq] when the
weather is dry, the water would be low. But
when the weather is wet, wet with rain, there is
no problem getting up to the area where they
go overland to North Fork River. When the
water is a little too low, they even have to
carve the side of the riverbank. In order for
the skin boat to go through—just in the tight
spots only. That's the way boats were used in
the early days.
So these two captains (umialiqs), well—One
makes up his mind to go overland. To go
through Itivyaaq and go out through North
Fork. So, the other one decides to go around
on the ocean side, alright. When the weather
calms down, one boat is gonna go through
the ocean coast side . . .
And then they left together. And alright, the
last time they talked together, they wondered
which one of them will get to Shishmaref first.
So, when they both took off, one goes up the
river, Niqianaqtuuq River, on to Itivyaaq. And
when they arrive in Shishmaref, that other
boat had not arrived yet. And it was almost
twenty-four hours later, when that other boat
arrived in Shishmaref.
That's an old [oral] record of that: How these
two captains get together and argue, sort of
argue over which is closest. This man said it's
real close, as long as you have to go over-
land—It's a real shortcut. But the other guy
didn't believe it. So he just goes on the
ocean coast side while the other boat goes
overland river.
That's the way it was used. Either way, from
Shishmaref or from Serpentine side, on up to
Niqianaqtuuq. Whenever they wanted to
make a shortcut it was used in those days.
But even in my father's time, nobody had
used it so far, according to my father. He
said they talk about it—but they never tried
(Cideon/Kahlook Barr Sr., Shishmaref, 1 988).
The entire Saniq coastline is extremely dynamic, while
the Saniniq side is protected somewhat from the open
ocean, as Barr's narrative indicates. Because the barrier
islands have almost no vertical relief, there is nothing
to moderate arctic winds; the sands are moved, rede-
posited, and built up intermittently by intense and re-
petitive wave action (NPS 1 985). Particularly forceful
storms sometimes roll in from north and west, bringing
devastating floods that erode shoreline cliffs, sweep
away the ruins of old settlements, and threaten modern
villages with devastation or relocation, as in the cases
of both Shishmaref and Kivalina. During the fall of 1 993,
1997, 2001, and 2002, Shishmaref was pummeled by
dramatic storms that endangered many houses and eradi-
cated traditional foods (qigniq) stored in underground
caches called sigluaq (Fig. 78). Although a few elders
resisted, several homes were relocated to the old air-
port at the outskirts of town, the Lutheran Church do-
nated lots, and some homes were abandoned. In the
near future, commercial and government buildings, air-
port, boat landings, and the school will also be in jeop-
ardy, and villagers have already voted to relocate
(Verrengia 2002). These lands shift perpetually; and al-
though the Inupiaq are accustomed to adaptation, the
size of the village and its infrastructure make the move
difficult and expensive to contemplate, plan, and ex-
ecute. Meanwhile, a particularly harsh fall storm could
destroy the main part of Shishmaref.
Overall, four distinct biological-geographical terrain
types are represented on the Seward Peninsula:
Shishmaref Lowlands, Uplands, Kuzitrin River Basin, and
Imuruk Lava Flow (Eisler 1 978:3). The entire region is a
part of the intermontane plateau system dominated by
an alpine tundra ecosystem based atop deep perma-
frost (Koutsky 1981). Although the area is located in
the Subarctic, Shishmaref weather is harsh and unpre-
dictable. Less than two feet of snow falls here in the
238 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
average year, but winters are long and sometimes,
snow drifts to the eaves of homes, businesses, and
the school in the central area. The summits and flanks
of nearby mountains are often used for game spot-
ting and weather prediction. The late elder Charley
Okpowruk gave such an example of the uses of Ear
Mountain {Inigagik, translates as "place of beseechment")
(also Keithahn 1962:73; Koutsky 1981:14-5; C.
Weyiouanna 1997). Okpowruk prefaced his story with
an explanation of the function and meaning of Inupiaq
folk-tales, differentiating between "true stories" and
apocryphal tales that demonstrate Inupiaq history and
worldview:'
True stories, what we call them is ikomorauq . .
. they actually happened—like guiding the
person's actual true way of life. The true way
ofdealing with the other generation or the other
person. . . . I would call it true culture to the
younger generation.
The man's way is protection of the young
person in terms of hunting and traveling on
the ocean. And a lot of that is knowing
prediction on the weather, too. When I grew
up, they didn't have any barometer or any-
thing, or radio. The prediction of the wind and
wind direction comes from our area here,
especially on that Ear Mountain, where it's
kind of windy. By looking at the cloud
conditions up there and the cloud conditions
on the horizon, we can tell [Fig. 79].
When we go to have a north wind in spring-
time, those thunderclouds always form up. . . .
That's where the north wind is going to be.
And the clouds on the stratus—you always
see them, called stratus. They always say the
wind won't go though the tunnel of those, it
has to go sideways. And all that mountain up
there, there are clouds that form certain ways
on that Ear Mountain. . . .
Ear Mountain tells the weather condition, tells
about it. Sometimes it doesn't have any clouds,
or clouds form up on that deal on the halfway
mark there. When clouds form up on the middle
in a real narrow strip, that's one of the wind
directions.
. . . And when it's completely cloudy,
just only on the top, that's when we're going to
have a north wind. If the clouds started coming
up on top there, from the other side ... it has to
mean a south wind. . .
.
Also, Ear Mountain has two big rocks there,
78/ A west-end Shishmarefhome hangs precariously
over the oceanside bluff created by a severe Septem-
ber 1997 storm.
and Eskimos got another name for those two
rocks— /cummw/<. It's a body louse or hair
louse. This might be true, long ago. A couple
of people got so much body lice that these
lice got their wings and just flew them up
there. That's how they turned into rocks.
/ really don 't know if that part is true or not.
(Charley Okpowruk, Shishmaref, 1 991
)
Goals of the Shishmaref Place-Name Project
The project discussed here was a team study con-
ducted in cooperation with the Shishmaref IRA Village
Council and the Shishmaref Native Corporation in 1997-
1998. While the importance of place-names emerged
naturally during the initial project, sponsored by the
National Park Service, the subsequent community-based
NSF project was defined by several goals. Most of all,
villagers wanted to see continued documentation and
analysis of local place-names and associated informa-
tion to the fullest extent possible. They also requested
SUSAN W. FAIR 239
that a high-quality, well-designed educational map be
produced for classroom use.
A key goal was thus the systematic mapping and
recording of place-names and associated oral histories
about names and landscapes, as well as the documen-
tation of travel, migration, and subsistence routes
throughout the area. These data would ultimately be
tied to extended family settlements (and associated
dialects), demonstrating the range of influence and land-
use patterns of specific local families. Life histories are
one way of obtaining such information. Genealogies
of key collaborators were the first step, expanding to
their relationships with other families. Residence pat-
terns, marriage alliances, the proprietary use of land-
scape, and the avoidance of certain areas would emerge
from the initial genealogical family studies. We also
collected and examined restrictions and taboos asso-
ciated with landscapes and place-names.
We intended to demonstrate the way in which
toponyms continue to be added to the local repertoire
(or do not) and how they change with time, underscor-
ing that Inupiaq time and traditions are interlocked in a
fluid historical process. Initial research indicated that
changes in place-names appear to result from a combi-
nation of factors, such as language loss and difficulty
in pronouncing ancient names. We sought to identify
processes by which local place-names transformed
as new groups migrated in and out of the area, land use
changed, and elders passed away. Toponyms are in-
vented or changed as new incidents occur at specific
sites ( Boas 1 901 ; Burch 1 995).
Several examples of such place-name change were
evident at Shishmaref. One ethnonymic transformation
noted in eadier research is the creation of "ghost forms,"
words (in this case toponyms) that previously did not
exist and may "obliterate genuine archaic features" of
the name (cf. Goddard 1 984:98-99). In the Shishmaref
area, an example of this phenomenon is the place-
name Nuizhaakpak, "to come into view" or "big cloud."
This site has an liiupiaq nickname, the root word nuyaq.
It is also often called "New York," because the original
toponym is difficult for local non-lnupiaq speakers to
pronounce; consequently, it has become an abbrevi-
ated or completely different form, a ghost of the origi-
nal. Translations of Nuizhaakpak collected at different
times may refer to folktales that are now lost, for the
root word connotes caution about potential harm. More
specifically, it means "to naturally take caution in ap-
proaching a known inhabited area, in this case,
Shishmaref (pers. comm. Herbert Anungazuk, 1998).
This indicates strained relations between linupiaq (and
other) groups. Stories about Yakpatakgaq, a site near
the mouth of Nuluk River, provide clues. "Big clouds"
are a motif in Yakpatakgaq stories and other local
folktales, in which shamans create bad weather or poor
visibility so villagers (or enemies) cannot be seen and
attacked. Oral history associated with the now-aban-
doned village tells how a dense fog created by a Sibe-
rian shaman (Koutsky 1 981 :23, 32), facilitated a surprise
summer attack by Siberians.
An unrealized goal of this project was to achieve
an understanding ofthe human experience oflandscape
through linguistic analyses ofplace naming patterns (syn-
tactic and semantic). In the past, residents of the re-
gion—through trading, traveling, warring, courting, and
establishing kin—came into contact with a wide vari-
ety of other people and needed to communicate with
them. An open-coding linguistic system appears to have
prevailed, and code-switching between languages and
dialects may have affected place-name assignation and
preservation. Dialectical differences for topo-nyms will
obviously be linked to particular informants— it is very
important not to subsume these differences in transla-
tion and transcription.
Project Methodology
Oral histories collected in years past, especially those
recorded in Inupiaq, are rich with toponyms and im-
bedded with other information that demonstrate the
many ways the landscape is used and perceived by
locals. In Shishmaref, however, as in much of Alaska,
such archival material has rarely been analyzed in terms
240 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
79/ Several Shishmaref boaters, including the late Melvin/Asitona Olanna and his crew, gather on the open
Chuckhi Sea while hunting ugzruk during the May 1 987 spring hunt, with Ear Mountain, used by villages for
weather prediction and assistance in navtigation, clearly in the distant background.
of its inherent window into the Native view of land.
Also, information of this type has seldom been viewed
as a guide to how such lands might better be managed.
Native people "managed" their lands for millennia by
knowing them intimately, walking and hunting them
extensively, sharing resources, protecting lands from
intruders while making alliances with those whom they
wished to know, and by telling stories about the land-
scape in animated ways. Now, traditional stories are
told less often as elders pass away, and technology
changes, so new methods of place-name transmission-
narrative, videotape, and map—must occur if this infor-
mation is to be preserved.
In this respect, audiotaped interviews accompanied
by intensive mapping sessions provide the best way
of obtaining place-name data when this is combined
with a thorough review of previously written and taped
information. Working closely with an astute local
liiupiaq historian, the late Edgar/Nunageak Ningeulook,
the project approach became a blend of methodol-
ogy from folklore, anthropology, and cultural geogra-
phy combined with various topics local interviewers
added while speaking in Ifiupiaq. Therefore, the tran-
scriptions sometimes contained surprises. Existing au-
diotapes (including folktales) previously recorded in the
Shishmaref locality or conducted with former
Shishmaref residents living in Nome and Anchorage
were also important to the study; most contained place-
names as well as more generalized references to land-
scapes.*
In the early to mid-1 980s, an important body of oral
history was collected on St. Lawrence Island and in
numerous other places, including Shishmaref, for the
Eskimo Heritage Program, sponsored by the National
Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) and based out of
Nome. Those transcripts provided massive amounts of
information about Native landscapes.-^ Translation and
transcription of this material by local scholars (nearly
SUSAN W. FAIR 241
twenty years later) is still underway in Shishmaref un-
der the guidance of Kawerak, Inc. and the National Park
Service.
At the beginning of the research, comprehensive
ethnohistoric research uncovered many toponyms bur-
ied in writings both scholarly and popular, most with-
out rich context. Historic archival photographs (includ-
ing some family photos) were used; one large group,
the Edward L. Keithahn collection (Fig. 80), was brought
to the National Park Service, Shishmaref Native Corpo-
ration, and ultimately, the Alaska State Library (Histori-
cal Collections). Whenever possible, ethnographic still
photographers were brought in to record research ef-
forts, particular events, and daily life.
Topographic maps were shown to elders and other
knowledgeable local residents selected by team
leaders, the Council, and Corporation board members.
During previous NPS research, elder Gideon/ Kahlook
Barr Sr. had been interviewed intensively, so it was
natural to begin with and add to Barr's narratives,
which focus mainly to the east of Shish-maref toward
Cape Espenberg. Later, with NSF funding, Davey
Ningeulook—eldest hunter in the village—was cho-
sen as the first person from whom we would collect a
life history. Ningeulook's geographic knowledge most
intimately spans territories from present-day Shishmaref
to Milletagvik. He and his wife Frieda Eningowuk
Ningeulook worked on mapping with us. All of this
information was simply color-coded to each informant
(with colored pencils) as we mapped and talked with
other residents.
Proper orthography is a consistent problem in
most Native place-name and landscape studies. Older
studies of place-names often used the rather anti-
quated approach of collecting place-names as ob-
jects, usually resulting in lists of names out of con-
text. Differences in pronunciation and orthography
between dialects were often ignored. There are many
names in the literature, but most of them are spelled
out phonetically (thus misspelled) and, often,
duplicated. '°
Ningeulook and I developed a rather formulaic lay-
out of place-name information. The same type of entry,
though slightly less elaborate, can also be seen in Karl
and Fall's Shem Pete's Alaska (1 987). When published
in book form, this information will be layered more
heavily with folktales, personal narrative, historic and
contemporary photographs, and illustrations of contem-
porary art and artifacts. Entries are designed primarily
to be useful to Shishmaref readers because of the depth
and breadth of information included in them, while con-
tributing to the scholarly literature as well. First, we
number the Inupiaq toponym and add the place-name
in English when appropriate. This information is fol-
lowed by the dialect used for spelling the name with
its translation when available. We then list the sources
of these translations followed by references or num-
bers assigned to the place-name on various published
or existing maps (see Appendix).^'
We also include citations like "Edgar Ningeulook
6/94," which mean that Ningeulook (or others) com-
mented personally on orthography and translations
of place-names during the course of the research.
Such bibliographic entries are included with more
formal citations, all including entry numbers from other
maps when applicable, for BIA, Bering Straits Native
Corporation, National Park Service, and other place-
name research and cartography that have been con-
ducted in this region, much of which is presently un-
published. Then, more contextual information is given
along with each Native contributor's name and date.
Such entries may be descriptive, anecdotal, or may in-
clude entire folktales pertaining to place-name or lo-
cal landscape. When more than one person was inter-
viewed, comments are generally given in order of fa-
miliarity with the area and length of contribution. It was
obviously important to work with people who know a
site or region well: and it is quickly apparent where
their knowledge drops off geographically, both on the
map and in their narratives. Information from scholarly
and historical references follows. Then each entry
lists every spelling that we have encountered for
242 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
80/ Members of the traditional "city council", several of whom helped save the village of Shismaref from the
influenza epidemic of 1918, in a photograph taken in 1 923 by Edward Keithahn and now in the MPS collections.
the toponym, a policy inspired by the work of Dor-
othy Jean Ray. An elaborate example of our place-
name layout is the entry for Qividluaq included in
the appendix. Today, Qividluaq is in ruins, and its former
residents (Qividluamiut) live primarily in Shishmaref.
Where they will be in the future will be the choice of
individuals, families, and the community, as the sea
forces them to leave Sarichef Island for good (Fig. 81).
We worked closely with AutoCAD experts at Mc-
Clintock Land Associates to create a map of the study
area, but numbers and names are so numerous that an
overlay system may have to be used during publica-
tion. We now have enough information for three vol-
umes on Shishmaref area place-names, more than 250
sites (there are no doubt many more) that fall naturally
into the three ecological and cultural niches discussed
previously. Our first volume works west from Shish-
maref and Sarichef Island to Milletagvik. As we worked
on this project, the Shishmaref Native Corporation be-
gan formal ANCSA land allotment surveys, which are
now nearly complete. This information might enrich
the place-name study or may be used to launch other
projects. There were various discussions about using
GPS to pinpoint sites precisely on our maps, but most
local people felt that it was not in their best interests to
have outsiders know exactly where someone could fly
in to a site, perhaps plundering it.
Most Shishmaref residents we worked with thought
a book was the appropriate way to present information
about cultural and ethnographic landscapes. Many also
wanted to see a documentary film produced that would
include elders talking about the land and telling asso-
ciated stories on-site. Obviously, the classic way of
receiving this information is in the context of the place
where a particular activity is being conducted. Elders
and other storytellers still commonly do this at camp;
so young people on the hunt, at a berry picking site, or
waiting for sourdough pancakes in the morning may
be treated to such tales in context. At home in the
village, children are more likely to be on the com-
puter, studying, carving, orworking, for life is fast-paced
in Shishmaref today. The desire for books about local
SUSAN W. FAIR 243
toponyms was confirmed by the title the village cor-
poration gave our first volume: Nunaptigun IlisaiWat:
We're Learning AboLit Our Land. This name underscores
the fact that each local resident does not know com-
mensurate information about the local landscape and
nearby seas, nor is each one acquainted intimately with
the same areas.
Land as Inupiaq Text
The concept of land as other than a commodity is unfa-
miliar and perhaps uncomfortable to many non-Natives.
The Western capitalist viewpoint is that land (like la-
bor) is a commodity that can be bought, sold, and specu-
lated upon without regard for the future impact of such
actions on other human beings or on the land itself.
Nonetheless, American literature and history romanti-
cize and laud an "unspoiled" landscape. Despite en-
croachment by Western land use practices, the 1971
establishment of the Alaska Native Claims Settlement
Act (ANCSA), and the resulting transfer of money and
lands (Berger 1 985; Rude 1 996), however, many Inupiat
continue to use the land much as they did in the nine-
teenth century. The essence of Inupiaq worldview re-
garding land is one of stewardship, not private owner-
ship; lands are held in honor of generations past and
for future generations. Traditionally, no single individual
can alter this circumstance.
Toponyms reveal how the Inupiat regard their land-
scape, as it functions as a text for those who have been
taught to read it. Reading the landscape depends on
knowing the names attached to places and the infor-
mation associated with those names. Such information
is transferred verbally and is usually contained within
extended families. Among the Inupiaq, place-names
are most often metonymic; that is, they point to the
attributes of a site rather than assigning metaphor to it.
Metaphors are of dubious use to a people who must
know precisely the texture and quality of ice or the
moment when the ugzruk have arrived.
Place-name texts bolster family and community
solidarity by reaffirming former boundaries of dialect
and extended family. In addition, they record impor-
tant events in local and regional Ifiupiaq history and
identif/ uses of the landscape, including proprietary
usage. Many historical tales associated with place in
the region refer to migrations, wars, abductions, and
famines. Such disruptions would undoubtedly have af-
fected the acts of remembering or discarding certain
toponyms. Some scholars state that there may have
been no truly traditional societies remaining intact in
northwest Alaska after 1850 (Burch 1975:10). If this is
the case, place-names serve to remind people today
what it was like to be Inupiaq in historic (and perhaps
prehistoric) times.
The present research indicates that land, for the
Inupiat, is an entity much like a person—a distinctly
animistic viewpoint. The Earth itself can speak. One of
the ways it has spoken and continues to narrate Inupiaq
landscape and worldview is through the act of place-
naming. A number of tales collected from this region
refer to persons actually traveling through or being in
the land, rather than existing on it or seeing it as a
resource. The fact that most Kigiqtaamiut are now de-
vout and enthusiastic Lutherans does not diminish tra-
ditional beliefs about the nature of land or their rela-
tionship to it. When Inupiaq persons talk, they some-
times refer to places that speak and to their own con-
versations with animals.
Non-Natives depart from the commodity view of
land when they refer to land as "sacred" or designate it
as wilderness. If one employs usual Western defini-
tions of the term sacred, however, land and sea used by
Shishmaref residents are neither "consecrated, holy, or
set apart especially for the service or worship of God."
Secondary definitions, less rigid, come closer to the
Inupiaq view and include "hallowed by religious asso-
ciation" and "held in reverence"''^ for personal and ritual
actions by Native peoples. Certainly, when they regard
the land with great care, it has deeply spiritual dimen-
sions. For this reason, "sacred" is probably the easiest
way to describe this state of being as it applies to the
land. '3
244 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
8]/ Shishmaref, 1983, viewed here from the Luthei
Island noticeable in the distance.
In the Shishmaref area, Katizrvik is a place used for
gathering and can refer to a gathering of human beings
at a particular site. Likewise, katimawik is a "place for a
meeting" and is used for land-based sites, but more
commonly, for a church structure— in Shishmaref, the
beloved Lutheran Church. The interchangeability of the
root word katit- implies a comparison between the act
of gathering together on the land and gathering to-
gether in a church. The word can also be used in Inupiaq
for "come together, as in marriage," or "join" (Anungazuk
1 997).
Patterns associated with place-naming also appear
to be affiliated closely with the following themes: ge-
ography, subsistence hunting and gathering, kinship and
social structure, local history, personal experience, and
beliefs. There has been some disagreement as to
whether a place could have been named after a per-
sonal Inupiaq name during traditional times. In one
view, such a practice would have conflicted with the
person's name soul (Ray 1 983[1 971 ]:254), while an-
Church steeple looking east, with the curve of Sarichef
other asserts that many places on the Seward Penin-
sula and elsewhere in northwest Alaska were "explic-
itly named after individuals (as opposed to acciden-
tally having the same name)" (Burch 1994:419). The
latter appears to be the case in the Shishmaref area.
One of project collaborator Edgar Ningeulook's Inupiaq
names, for example, was Nunageak; he was named
after a small river near Cape Espenberg.
Place-Name Classifications in Shishmaref
The place where I will start is an old igloo
site at Cape Espenberg. This man's name,
llaganiq, it's the story. Just from the story I
inherit from my grandparents. His home was
right at the tip of Espenberg, just a few
hundred yards away from the lighthouse.
(Cideon/Kahlook Barr Sr., Shishmaref, 1 988).
Several types of Shishmaref area place-names have
begun to emerge during this research. Place-name clas-
sifications identified to this point include descriptive
or geographic toponyms associated almost entirely with
a geographic feature (Thornton 1995:1 52-64) as well
SUSAN W. FAIR 245
as a number of generic descriptive toponyms affiliated
with areas like portages, mud flats, caribou drive areas,
and cliffs. Closely related to the descriptive geographic
toponym is the activity toponym, associated with en-
deavors conducted at a particular site. While this type
of toponym may reflect geography, activity, or both,
what it usually signifies for a local person is a seasonal
performance (usually a traditional economic pursuit) or
historic event associated with the site. Nunivliq refers
to any productive berry-picking place (Fig. 82), for ex-
ample, although such a place may also bear another
site-specific toponym (Fair 1997). Other generic terms
that refer to topographic features include taziq, for any
lagoon and kitik, for sites where a "stone used for tan-
ning hides" can be found.
Survival narratives are a popular and instructive type
of tale usually told by Inupiaq men. Harvey Pootoo-
gooluk tells the story of Ishu, for example, which in-
volves an incident that occurred long before his birth.
This family text, an ancient survival narrative that has
legendary attributes, served to bond him with his adop-
tive family and their proprietary locality by pointing up
a brave adoptive ancestor. Pootoogooluk and other
adult Shishmaref men regularly tell sun/ival stories and
hunting narratives about their experiences with weather
and animals, providing windows into the worlds of typical
Inupiaq hunters. These stories usually link directly to a
place-name and serve as teaching tools for younger
people. Sometimes, they are humorous anecdotes about
the dangers of not paying close attention to one's sur-
roundings.
Because many actual named sites are now aban-
doned or lost to the sea, associated toponyms and
tales sometimes substitute for the landscape itself Such
a place-name remains alive, tied to and perpetuating
Ifiupiaq morals and beliefs. Abandonment of a site does
not usually result in functional deletion of a toponym
from the local repertoire, although place-names associ-
ated with the loss of tales known only to specific per-
sons or kin groups may result in the extinction of such
names. Toponyms for sites and landscapes that have
disappeared may be called memory names, related to
the kind of place-name change associated with ghost
places, although in this case they have actual names
and are not ghost forms of the original toponym. As
Gideon/Kahlook Barr Sr. said of one such place: "It's
no longer a river anymore in these days. So, it's just an
old site—which becomes just a story" (1 988). River,
site, place-name, story, memory—a continuum emerges,
a mental stratigraphy of place.
Ikpizaaq (a place where you make clear a space for
games) is an example of a memory name. It refers to a
productive spring hunting camp on the Kalik River,
once a large village used for fall festivals. Ikpizaaq was
said to have had two qazghit, traditional communal
houses. After subsistence activities were completed,
travelers from different regions gathered there for com-
petitive games and other activities (Koutsky 1 981 :1 7).
A particularly memorable historic event at Ikpizaaq in-
volved the tragic drowning of many villagers during a
football game (similar to ice hockey) on weak ice (Burch
1 980: 270). The loss of a number of active hunters and
youths threatened the survival of the entire commu-
nity and might have led to its demise; thus, this memory
name serves as a cautionary device (ibid).
Cideon\Kahlook Barr Sr. and others tell Ikpizaaq
stories:
Today's time, it looks as if there was no one
[that] has been living there. All the old
houses are covered with a sandstorm from
the beachside during the summer. ... If
people don't believe this story concerning
this old village igloo site, they can go ahead
and dig [Ikpizaaq] up, and approve this story
I am telling. (Gideon/Kahlook Barr, 1988)
Another type of activity toponym is associated with
traditional taboos, especially with those about not dis-
turbing gravesites or homes where a death is known to
have occurred. Some landscapes are affiliated with su-
pernatural occurrences and shamanic activity, and some
such areas were avoided while others were not. In the
last few decades, however, many archaeological sites
have been under the increasing threat of recreational
(and income-producing) digging for artifacts. With the
246 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
82/ The fish and berry-picking camp of Harvey and Bertha Pootoogooluli, on a branch of the Serpentine River
near Shishmaref 1998.
establishment of Bering Land Bridge National Preserve,
considerable information about the protection of sites
was disseminated in Shishmaref, and some residents
participated in archaeological field and tab research.
This resulted in a somewhat broader understanding of
the impacts of disturbing sites and of the legal implica-
tions of "pot hunting."
Some Shishmaref elders now use narratives about
the disturbance of ethnographic materials to illustrate
the way in which contact with places that have been
inhabited may result in illness, misfortune, or even death.
Shishmaref elder Fannie/Kigrook Barr says that digging
for artifacts is a recent practice, and perhaps a danger-
ous one: "We scarcely look around for 'old-timers' [arti-
facts] long ago. Because some of them are scary, scary
digging, you know."
She relates how one of her children found "some
kind of carving in the other side of our house [at
Espenberg] on the point across there. . . . They say, all
sweat— his body's always wet—after only one night"
SUSAN W. FAIR
(Barr and Barr 1 993). Her husband, Gideon/Kahlook Barr
Sr., added to this conversation that
as much as he wanted to keep it, he had to
bring it back from where he found it. . . . Still,
what [the person] own, it still had power in
it, evil power. ... In earlier days, graves, and
human bones—they'd have their beadwork
and all of their property buried with them
right there. When somebody picks it up . . .
some people died from it right away (ibid).
Both geographic place-names and activity toponyms
are closely associated with Inupiaq national structure
as well as extended family ties when they are remem-
bered and told. In the local family, tales were and still
are told by individuals about their ancestral localities.
The stories define particular families as shaped by spe-
cific and intimate places. Toponyms of this kind are
family texts, often related as personal narratives or
memorates. There are several types of family texts. Tales
of a particular heroic ancestor, those that draw atten-
tion to an important event in family history, memorates
247
regarding incidents in the life of a single family mem-
ber (ancestor or contemporary resident), and those that
tie specific families to mythological beings and their
activities. Some tales serve as broader creation texts,
bolstering the identity of many people. These names
are mnemonic devices for remembering now-frag-
mented Ifiupiaq nations and family groups as well as
differentiating members from outsiders. The lines here
between myth (the origin stories of both people and
landforms) and tales that contain known historical truth
are blurred, as they are in most cultures.
The llaganiq ta\es, for example, are a corpus of sto-
ries that Cideon/Kahlook Barr Sr., his sister Bessie Barr
Cross, and a few other individuals learned from their
relatives and ancestors at Cape Espenberg: 'The place
where I will start is an old iglu site (homesite or small
community) at Cape Espenberg. This man's name,
llaganiq, it's the story. His home was right at the tip of
Espenberg." As told by Barr, the protagonist of the llaga-
niq creation story is a strongman (an institutionalized
Inupiaq male role) related to the Barr family far back in
time, llaganiq, a robust and aggressive young man, re-
mained at home to care for female relatives as his broth-
ers traveled. But he began to terrorize area hunters,
probably somewhere near present-day Deering. On hunt-
ing and trading trips north, he repeatedly forced neigh-
bors to relinquish all of their hard-won caribou skins.
They finally ended their subservience by stuffing
llaganiq and the skins into his departing kayak so tightly
that he couldn't maneuver, and then killed him.
Ilaganiq's mother was enraged to hear of her son's
death. She took her mitten and reshaped the Cape,
making the shoals so shallow that hunters from other
areas would no longer be successful there (Gideon/
Kahlook Barr Sr. 1 987). A large whale skull marking the
family homesite has been moved several times by Barr
ancestor-curators, and more recently, by Shishmaref resi-
dents and NPS personnel, to save it from encroaching
seas. The mythological aspects of this creation text tie
Barr's ancestors to the beginnings of their landscape
and to superhuman kinsmen and women. The legend-
ary components of place-naming at the Cape refer to
llaganiq, who is at once strongman (an admirable type
of man), hero (one who can support many), and badman
(one who does not share), llaganiq was human. The
message of the tale to today's Inupiaq listeners is to
emulate Ilaganiq's good qualities and powerful bear-
ing while remembering the character flaws that resulted
in his death (Schaaf 1 996; Fair 1 996: 1 1 3).
Conclusions: How Our Work Can be Used
People always look for lots of berries, that's
why they always go further up and further all
the way to Ikpek and, ah, 'cause someplace
not many berries but always go further. Look
for more berries. My Native allotment is at
Apquagaagzruk, right here right on this side
and right up here someplace other one. I
chose that area 'cause it got more berries
sometimes. . . . That place, I find it myself.
(Davey Ningeulook, Shishmaref, 1997)
Place-names and associations with landscape are inti-
mately imbedded in Kigiqtaamiut life and worldview.
Just as the land itself has distinctive form, these place-
names, tales, and histories provide cultural contour and
context to what cultural geographers have referred to
as the "occupied Earth" (Evans 1 972) and folklorists would
surely see as the texts and texture of a people and
their chosen ancestral place (Dundes 1 980).
Toponyms cluster on the landscape and on our
maps, drawing attention to complex connections be-
tween themselves and features of the landscape. Fam-
ily texts, descriptive-geographic names, activity names,
creation texts, and memory toponyms all serve mul-
tiple purposes. They reflect Ifiupiaq residence and land-
use patterns, language and dialect (including slang),
social relationships, the transmission of information by
gender, economic practices, local beliefs, history, mor-
als, and other traditional knowledge. More recently, they
demonstrate creative interplay of old-style naming pro-
cesses with modern ANCSA initiated land survey and
allotment. If the land is a text for Saniq-Saniniq resi-
dents, then the loss of traditional knowledge that would
be transmitted in place-names and associated stories
means that many young Itiupiat no longer hear or can
248 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
"read" this text.
Native peoples and Western scholars are improv-
ing their communication about the important ties be-
tween local landscape and traditional knowledge. In
this respect, Shishmaref and other place-name research
helps bridge the gap between old-style, typically natu-
ral and spontaneous Inupiaq oral transmission of his-
tory about place and new ways of recording and relat-
ing such information about the Inupiaq landscape. Tra-
ditional talk about place still occurs each day in most
Alaska Native communities, but as elders pass away
and modernization encroaches, Native youths take less
time to participate in traditional activities and to listen
actively in context. And, as it always has been, some
individuals (elders or not) are better historians than
others, more determined to pass such knowledge on.
These are the performers, the eloquent historians, and
it is essential to identif/ and work with them.
As Shishmaref loses ground to the sea and resi-
dents contemplate a move to a mainland location, it
may be instructive and comforting to look to a place-
name for precedent. Up and down the coast, once popu-
lous villages are gone, yet the words of elders echoed
in our research give the old ethnographic landscapes
renewed life and underscore their timeless importance.
Thus, in the words of Shishmaref elder and master polar
bear hunter, Davey Ningeulook:
The land has names, be it on the coast or
inland, but we are beginning to forget these
names. The days are here when we are
starting to forget the names of the land; the
period of forgetting the names has already
begun. . . . Many do not know the place-
names that we [elders] know. . . . Before, a
person might not know place-names in a
certain area, but a person who does know
them would add to the knowledge. . . . Many
people have forgotten the place-names of
the land and, also, erosion has removed
many of these sites to where you can no
longer see them. Sites along the coast with
names are no longer there. . . . When we do
cite place-names of those removed by
erosion, uve still mention the name of the sites,
even though they are no longer there (Davey
Ningeulook, 1997; emphasis added).
During this project, we gathered place-names, ge-
nealogies, family and community stories, migration and
subsistence routes, as well as folktales and other tradi-
tional forms of oral historic preservation. As in any
field endeavor, it was critical to record as much infor-
mation as possible, as quickly as was realistic and with
a variety of approaches. Ultimately, an important goal
of the project has been to generate a broader general
understanding of Saniq-Saniniq peoples' great love and
knowledge of their land and their abiding relationship
with it. Final analysis of these data will also result in
scholarly cross-cultural comparisons of Inupiaq place-
naming with similar endeavors in other areas, including
many distant from the Arctic. Whether remembered
and orally transmitted, audio-taped, mapped, photo-
graphed, filmed, or written, such records will be critical
to the management and protection of lands where Na-
tive peoples have lived and will continue to be.
Acknowledgments
This essay is drawn closely from several other previ-
ously published pieces and works in progress (Fair 1 996,
1 997, 1 999; Fair and Ningeulook 1 995). My work with
the late Edgar/Nunageak Ningeulook (1949-1997) on
Shishmaref area toponyms was first funded by the Na-
tional Park Service, Department of Cultural Resources,
Alaska Regional Office, Shared Beringian Heritage Pro-
gram (CA 9910-6-9035). Jeanne Schaaf, Herbert
Anungazuk, and Tim Cochrane of the National Park
Sen*/ice, as well as Luci Eningowuk, then-president of
the Shishmaref IRA Village Council, all gave support
and assistance. The NPS research formed the bedrock
of an in-depth collaborative planning grant funded by
the National Science Foundation (OPP-9708443) in
collaboration with Shishmaref Native Corporation. Percy
Nayokpuk, president of SNC, Clifford Weyiouanna, and
all members and officers, as well as Karen Sinnok, then-
president of the IRA Council, and Darlene Turner, cur-
rent president, are the kind of liiupiaq movers, thinkers,
and contributors who make research of this kind pos-
SUSAN W. FAIR 249
sible. John Sinnok painstakingly transcribed most of
our audiotapes. Ningeulook died unexpectedly in July
1 997, and though our work faltered as a result, Herbert
Anungazuk stepped in as lead Inupiaq scholar. We are
indebted to Ernest S. Burch Jr., Dorothy Jean Ray, and
Charles Lucier for their pioneering ethnographic work
in northwest Alaska. This essay is dedicated to the el-
ders of Shishmaref in memory of Melvin/AsitonaOlanna,
Gideon/ Kahlook Barr Sr., Inez/Ningeulook Nayokpuk,
Edgar/ Nunageak Ningeulook, Charley Okpowruk, Reila
Okpowruk, Walter Nayokpuk, and Elsie Weyiouanna. It
is written with special thanks to Morris Kiyutelluk, Percy
Nayokpuk, Davey and Frieda Ningeulook, Han/ey and
Bertha Pootoogooluk, Molly and Vincent Tocktoo, and
Alex Weyiouanna for the stories, places, life lessons,
and friendship they have been willing to share.
Notes
1 . Exceptions to this are Momaday 1 976a and
1976b, as well as Silko 1990.
2. As an example, I used to receive occasional
letters from Shishmaref about place-names, which
almost always included information about hunting,
weather, and daily village life and deaths.
3. This was not a local or emic designation. In
general, the people of this area called themselves
either Kigiqtaamiut or by the name of their winter
settlement. The map illustration drawn by a turn of
the century Wales artist shows the outsider designa-
tion Tapkak (sic). See Fig. 75.
4. Local residents are told "never to bring home
what is alongside of or found in a grave because the
spirit of the deceased person is intact even after
death." Objects placed on a grave are considered
owned and belong at the site, while the grave itself
is considered by Inupiaq to be inhabited. People
buried at this place would be referred to as
Situwaashuwaat {Anungazuk 1 997).
5. Not all Inupiaq place-names for these riv-
ers were available at this writing.
6. Itibliq is the generic Qividluamiut term for a
portage or "place for traversing."
7. Okpowruk gave a classic framework or in-
troduction to his narrative, which is why I have itali-
cized the beginning and end. Gideon Barr's earlier
tale about the portage does not identify the tale
type, but indicates that his story contains historic
truth as well. Most societies differentiate between
myths, legends, folktales, and other forms of narra-
tive (Degh and Vazsonyi 1976 [1981]. In this case,
Okpowruk carefully identified what scholars might
call a legend with a preface indicating that the story
can be taken in part as historic fact, while ending
with the comment that he does not believe all parts
of the legend .
8. Some of them had been taped to facilitate
implementation of the Alaska Native Claims Settle-
ment Act (ANCSA) after 1971 and are located with
BIA. I contributed interviews conducted in Shishmaref
on my earlier projects (1982, 1991), as did Edgar
Ningeulook.
9. The NEH research was initiated by Suzi
Jones, then Folk Arts Coordinator at Alaska State
Council on the Arts. Each of the villages identified
for the study by Kawerak, Inc., hired local Native
historians and translators to do the work. These data
remain in village archives, with Kawerak, and with
some of the interviewers. In Shishmaref, Edgar
Ningeulook was the primary fieldworker and coor-
dinator.
10. I regret that my early publications may
actually contribute to this problem. We find new spell-
ings continuously, and I have been corrected on
some earlier spellings. Orthography for the place-
name volumes for Shishmaref will be guided and
checked by local Inupiaq scholars and by Lawrence
Kaplan of Alaska Native Language Center.
12. Some of these maps are more accessible
to the general public than others. It was our inten-
tion to consolidate this information into one pub-
lished source for the benefit of Inupiaq readers in
Shishmaref, as well as for scholars.
13. Webster's Encyclopedic Edition, Lexicon
Publications, Inc., New York, 1989 Edition.
1 4. Gulliford (2000:67) discusses these cross-cul-
tural issues by quoting Hawk Little John, a Cherokee:
"It is difficult to verbalize in another language, for an-
other culture, exactly what makes a place sacred."
References
Anungazuk, Herbert
1 997 Personal communication to the author.
Arctic Environmental Information and Data Center
(AEIDC)
1 975 Alasl<a Regional Profiles: Northwest Region, Lidia
250 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
Selkregg, ed. University of Alaska, Office of the Gov-
ernor, and Joint Federal State Land Use Planning Com-
mission for Alaska. Salt Lake City: Wheelwright Litho-
graphic Co.
Barr, Gideon Kahlook Sr.
1 987 Three audiotaped interviews byJeanne Schaaf.
Transcribed by Mary Ann Roddy, edited by Herbert
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252 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
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Appendix
"Qividluaq" : Example ofPlace-Name Entry Data
Qividluaq (Qividluamiut); translation: "a place where there
is a lagoon behind and a beach coast outside" or "small
bank" (BIA-1 4; Koutsky, 1 981 ; Edgar Ningeulook, 6/94;
BSNC-1 04; KTZ-009; NANA, 1 992:3/1 7).
[According to] Gideon Kahlook Barr Sr.:
Ancient sod houses at Qividluaq, once a
large community, have eroded into the
ocean, and only one house and a "ware-
house," or cache, remain. The cache be-
longed to William Ukaaniq and his wife Piyula
(Beulah), who died in the 1940s. Shishmaref
sculptor Harvey Pootoogooluk was raised at
Qividluaq after his adoption by the elderly
couple. Barr, whose family lived at Qividluaq
in 1918 when he was an infant, describes the
Saniq coast as "more likely an island all the
way across and down to Shishmaref." He
adds that between Qividluaq and Shishmaref
at present, it looks as though the coast was
uninhabited, "because all the old sites, igloo
sites, have eroded away from the big storms
we had in earlier days" (Barr, 1 988).
Edgar/Nunageak Ningeulook related the following tale
about Qividluaq, which he learned in 1 984 from Jack
Herman Ningeulook, his paternal uncle:
There are many ghosts in this community. At
one time, a husband and wife were traveling
to another settlement and planned to
overnight in one of the sod houses at
Qividluaq. Upon entering the house, they
noticed that the inhabitants, a couple, were
dead. Their faces were very distorted. The
travelers were terribly frightened. They could
not sleep that night, so they turned back,
returning to their original point of origin.
Upon their return, both husband and wife
died instantly because they had been
exposed to the evil spirits at Qividluaq:. This
SUSAN W. FAIR 253
area was thought to have had many evil
spirits that might claim people. But when a
lone traveler slept there overnight, he would
not be bothered by the spirits.
Harvey Pootoogooluk tells many stories about
Qividluaq. The story of Ishu, "really deep lake" or "the
one with a devil [in it]" which follows is both family
text and memorate handed down about Agnaaniq, his
father's elder brother, who once killed a stranger who
attacked him as he was hunting. This tale would have
served to bolster his attachment to his adopted family
as well as familiarizing him with the area:
The man had a knife and ran after him. When
the other man ran toward him, when this other
man tried to use a knife on him—When he did
so, he ran over willow thickets, qiliknausmq. . .
.When he did not get the intruder, he went
back to where he left the rifle. When he found
the gun, he went back to where the intruder
was last seen. . . . Agnaaniq \Na\X.Q6 for him to
come closer. He was in front of the intruder.
The intruder had a good rifle—But Agnaaniq shot
him here, while the intruder was looking around
for something. . . . Agnaaniq tied the [man's] rifle
to his victim, and sank him in the lake called
Ishu. It is called "deep lake" because it is a deep
lake .... The intruder, his victim, had on fish
mukluks, king salmon mukluks. He was from
away from here, far away from here. He was an
Indian, from a place called Igaluwik. (Harvey
Pootoogooluk, Shishmaref, 1 993)
References: See Burch (1 971 :1 54-5) for a discussion of
the visible forms taken by ghosts. Koutsky writes that
the name of the village was Salliniq, referring to the
barrier island strand itself, which probably actually re-
fers back to the term Saniniq (1 981 : 1 7-8). Residents of
Qividluaq spoke a distinctive dialect and referred to
themselves as Qividluamiut according to Morris
Kiyutelluk (1976) and Edgar Ningeulook (1994). Key
local families at Qividluaq included Ningeulook,
Eningowuk, Kiyutelluk, Pootoogooluk, Walluk, and Barr.
The Komanaseak and Nagozruk families of Wales also
originated from this locality. Nagozruk family mem-
bers including Kate/Ataseaq, and her brothers Sockpick,
Adams, and Eningowuk migrated to Wales during a fam-
ine, probably some time in the late 1 800s (McClintock,
1995).
Ray links the village closely with Sinik, across the
lagoon, noting that Qividluaq was said to have had
seven houses and possibly one qazgri in 1 892 (Ray
1983:214; Jackson 1895:97). She also notes that the
village was called Chibamech on Kobelev's original
1 779 map (1 983:230). Qividluaq residents went to the
Niqianaqtuuq River on the Saniniq coast for fall fishing
and sealing during traditional times (ibid.). The site was
indeed once well populated; recent National Park Ser-
vice archaeological research notes "two intact house
depressions, three associated cache depressions, and a
large rectangular depression" which may be the qazgri
at one location. Nearby, another site contains nine house
depressions and 1 3 caches, and still another has 1
1
houses and 26 cache remains (Schaaf 1988:120). The
remains of Harvey Pootoogooluk's boyhood home,
the raised cache mentioned above, a grave, and scat-
tered parts from boats are nearby (ibid.). Some of the
houses were constructed with materials scavenged from
shipwrecks. There is another Sinik on the Saniniq coast,
the spit at Elephant Point, according to Charles Lucier's
collaborator, Jessie Ralph. Qividluaq residents and their
descendants now live in Shishmaref.
Also known as or spelled: Kivaluaq, Kivalluaq,
Kividluk, Kevalooauk, Kividlo, Kevediok, Kivuklouk,
Qivaluaq, Qivaluq, Qipalut, Chibamech.
254 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SANIQ PLACE-NAMES
fvtcdievai "~[ ales, Modern
"J ourists:
l^xpionng the Njai'^^aga Landscape oT ^^'-^utheni Iceland
ELISABETH I. WARD AND
ARTHUR BJORCVIN BOLLASON
The subarctic North Atlantic island of Iceland has an
austere physical landscape; treeless rolling hills, large
lava fields, barren glaciers, active volcanoes, tumbling
waterfalls, steaming springs, and towering cliffs com-
mingle in surprising ways. Before the arrival of the Vi-
kings to Iceland in 874 A.D., the island was an uninhab-
ited, wild place. Since that time, succeeding genera-
tions directly descendent from those first settlers have
acculturated the land, turning it from wilderness into
settled areas. The process of settling the land created
an ordered society, complete with laws, property rights,
inheritance claims, and so on (Hunt and Gilman, 1 998;
Hann, 1 998). And yet there are few if any physical mark-
ers of these old land divisions visible on the land-
scape. Areas in the mountains are shared by entire com-
munities, and fences—once extremely rare—are even
today sparingly employed, allowing the horses and
sheep to roam freely.
Iceland's population is today slightly over a quarter
of a million people. Before the 1950s, Iceland's peak
population had been around 70,000 people, a number
reached by 1 250 A.D. Thereafter, famine, disease, and
low birth rates had reduced Iceland's population at times
to precariously low numbers, in an area of more than
1 03,000 square kilometers (40,000 square miles). This
low population density meant that the landscape was
not altered heavily by man-made projects. Perhaps the
most dramatic human action was the quick clearing,
within the first one-hundred years of human habitation.
of the shrub-like dwarf birch trees that covered much
of the island (Vesteinsson 2000: 165). Thereafter, Ice-
land became virtually treeless.
Because of the poor quality—and later absolute
scarcity—of trees, the early settlers in Iceland modified
their traditional timber-dependent house construction
techniques, and instead began building houses out of
turf and rock, a practice that continued into the 1 940s.
Only fifty years after abandonment, such houses quickly
become indistinguishable from the surrounding land-
scape. Combined with the dearth of trees, fences, or
obvious man-made projects, the lack of old buildings
gives Iceland's landscape an unparalleled sense of
openness. This encourages broad outlooks across
vast distances, as any glance at photographs of Ice-
land will quickly confirm (Fig. 83). From the road-
side, one takes in entire valleys, regions, and moun-
tains many miles away.
Landscape in a Cultural Context
To outsiders, the openness of the Icelandic landscape
can easily be interpreted as the emptiness of thai land-
scape (see Callaway, this volume). But to make this
assumption is to overlook a fundamental aspect of the
Icelandic culture. For Icelanders, the efforts of their an-
cestors to claim and settle this island are of supreme
importance, on both a practical and symbolic level.
Land ownership claims are dependent upon it, while at
the same time, their sense of human agency is height-
2 5 5
ened by reflecting on that process of making the wild
civilized. Far from being a simple physical entity, as it
might be for a modern Western city dweller, land is a
hotly contested and central part of Icelandic culture.
The Farmer's Party is the strongest party in Icelandic
politics, and laws exist banning foreigners from owning
land, especially in the countryside. The foremost Ice-
landic artists are all landscape painters, and today pho-
tography books of Icelandic landscapes—though par-
tially intended for tourist consumption—are extremely
common.
Beyond economics, politics, and art, Icelanders also
give the landscape meaning through their storytelling
in both oral and written form. By remembering, retell-
ing, and writing stories about the original settlers, of
later medieval saints and sinners, and of recent notable
figures, they retain knowledge of the culture-history of
the land. An example illustrates how widespread this
knowledge is: a professor from the University of
Reykjavik regularly took his students on a field trip to
southern Iceland as part of a course on Icelandic his-
tory and literature. He always stopped the bus at a
certain spring, and told the students the story of
Cudmund the Good, Bishop of Iceland in the thirteenth
century. This bishop took as his holy duty the blessing
of cliffs, springs, and islands. Once special evocation
was said over a particular spring; all that washed their
face in it afterward would be cleansed of all sins. Every
year, as the professor would stop beside this spring
near the roadside and tell the students this was the
famous spring blessed by Cudmund, a local farmer
would stand nearby and listen. But after the professor
left with his students, the local farmer would inform
any passerby that again the professor had gotten it
wrong. According to the farmer, the actual spring
blessed by the bishop was a few hundred yards to the
east of the one pointed out by the professor.
This local knowledge of the landscape is retained
mostly by the elderly farmers who take pride in know-
ing the names, stories, and places of importance in their
immediate area. They grew up at a time when Iceland-
ers lived in the same area their whole lives, as had their
family for generations before, and stories about the
landscape were common at family gatherings or in con-
versations with neighbors. Today's Icelanders have a
different experience; many families have left the coun-
tryside to reap the benefits of the education, jobs, and
health care provided in the capitol. American popular
culture first introduced when an American base was
established in Iceland just after World War II—offered
new entertainment choices. But one aspect of Icelan-
dic culture has coincidentally safeguarded against these
changes obliterating generations of accumulated sto-
ries: a love of the written word.
Books About the Land
Icelanders are proud that their population is one-hun-
dred percent literate, and reading and writing have been
the purview of subsistence farmers almost as commonly
as priests and other members of the upper class since
the thirteenth century. According to Halldor Laxness,
"Icelanders have always had a fascination with the writ-
ten word." However, knowledge gained from books is
not automatically given precedence over traditional
folklore. Farmers whose shelves are filled with books
also maintain a vibrant cultural belief in supernatural
beings such as little people (even diverting the course
of a major construction project so as not to disturb a
purported "little people" settlement). For non-Iceland-
ers (Mendingar, literallyout-landers), the lack of distinc-
tion between oral and written knowledge in Icelandic
culture can be difficult to grasp, but the two coexist
as complementary epistemological systems. Neither
is automatically granted an air of authenticity, and both
are considered reliable.
Beginning in the 1 920s, the Travel Association of
Iceland began producing annual books about Iceland
for Icelanders that cover specific regions and districts.
These books often incorporate the knowledge of local
farmers, or were written by the farmers themselves and
seamlessly blend knowledge from various sources into
a single document about a region (for example,
256 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
83/ Iceland's treeless landscape allows for expansive i
(threehorned) Mountain.
Codasteinn, a yearbook about the Rangar region in
southern Iceland). Traditional stories, facts about geo-
graphic formations, names of specific farms and land-
scape features, and family histories are all included.
The regional books mimic one of the first books
ever written in Icelandic, called Landndmabok, which
chronicles the lives and adventures of the first settlers,
the regions in which they settled, and the place-names
they set upon the geographic features. Iceland was
uninhabited when the first Viking seafarers voyaged
across the North Atlantic (Vesteinsson 2000), save for
a few recluse Irish monks who quickly left. The first
settlers were therefore free to name the features of
land after themselves (Hjorleif s Hill, Ingolf s Mountain);
after the resources they found important (Salmon River,
Forested Hill); and also according to their physical ap-
pearance (White River, Smokey Bay). Though many of
these place-names were established more than 1 ,000
years ago, they are still intelligible to Icelanders today
because of the conservative nature of the Icelandic
language. By simply parsing the place-names, Iceland-
ers have a ready mnemonic to remind them of the
of the landscape, such as this one towards Thrihyrning
people and stories that inspired the place-names.
In the 1 960s, the tradition of remembering regional
histories and narratives found expression in an unillus-
trated, two-volume set called Landid Thitt (your land),
which features extensive histories on selected places
of interest. At times, the same pages of the book refer-
ence a saga hero, a medieval priest, a seventeenth cen-
tury merchant, and a modern painter, as long as they all
had a connection with the same landscape area. In 1 978,
a few years after the opening of the first road linking all
the settlements of Iceland (called the Ring Road), a
single illustrated volume entitled Islenska Vega Handbokin
(Icelandic roadtravel handbook) came out. Organized
by region and road number, it keys detailed maps to
numbered paragraphs that provide information rang-
ing from geological factoids to medieval saga excerpts
to nineteenth century folk beliefs. The Vega Handbokin
has been a best seller since that time through many
revisions and has been translated into English and Ger-
man. It is a common experience—including for the au-
thors of this paper—that no drive into the countryside
is made without this "road bible" as a constant com-
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 257
panion. In essence, it fills the relatively featureless Ice-
landic landscape with culturally relevant pieces of
information, making each drive a pilgrimage through
the Icelandic storehouse of narratives. There is little
concern that the cultural landscape knowledge is in
danger of disappearing, especially since government
support exists to increase that knowledge through ar-
chaeological surveys and historic research (Ragnheidar
Traustadottir, coordinator of the National Museum of
Iceland Regional Survey, pers. comm. to E.W., 2002).
The Cultural Centrality of Sagas
While several books testify to the long tradition of re-
taining local histories, they tend to elide the cultural
preference for one type of narrative, the sagas. Begin-
ning in the twelfth century, Icelanders began writing on
calfskin in their native tongue stories that had been
passed down orally, some for over three hundred years.
Called sogwr (sing, saga) from the verb "to say"— it also
has the meaning "history" or simply "story"—sagas are
at once sophisticated literature and living folktales. Most
sagas are believed to have been first composed orally
and then written down in much the same way they
were spoken, though this point is under constant schol-
arly debate (see Olason 1 998; Sigurdsson 2004 for sum-
maries). Since the thirteenth century, the written books
have been recopied, incorporating new elements of
the stories as the folktales changed, until a huge cor-
pus accumulated. Each retelling incorporates new
thoughts and new knowledge, blurring the line between
literature and folklore. Because each builds on some-
thing that had existed before, there is no acknowledged
"author" as such; most sagas are anonymous works of
literature. This might indicate that they were so well
known, common, and retold so often that they were
considered the property of the culture rather than any
one person. Though philologists have made careful
comparisons between different versions to uncover
changes in the stories, which have been used as evi-
dence of authorial intent (Hastrup 1 985; Palsson 1 992),
these are often changes that reflect the political reality
of the author's own day, as would be expected of any
living folkloric tradition.
The sagas are classified by academics into different
types according to subject matter. Many stories are about
bishops, saints, or priests; several books are devoted to
the kings of Norway and Denmark; and in the fifteenth
century, romantic tales from foreign lands were trans-
lated into Icelandic. The preservation of many of these
books (and the obvious signs of use) suggests that
they were highly valued in their day; the sagas contin-
ued to be recopied by hand until the nineteenth cen-
tury. While all forms have value, by far the largest body
of written stories—called the Sagas of the Icelanders-
Is about the first settlers and their descendants as they
struggled to create an ordered society out of scratch in
a newly inhabited land. As the "origin myth" for the
Iceland nation, the Sagas of the Icelanders are the best-
known and most-loved stories (Kellogg 1997). Since
the eighteenth century, they have been printed, trans-
lated, and sold en masse around the world, especially
in Scandinavia, the British Isles, and the United States.
Also, these tales have received the greatest level of
attention from scholars at universities around Northern
Europe and North America for the last one-hundred
years. In the remainder of this paper, when the term
saga is used, it should be understood to refer to Sagas
of the Icelanders.
Once, when Vigdis Finnbogadottir, then President
of Iceland, was giving a talk in Germany, she discussed
how the European landscape is dominated by medi-
eval castles. By contrast, she noted that in Iceland,
there are no such monuments to the works of man,
but there are "castles hidden in the landscape. We call
them the Sagas ofIcelander^' (pers. comm. to A.B., 1 986).
In this analogy, the history of kings or saints or priests
would be cottages, while the sagas are given the sta-
tus of castles. Though saga place names are recogniz-
able in the farms that still bear those names today,
it is not those particular farms themselves that are the
castles. Rather, those farms are reminders of stories
"hidden"—or situated—in a landscape, and that entire
258 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
landscape is culturally meaningful.
Sagas in Icelandic Daily Life
The literary fecundity of the sagas is clearly demon-
strative of cultural worth and effort, but the sagas are
more than books to sit on a shelf: they are a part of the
daily consciousness of Icelanders. Beginning in the
sixteenth century, poems about saga characters circu-
lated around Iceland, and were extremely popular. One
poem from the eighteenth century by a well-known
poet, Sigurd Breidfjord, about the main female villain
of NJal's Saga, Hallgerd, cast her in a favorable light.
An indignant farmer, couched in the traditional view of
Hallgerd as the perpetrator of evil against the main
hero in the saga, countered with another poem, which
was quickly passed around (Sveinnson 1 958). Such was
the potency of the saga narratives more than 800
years after the events they recount.
Today, the sagas are not only taught in the schools
formally, but they are commonly discussed informally
at home, especially in the rural distrias. Linguistic phrases
and cliches spring from events in the sagas:
—ad lyfta Grettis would be the English equiva-
lent to "lifting a heavy load" of biblical reference,
but the Icelandic phrase makes particular reference
to a saga hero, Crettir, who was able to lift an
incredibly heavy rock.
—When young children are caught doing some-
thing wrong, their guardians will often use a phrase
from NJal's Saga, "Tekid hafjeg hvolpa tvo, hvalskal
vil tha gera, " meaning, 'Tve captured two puppies,
what should I do with them?" a tacit threat by one of
the more ferocious Viking warriors, Skarphedinn
from NJdl s Saga.
—Dyr mundi Haflidi allir ("expensive would it be to
pay for all of Halflid's life") is a phrase sometimes
used when an expensive price is quoted for mer-
chandise, for example, since in SwHunga Saga, the
family of a slain warrior (Halflid) is awarded an ab-
surdly high compensation amount.
The most famous quotes from the sagas are known to
all, even if they have never read the sagas, including
84/ This rendering of tine meeting between dapper
Gunnar and his beautiful future wife Hallgerd by A.
Bloch was reproduced as a postcard, 1 929.
the final statement by the main female in Laxdala Saga,
'Theim vareg verst, ereg unni mest" (he I treated worst,
I loved/valued the most).
Mass media including newspapers, film, television
and radio programs also do their part to popularize the
saga characters (Fig. 84). Several recent debates about
saga characters that played themselves out in the na-
tional papers, and sometimes the nightly news, in-
cluded: the sexual preference of Njal; the sexual
problems of Hrutur; Egil's drinking habits; Gunnar
and Hallgerd's marriage problems and the national
affiliation of Leif Eriksson. The sagas also are inescap-
ably part of the daily life of Icelanders living in
Reykjavik, who drive on Gunnarsbraut (Gunnar's road,
named after the saga character Gunnar) or along the
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 259
other streets named after saga characters (Helgason
1998).
Through these public debates, Icelanders are par-
ticipating in a group performance of their identity. They
are demonstrating what they have in common with each
other: a shared heritage originating in the time of settle-
ment as remembered in the sagas. Each debate in the
paper, each cliche used in conversation, and each quote
from a saga is simultaneously an outgrowth of that cul-
tural heritage and a performative assurance of its con-
tinued cultural validity. It is a testament to the stability
of Icelandic culture, despite being under foreign rule
of Denmark and Norway for almost 800 years, that this
connection to events and people who lived more than
1 ,000 years ago is still deeply felt.
The Saga of Burnt Njal
Though the Icelandic sagas as a body of literature have
received much academic interest abroad and continue
to elicit common cultural interest in Iceland, a few works
do stand out as more highly valued for various rea-
sons, including their breadth of coverage iHeimskhngla);
historical import (the Vinland Sagas); or narrative struc-
ture (Laxadala Saga). For the purposes of this paper, we
will be examining one saga of that latter category. The
Saga of Burnt Njdl, or simply NJdl's Saga. It is an espe-
cially carefully constructed saga, with common novel-
istic elements such as foreshadowing, a spiraling com-
plexity in events, and a dramatic final climax. Unlike
most sagas, it is simply too long for one to imagine it
was recited orally, and might therefore have been origi-
nally composed as a written work. The Saga of Burnt
A//'fl/ contains 1 59 chapters, and a recent English trans-
lation occupies 219 pages (Hreinsson 1 997a). But even
in this case, where authorial effort in weaving an intri-
cate tapestry by combining elements from perhaps
several folktales to create one epic story is obvious,
the author's name is unknown.
In very brief form, the saga focuses around a hero
named Cunnar and his wise friend Njal. Conflicts arise
during each one's relationships with women, their chil-
dren, their neighbors, and their rivals in other parts of
the country and abroad. In typical fashion for sagas,
these conflicts result in one party killing a member of
the other party. The case is then brought before the
appropriate legal body (the first Icelanders established
a parliament and law court in 930 A.D.), where mon-
etary or legal compensation (in the form of banish-
ment) is sought. Though the saga is called the Saga of
Burnt Njal, a great many of these conflicts actually
revolve around Cunnar, with Njal supplying astute and
sometimes tricky legal advice to Cunnar that often an-
gers the other party, thus provoking further conflict.
Cunnar dies after being attacked at his home by over
thirty men (and betrayed by his problematic though
beautiful wife) near the middle of the story, and then
the course of events continues to play out with Njal's
sons inheriting Cunnar's conflicts and some of their
own. Near the end of the story, Njal's home is also
ambushed, and as his enemies guard the doors, he,
his wife, two daughters, three sons and one grand-
son are burned alive inside the house. His son-in-
law, Kari, manages to escape, and finally avenges
this terrible deed.
This adventurous tale, complex story line, and won-
derfully drawn characters have supplied much fodder
for debate among Icelanders and foreign academics. It
has been taught in school in Iceland since the turn of
the century, and many university courses have been
developed around it. Ceorge Dascent did the first En-
glish translation in 1 861 , and from this sprung a series
of alternative translations stretching to the present day.
German and Scandinavian translations have been no
less prolific since the late nineteenth century. In pref-
aces to many of these translations, Njal's Saga is de-
scribed as the greatest work of literature in the Icelan-
dic Saga tradition (Magnusson and Palsson 1 960).
Njal's Saga and the Icelandic Landscape
What is less noted in these academic discussions is
the relationship between this saga and the Icelandic
landscape, especially the landscape of southern Ice-
260 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
land where most, though not all, of the saga action
takes place (Fig. 85). Specific local details in Njdl's Saga
allow for the residents of the area to feel a personal
connection to the story and the characters. The saga
writers used the sense of wide vistas and landscape
perspectives described above in creating their tales
(Kaalund 1 877). For instance, the scene just before the
famous burning of Njal's farm, as his enemies gather, is
set up through this horseback ride through the land-
scape:
Then they mounted their horses and rode up
into the mountains and on to Fiskivotn and
on to the west of these, and then headed
due west for Maelifellssand, with the
Eyjafjallajokul to their left, and then down to
Codaland and from there to Markarfljot. At
mid afternoon they came to Thrihyrning and
waited there until early evening. By that time
everyone had arrived except Ingjald of
Keldur, and the Sigfussons condemned him
strongly, but Flosi told them not to blame
Ingjald while he was not there—"we will settle
with him later." (Hreinsson 1997a: 152).
The knowledge of the land conveyed in this quote
begins to hint at how intricately tied narrative is to
landscape in Icelandic folkloric saga tradition.' As the
all-knowing saga narrator sets up the characters and
their conflicts, scenes shift between farms, some in other
districts far away, if not in fact in foreign lands. But the
sagas almost invariably describe the specific routes
taken, and verify this by listing the number of days the
character took in getting from place to place. The nar-
rator does not simply skip from one locale to another,
but rather takes his reader (or listeners) through a men-
tal journey across the landscape, pointing out land-
marks along the way. For this reason, familiarity with
the Icelandic sagas tends to breed familiarity with the
Icelandic landscape.
Njdl's Saga is certainly no exception to this, whether
one follows along with Cunnar as he goes to settle
with his cousin's ex-husband's father on the east coast,
or along with Karl as he avenges his family members in
Norway. It was perhaps this sense of movement across
the landscape that first inspired English visitors to Ice-
land in the nineteenth century to try to physically re-
85/ Map ofIceland showing the range of territory covered by characters in Njal's Saga. The location of the Saga
Centre is between HIidarendi and Bergthorshvol on the southern coast.
ELISABETH I, WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 261
trace the narrative story tine scene by scene. While not
always taken in strictly chronological order, visitors in
Reykjavik would head eastward, across the mountains,
as had Cunnar after divorcing his first wife, back to the
land of his childhood, Hiidarendi in Flotshlid. Such
pilgrimages to the saga sites were once popular for
academics and elites from the U.K., where translations
of NJdl's Saga were especially common. The well-re-
spected historical painter, W.G. Collingwood, visited
Iceland in the 1 890s, and his paintings of the saga land-
scapes as well as his travel book describing his jour-
ney undoubtedly contributed to this phenomenon
(Collingwood and Stefansson 1 899).
It should be noted that in some cases, in their en-
thusiasm and as a reflection of how closely tied the
sagas seem to be to the landscape, scholars and histo-
rians in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries either
named or renamed places with saga related-names, ac-
cording to their own interpretations (Fridriksson 1 994).
This has led to multiple places with the same saga-
inspired place-name, and discussions about which place-
name is more legitimate are ongoing. This suggests to
some—especially archaeologists relying on place-name
data when conducting surveys and determining where
to dig—that the saga place-names are unreliable. Re-
search at the Icelandic Cultural Ministry (Ornefastofnu)
suggests there is considerable continuity of place names,
at least from the seventeenth century (Gudrun
Gudmansdottir, pers. comm. to E.W.). The authors
of this paper offer that where renaming has taken
place, especially by the local population, it can be
taken as a sign of the living tradition of Iceland's
saga landscapes.
To date, numerous books have been published
describing saga sites and the probable routes taken
across landscape, the newest publication being a book
titled NJdluslodir, where Bjarnason (1 999) lists and de-
scribes all the sites mentioned in NJdl 's Saga.
It is not just in the general route that the sagas
relate geographic details. Understanding the action
described in certain scenes depends on a more in-depth
knowledge of the landscape. For instance, in one battle
scene, Cunnar's physical prowess is well demonstrated
by his ability to ward off thirty attackers, but his mental
quickness in diverting his route, when he sensed an
ambush, to take him to a uniquely defendable place (a
large rock near a swift moving river; Fig. 86) is perhaps
the more important part of the narrative. In both gen-
eral outline and in specific scenes and action sequences,
the sagas are tied to knowledge of the land.
Local Identity and NJdl's Saga
The international renown of NJdl's Saga has certainly
been a point of pride for the entire Icelandic nation-
small and isolated as it is—and cited often at academic
conferences and in political speeches as evidence of
Icelandic skill with the written word. But beyond its
literary recognition, NJdl's Saga also has a more con-
crete, local value. According to the saga, the main char-
acter Njal lived at a certain farm called Bergthorshvol,
and a farm of that same name still exists on the same
piece of land in the south of Iceland, on the coast
opposite the Vestman Islands. The main hero, Gunnar,
is called Gunnar of Hiidarendi because he owned a
farm named Hiidarendi in the hilly district (Fijotshlid,
the river hillside) inland from Njal's farm. Hiidarendi also
exists today as a working farm, and the entire Fijotshlid
area is still a major farming area in southern Iceland.
Though few local residents claim direct ancestry from
Njal or Gunnar, all Icelanders are descendants of those
early settlers.
For the local residents of the area where the charac-
ters in NJdl's Saga lived, the saga is far more than a
great work of literature. It is their own regional story, as
well as their own personal history. It is, in other words,
part of their identity. If debates about the sagas are
common in the national newspapers, debates about
the NJdl's Saga characters for residents of this district
of Iceland are codified performative moments of that
identity in the form of conversations on almost a daily
basis (Hymes 1 983). One amusing example comes from
a recluse farmer, who rarely interacted socially with his
262 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
86/ Cunnarsstein (Cunnar's stone), believed by the locals
a successful defense against thirty armed men.
neighbors. But after reading a flyer put out by the
women's committee announcing an event on August
23, 2001 to commemorate the burning of Njal's farm,
he had to speak up. After taking several stiff drinks, he
called up the event organizer, and announced that there
was a terrible problem. You see, he had spent many
years reading Njal's Saga carefully, and by looking at
clues in the story about the ripeness of the hay and the
care given to the sheep, he had determined beyond a
shadow of a doubt that the burning had actually taken
place on August 21. He advised the commemoration
be moved two days earlier, accordingly.
This is but one of dozens of examples of how com-
mon discussions of Njal's Saga are for the residents of
the area. Such a situation is not unique to southern
Iceland; most districts of Iceland have a saga that took
place in their area (Hreinsson 1 997b:388-90). Because
of this, sagas landscapes—landscapes tied to specific
saga narratives are a defining characteristics of much
of the Icelandic landscape.
to be the location where Cunnar and two others lodged
The Saga Centre in Hvollsvollur
The preceeding argument has outlined the extent to
which Iceland's cultural landscapes, particularly saga
landscapes, have been continually preserved and made
meaningful within Icelandic culture. But that culture has
undergone tremendous change in the last fifty years,
and the question arises as to how the tradition of saga
landscapes can be incorporated into modern realities.
One community, Hvollsvollur, in the region of southern
Iceland where Njal's Saga mostly took place, has un-
dertaken a unique experiment to see whether or not
the Icelandic sense of a voyage through a narrative-
rich saga landscape can become a commodity within
a capitalist economic system; in so doing, they have
also posed the broader question of whether or not a
landscape which is essentially sacred in one culture
can be interpreted and presented in such a way that it
becomes meaningful to foreign tourists who do not
share that cultural background.
In the late 1990s, when the southern part of Ice-
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 263
land (more specifically, the regional administrative unit
Rangarvallasysia) was facing a huge economic slow
down as the younger generation stopped farming and
the fishing market bottomed out, the district represen-
tatives wanted to find a quick way to increase revenue.
The only industry at that time that was doing well in
Iceland was tourism. Tourism has been a booming in-
dustry since the 1970s, thanks in no small part to
Icelandair, the only commercial airline servicing Ice-
land (until late, when it has partnered with SAS). It has
heavily promoted travel to Iceland in both the U.S. and
Europe by offering discounted fares and special week-
end trips. Often these include tours to the natural won-
ders of Iceland: Cullfoss, a magnificent waterfall that
tumbles more than ninety feet, or to Sneafellsjokull,
the most westerly glacier. The austere beauty of these
sites is well conveyed in the glossy brochures given
out at every hotel. Buses depart on regularly sched-
uled tours from both the airport and various hotels for
these natural wonders. Tour companies rely on the in-
nate allure of such destinations, and this approach has
successfully made tourism the second largest national
industry, after fishing. A recent Gallup poll found that
there were as many tourists to Iceland in the summer of
2000 as there are Icelanders (280,000).
The local governmental officials in southern Ice-
land understandably wanted "a piece of that action."
But there are few if any outstanding natural wonders in
this region; mostly there are broad plains, pleasant riv-
ers, and comely rolling hillsides. It is not a place to
inspire awe, but rather to foster feelings of comfort. A
nearby forest is one of the few in Iceland, which makes
it popular with Icelanders, but it is not what visitors
from places with real forests—like the Black Forest in
Germany or the Redwood Forest in California—would
make a special effort to see. And as in all of Iceland,
there are no large buildings or other outstanding man-
made wonders to behold in southern Iceland.
What southern Iceland does have is Njdl's Saga. As
described above, a select class of tourists from England
and Scandinavia had been coming to this part of Ice-
land specifically because of NJal's Saga since the late
nineteenth century. Travel books about Iceland
(i.e.Russel 1914) had always highlighted this region as
NJdluslod, the area where Njdl's Saga took place (Fig.
87, see below also). Although only sixty of two-hun-
dred of the place-names mentioned in Njal's Saga are
found in this area (Bjarnason 1 999), no other district
has a greater concentration. Most importantly, the two
main characters, Gunnar and Njal, lived in this area.
Thus, it was quite logical that the district representa-
tives decided to gamble on encouraging tourists to
visit Rangarvallasysia because of Njdl's Saga. For
these locals, the landscape was naturally filled with
stories of saga heroes and exciting events, thanks
to the unknown author of Njdl's Saga. An Icelander
does not look at Gunnar's farm at HIidarend without
associating it with the hero of Njdl's Saga and his wife
Hallgerd. And the mountain Thrihyrning (see Fig. 83),
in the mind of an Icelandic traveler, is connected with
the story of Flosi, who hid in a valley at the top of that
mountain after the dramatic fire at Bergthorshvol. The
Icelanders and foreigners who know Njdl's Saga look
at the landscape and see not just the physical fea-
tures: a fast-running river or a low, green hill. Instead,
these natural features lead Icelanders to think about
the exciting and important events that happened here
more than 1 ,000 years ago. This shared, imagined cul-
tural landscape was tangible enough to the local com-
munity leaders that they believed they could make a
tourist attraction around it, the Saga Centre. Because
this tourist attraction relies on the pre-existing cultural
landscape of southern Iceland, created primarily through
a specific saga narrative, it is an appropriate focus in
seeking to understand saga landscapes in their modern
manifestation. What this analysis suggests is that the
existence of the Saga Centre not only serves to pre-
serve the cultural landscape, it also is a transformative
agent of that landscape, giving it new meaning.
Beginning of the Saga Centre
Beginning in 1996, community leaders from the ten
264 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
87/ A sign along the main highway indicating the boundary of the community of Fljotshlid (^Viox.sUWba.fUrep'pur) , a
pan of the larger Njaiuslod {H]k\ViS\6^) region.
towns that make up Ragnarvallasysia had meetings
to discuss a proposal to create a special tour of the
places mentioned in NjdI's Saga. Six of the ten com-
munities allocated funds from their annual budgets to-
ward the development of this idea, and the mayors of
each contributing town appointed a board. Early on,
the tour was envisioned as a two-day trip with a night
in a hotel, and brochures were printed, describing this
tour. It was quickly determined that a building would
be necessary as a specific destination in what is other-
wise an amorphous area! destination, and it could also
serve as a starting point from which the tours could
depart. In the building, several components were in-
cluded: a tourist center with leaflets about area attrac-
tions, a sales shop, some office space, an exhibition
hall, and a Viking style dinning area."^ For the first two
years, there were few bookings for the tour.
In late 1996, the board hired a designer and pur-
chased a building, calling it "The Saga Centre". The
building was located in Hvollsvollur, which is cen-
trally located within the Rangarvallasysia and hap-
pens to be the hometown of one of the strongest pro-
ponents of the idea, a dentist and community leader. A
designer was hired, Bjorn G. Bjornsson, one of the most
experienced exhibition creators in Iceland. In going
about his job of designing the center, he traveled to
many international Viking exhibitions and sites, in-
cluding the Jorvik Center in York, the Dublin Na-
tional Museum, L'Anse aux Meadows in Newfound-
land, and museums in Scandinavia.
The exhibition reflects the influence of established
Viking exhibitions in that it contains a broad discus-
sion about the Vikings and the Viking Age, which takes
up approximately a third of the floor space. Another
section focuses on the history of saga writing in Ice-
land, discussing such personages as the famous histo-
rian and explainer of saga poetry, Snorri Sturlusson.
The remainder of the exhibition, slightly less than half
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 265
the floor space, focuses on NJal's Saga itself. In one of
the letters from the designer to the Viking Adventure
and Feast in Dublin (Sept. 1 3, 1 996), the designer com-
mented that the sagas are an underutilized asset in
Icelandic tourism, and it seems indeed he had few ex-
amples from which to model this exhibition. To "ex-
hibiting" the saga, a personality profile of the main
characters and a brief overview of the main action scenes
in each section—primarily through extensive quotes
on the wall and historic paintings inspired by the saga
action— is attempted. No photographs of the landscapes
are used, and there are no artifacts in the exhibition,
save modern recreations. While the exhibition is an
important part of the visitor's understanding of the saga,
the main focus seems to have been on creating an
exhibition that would meet international standards for
a Viking exhibition, coupled with what might be called
an uncertainty as to how to handle the exhibition of
the narrative of the saga itself.
Changes and Successes
In other ways as well, the Saga Centre, though locally
inspired and locally funded, has attempted in its devel-
opment to be internationally savvy. In 1 999, it hired
Arthur Bjorgvin Bollason, a foreign radio correspon-
dent, television personality, and tour guide to be its
director. His knowledge of tourism in Iceland and good
contacts in the media were seen as special assets from
the point of view of the local magistrates. Since be-
coming director, he has instituted a number of changes,
all intended to make the Saga Centre more palatable
to an international audience by focusing less on the
narrative details of the saga and more on the individual
characters in the saga. The tours were shortened from
two days to several hours and divided into tours for
Icelanders and tours for tourists. A dining hall with
Viking-style wooden benches was completed in 2001,
allowing the Saga Centre to begin offering traditional
meals to participants in the bus tours, which makes
visiting the Saga Centre a day-long excursion. Some
groups forgo the bus tour and come only for the enter-
tainment offered on weekend nights. Friday night has
a one-hour musical play based on nineteenth century
songs about the Njdl's Saga characters. On Saturday,
a play is shown about Cunnar and his notorious wife
Hallgerd—she refused to give him strands of her long
hair when his bowstring broke, thus leaving her hus-
band unable to defend himself against an onslaught of
his enemies. Both are told in Icelandic with English
text as a handout, and they are very popular with Ice-
landers and foreigners, and convenient for those for
whom the bus tour is physically difficult. Everyone who
works at the Saga Centre, including the men who sing
in the musical, are locals from the area, except the
director (A.B.B.).^ In this way, though offering a variety
of options to visitors, the Saga Centre has maintained a
strong connection to the local community. This has
been accomplished in the face of a markedly more
visible profile. Newspaper articles about the newly
added entertainment has encouraged Icelandic visitors,
while tour companies adding the Saga Centre as a des-
tination choice for bus and cruise ship groups has greatly
increased international visitorship.
Visitor Profile
All of this has combined to make the Saga Centre one
of the most visited cultural tourist destinations in Ice-
land. In the summer of 2001 only visiting the site of
the original parliament, which is also a beautiful na-
tional park in a tremendous natural setting, was more
popular. The fact that Hvollsvollur, a small and rather
nondescript farming community that is a 1 00 kilometer
(60 miles) drive from the capitol of Reykjavik, has be-
come so well visited, and profitable, ^ is remarkable.
Visitors to the Saga Centre have been a surprising
mix of foreigners and Icelanders. The original target
audience was foreigners, though certainly given the
manner in which Icelanders like to explore their own
landscapes, it was assumed Icelanders would come as
well. During the summer of 2001 , more than 1 7,000
visitors came, sixty-five percent Icelanders, and thirty-
five percent foreigners. Most are over fifty years of
266 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
HP T'^^
88/ The first stop on the tour, Hof, where visitors must visualize several farms that used to be located in the area.
age, but there are also large student groups in the
autumn and the spring. The visitors are extremely di-
verse and cross gender and class divisions: during one
Saturday, there were two groups taking the tour si-
multaneously, one of professors from the teachers' train-
ing school, and the other group was the crew from a
fishing trawling company.
Defining Njalusidd
While all of the activities at the Saga Centre are inter-
esting from a museological and tourist industry point
of view, of primary concern for this paper is the Saga
Centre's function as the starting and ending point for
journeys through the saga landscape.
The tours are designed to extend that sense of a
narrative-filled landscape to those who may be less
familiar with NJdl's Saga. It consists of either vans or
buses that are filled with groups, both foreign and Ice-
landic, led by Saga Centre guides. The groups often
arrive together to the Saga Centre. If they have an-
nounced their plans ahead of time (which most groups
do), they are met and led through the exhibition by the
director. After that overview, a knowledgeable local
guide joins them on the bus, and the tour begins. The
buses take a particular route through the landscape,
stopping at places that are described and mentioned
in NJdl's Saga (see below). At each stop, the guides
retell or reread the portion of the saga that is relevant
to that spot, and answer tourists' questions. The stops
typically last fifteen minutes or so, with the guide say-
ing a few words, including reading from the saga, and
then tourist taking photographs, walking around and
asking questions, before returning to the van (Fig. 88).
Given the nature of the saga, which includes scenes
set on the west coast of Iceland, at the National Assem-
bly site near Lake Thingvellir, and scenes in Norway
and England, choices needed to be made about what
to include and what to exclude in the bus tours. The
political motivation to get people to come to this par-
ticular region surely influenced the choice of sites, lim-
iting it to those sites within the boundaries of the six
communities that contributed funds toward the creation
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 267
of the Saga Centre. These communities, and indeed
perhaps others, have considered themselves part of
the Njaluslod (NJaluslod) area since the eighteenth cen-
tury, when this area name was first coined. The name
itself is broadly understood: a compound of the name
of Njal, the main character in the saga, in possessive
form (Njalu), and the noun slod isloS), which is a geo-
graphic term suggesting an area subject to common
forces, as would be used for run-off plains for a par-
ticular river, and so on. In the same manner that the
glacial rivers and sand erosion have through the centu-
ries changed the face of the land in the Njal's Saga
region, the unknown author of the saga, and all the
generations who have retold the story since, have
managed to "change" the landscape by giving it new
meaning. But the boundaries of this influence are amor-
phous; Njaluslod is the entire landscape region rather
than a specific place.The bus tour is essential in ac-
tively defining what the linguistic term Njaluslod means.
By physically circumscribing a specific geographic area,
that area becomes Njaluslod in the minds of the
participants.
Simultaneously, the physical area determines and
limits the narrative elements of the saga that are in-
cluded. Kari's avenging actions in England—the satis-
f/ing conclusion to the saga—are not mentioned, be-
cause they cannot be demonstrated through reference
to the local landscape. Conversely, a rather minor char-
acter, the uncle of Njal's illegitimate son,'^ is given full
airing because his farm is still in existence today, in-
cluding, as is appropriate for a Viking Age farm, escape
tunnels. Through the agency of the Saga Centre, the
inter-relatedness of the saga and the landscape is fur-
ther reinforced and mutually developed, such that the
one defines the other. The understanding of what Njal's
Saga is and what it means has, therefore, been trans-
formed through the Saga Centre's existence. Because
Icelanders do not consider the sagas stale literary texts,
but rather an integral part of their daily lives, such an
evolution of its purpose and meaning to fit current
needs is not beyond their expectations.
Saga Bus Tours
The flexible relationship between the saga and the
physical landscape allows for the content of the tour,
and therefore the amount of the saga discussed, to be
determined on a case-by-case basis as appropriate,
depending on the audience. For foreigners, the bus
tour is shorter, and includes fewer sites. Usually, the
foreigner tours take approximately two hours and in-
clude about five stops. In comparison, the Icelandic
tours take at least three hours, and include seven or
eight stops. The number, duration, and choice of stop
is somewhat dependent on the weather and the size
and interest of the group; but the two basic tours
begin in much the same way, by heading west from
the Saga Centre along the main paved road.
The first stop is the farm of Hof, with a view of the
farm Vollur, where Njal's Saga begins. This is located
about fifteen minutes up the road from the Saga Centre,
in a rather sparsely populated plain that is far less fer-
tile than it was 1 ,000 years ago (Fig. 88). Hof was where
the family that caused much hardship for Cunnar and
Njal lived, and the eldest son on this farm started the
fight that eventually led to Njal's being burned alive
inside his home. There is no farm there today, though a
herd of Icelandic horses occupies one fenced in por-
tion. Usually, the guide will use this stop to introduce
the main characters and will read the opening few para-
graphs plus a few other appropriate selections, as the
group gathers around him. The guide will normally point
to the locations of two other farms that are mentioned
in the saga and that can be seen in clear weather from
Hof, though there are no old buildings at any of these
places today. Within the framework of the saga narra-
tive, they are not mentioned until later in the story,
which may be one reason the guide does not read
particular passages about these farms, or it may be be-
cause it is somewhat unclear for the visitor exactly
where the farms stood. One of these two farms,
Kirkju-baer, was the farm that Cunnar's wife had
one of her slaves break into as retribution for an
insult the farmer levied at Gunnar, which is a com-
268 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
89/ A tour guide (I) relates the story of the death ofCunnar the Hero while standing at Cunnar's farm, HIidarendi.
pelling story that the guides usually relate.
Proceeding into the interior along a dirt road, the
tour bus turns toward the mountains. Keldur, a still
inhabited farm with intact, older buildings of traditional
sod construction, is the next stop. Here Ingjaldur, a
relation of Njal's who almost joined with the vigilante
party for the slaying of Njal, lived. As a minor character
in the saga, his farm does not need to be included in
the saga tour. However, since it is an authentic, tradi-
tional farm type, it allows the guide to explain a few
things about Icelandic farming. Also, two escape tun-
nels that lead from the house to a nearby riverbank are
especially evocative of the dangerous rivalries of the
Viking Age and later. The guide does not usually read
an excerpt from the saga at this point but rather talks
generally about Icelandic daily life. The farm derives
its name from the naturally warm spring (rather than hot
spring) that flows nearby.
Farther into the interior, the bus meets up with the
Ranga River and proceeds along its western bank. This
section is completely deserted, having been turned
into an arctic desert by the successive eruptions of
Mount Hekla. After a few bumpy kilometers, the guide
points out a large stone sitting by the side of the river.
Though not specifically named in the saga as such,
this stone has been called in local folklore "Cunnars-
stein," meaning Cunnar's Stone (see Fig. 86). Njal's Saga
includes a dramatic episode where Gunnar and two
companions made a defense against thirty armed men
and were victorious, though one of the three, Cunnar's
brother Hjortur, was killed. Because the saga relates
that Cunnar took up a defensive position along the
river at a place he knew well, locals have reasoned
that this large stone would have provided sufficient
defense for a skilled archer to mount a defense. De-
pending on time available to do so, the guide will read
this battle scene excerpt from the saga as he sits on
the stone itself. Excavations in the area have revealed
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 269
archaeological pieces that may have been associated
with archery/ as well as human remains, so this has
added credence to the name Cunnarsstein and to this
as the location of the battle.
Heading southeast over the hills at the base of the
mountains, the guide points out a few sites along the
way from the window of the bus, including especially
the "Three Horned" Mountain (see Fig. 83) . According
to the saga, a farmer with several sons and who raised
champion horses lived at the base of this mountain,
though the location of their farm is uncertain (ruins of
four or five farms have been identified). The sons chal-
lenged Cunnar to a horse duel, and this led to a rivalry
that eventually contributed to Gunnar's death. Between
two of the tops of this mountain is a natural valley or
gully, into which the attackers of Njal are thought to
have hidden after the burning.
Winding along this mountainous terrain, the bus
eventually links again with the paved road, and heads
northeast along the Markarfljot River toward the gla-
ciers. The FIjotshlid (river hillside) district, a rich agri-
cultural area, lines this stretch of road. At one farm on
these hills, named HIidarendi, lived the main hero of
the saga, Gunnar. The bus stops at this location (Fig.
89), and the guide will normally relate a number of
stories, including those about the nineteenth century
church on the property and a twentieth century artist
who lived nearby, but then the guide will read about
the death of Gunnar. This is dramatic for a number of
reasons, not the least of which is the fact that, as Gunnar
was struggling to ward off forty men, he asked his wife
for strands of her long, thick hair to use as replace-
ments for his broken bow string. She coyly replied,
"Does anything depend on it?" and then refused him
his wish, as retribution for a slap she received many
years earlier from him. Most tour members are appalled
at this story of betrayal, but the guide will often relate
the debates about this scene, including one recent
theory that the husband and wife were just enjoying a
nice give and take as a final farewell. There are no
physical remains from Gunnar's farm, and in fact the
exact location of the house on the hill itself is unknown,
though the boundaries of the farm lot are well estab-
lished. From this vantage point, one looks south across
the plain of the Markarfljot River, toward the Vestman
Islands. For the foreign tourists, this is the last stop on
the tour. The guide therefore uses this vista to point
out a few other places included in the saga. Njal's
farm, Bergthorshvol, was on the plain of the Markarfljot
River, so the guide will normally point in its direction
and tell the story of the burning of Njal, since the for-
eign tour does not go to this site. Instead, it returns up
the paved road to the Saga Centre. This route takes
approximately two hours.
The Icelandic tour proceeds from HIidarendi south
across the plain of the Markarfljot River. It stops at
Dimon, a large hill that has not been eroded, as has the
other land in the area (Fig. 90). Here the story is told of
the bravado of Skarpedinn, one of Njal's sons, who
had skid across a nearby river when it was frozen,
brandishing an axe and killing several men, while es-
caping unharmed himself. This location is also where
the guide often reads from a poem composed about
a different event in the saga. When Gunnar was sup-
posed to leave Iceland as punishment for a killing, he
was riding his horse south across this plain. His horse
stumbled, and as Gunnar landed on the ground, he
turned to face HIidarendi to the north. Then he said
how beautiful FIjotshlid looked and that he would not
leave. This led to his enemies' finding him and killing
him in his house. Both of these stories are usually re-
lated at Dimon, though neither of these events was
supposed to have taken place exactly at that loca-
tion. Rather, it provides a dramatic setting to tell these
two stories—separate from each other in terms of the
saga narrative—which took place nearby.
The final stop of the Icelandic language tour is
Bergthorshvol, the farm of Njal. This farm lies due west
of Dimon, also in the Markarfljot River plain. Today, a
farm still exists that is called Berthoshvol. On the farm
property are several mounds, which were likely the
refuse piles from previous farmhouses (Fig. 91). Njal's
270 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
90/ Dimon, a dramatic rise on an otherwise flat plain,
;
and guide (center, wliite jacket) to contemplate scenes
house is believed to have stood on one of these hill-
ocks. The bus stops at this farm, and everyone files
out. The guide stands atop one mound, and tells the
story of the burning of Njal, pointing north across the
plain to the Three Horned mountain from whence his
enemies emerged (normally commenting on the un-
likelihood that Njal would not have noticed a large
group of men coming at him from such a distance). He
then relates the dramatic tale of Njal and his wife, and
one young grandson, agreeing to die together, although
their enemies offered the women and children a chance
to leave. This simultaneously violent and touching epi-
sode is very near the chronological end of the saga
narrative itself, so it is a fitting last stop for the tour. The
bus then returns to the Saga Centre by heading north
and then slightly east. The Icelandic tour normally takes
about three and a half to four hours.
Often the guests stay for a traditional meal and the
live entertainment offered on Friday and Saturday nights
before heading back to their abodes for the evening.
ides a convenient location for an Icelandic tour group
n Njal's Saga.
Guides
The guides themselves are obviously an important com-
ponent in the tenure and content of the tour. There is
neither a formal application nor training process for
the guides; rather, local people with knowledge of
the saga, a knack for public speaking, and available
time are informally recruited through the community
network. Though there is a prescribed route and
agreed-upon stops, the guides are otherwise free to
discuss what they know and interests them. Besides
the difference in physical route and duration, the infor-
mation presented in the foreign versus Icelandic tours
is therefore somewhat different. During the summer of
2001, there were four main guides: an elderly local
farmer, Magnus; two priests, Cunnar and Sigurd; and
the Saga Center director himself.'* Magnus' lack of bi-
lingualism necessitates that he be the guide for only
the Icelandic tours, and he has developed a particular
flair for his work. As the longest serving guide, and a
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 271
local resident of the area whose grandfather used to
tell him the story of Njal and Gunnar, Magnus con-
ducted more than thirty-six tours during the summer
of 2001 . Despite his in-depth knowledge of the saga,
he tended to discuss all the interesting stories of the
landscape in the tradition of the Icelandic road books
described above, rather than just those stories related
to Njdl's Saga. As he said, "History is always happen-
ing. Today's stories are not so different from the saga
times [stories]" (pers. comm., August 2001 , translation
E.W.). Some visitors find this lack of focus disappoint-
ing since they came specifically to the Saga Centre
because of NJals Saga, while others, especially those
less familiar with the saga, are relieved to have a more
diverse range of stories discussed. Unfortunately, due
to ailing health, he has had to cut back on his tours
recently, and since a replacement has not yet been
found, the number of tours offered has been curtailed.
The other guides can and certainly do conduct the
longer Icelandic tours, but they also lead the foreign
groups. For foreign visitors, the guides stick more
closely to the saga narrative, though natural history
facts concerning volcanic eruptions, changes in the
course of the rivers, and so on, are also discussed. This
focus lends a certain performative formality to the for-
eign tours, which complements the fact that the foreign
visitors often know each other far less well than the
Icelandic groups that come to the Saga Center and
spend less time together on the tour itself. It is less of a
social event for the foreign tour participants, conversely
more focused on the guide as the common binding
element of the group.
For foreign groups especially, a guide—as performer
of the saga, embodiment of the saga narrative— is re-
quired. For Icelanders and specialist tourists, Njdl's Saga
itself is innately interesting. But for the average tourist,
who came to Iceland lured by images of a wild land,
Njdl's Saga has to be made interesting. By focusing on
the common human elements of the characters, such
as Gunnar as a husband with a difficult wife, the narra-
tive is made more accessible. Making the stories enter-
taining for foreign visitors is also the job of the guides.
The two live plays held on weekend evenings at the
Saga Center extend the knowledge of the narratives
told in Njdl's Saga, and are attended both by visitors
who take the tours and those that do not.
The presentation of the saga to foreigners in this
entertaining and lively way is one more way that the
concept of Njdl's Saga is delimited through the agency
of the Saga Centre. The saga is therefore being trans-
lated more than just linguistically. It is being culturally
translated to suit modern tastes and interests, short-
ened to match the average visitor's limited knowledge
of the saga and to fit in the comfortable time period of
a bus ride, and to coincide with the physical bound-
aries of the landscape through which the bus travels.
This translating fits within a wider pattern of the Ice-
landic approach to the sagas as a living tradition;
the Saga Centre is simply giving Njdl's Saga new
currency.
Working the Imagination
The setup, route taken, schedule, and words of the guides
are all deliberate actions intended for a specific out-
come: to fill the Njdlaslod landscape with a saga nar-
rative. But since the Saga Center is the first and only
saga interpretive site with guided tours in Iceland, the
effect these actions would have on the visitors was
uncertain. The bus tours are a physical group tour into
the imaginary, a ride through the countryside to see
that which no longer exists, where a group of adults
crowd into the middle of a grass field, "looking" at
something that cannot be seen (see Figs. 88,89).
In this situation, the human power of imagination
needs to take over, enabling people who have no pre-
vious knowledge of the saga to "see" the events that
took place 1 ,000 years ago in the landscape. The land-
scape itself which exists in front of their eyes, can
serve as a mental trigger for these events. With the
help of the imagination, it seems tourists can recreate
the story in the mind, reanimating the characters of the
saga and making them alive in the landscape. The land-
272 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
91/ Bergthorshvol, the site where Njal and his family were burned alive, is the last stop on the Icelandic tour; it has
no obvious physical remains from the saga time period.
scape becomes a "frame", which the visitor has to fill
with his or her own painting of the saga events. With
the help of the guide, the traveler thus creates his own
story, his own vision of what happened in Njdiuslod
centuries ago.
Because the tour relies so heavily on the imagina-
tion of the visitor, and because there is so little to be
seen physically, such a tour is even meaningful for
those without vision. In the summer of 2000, a group
of blind Icelandic adults booked the tour. They had
with them a trained assistant who described the physi-
cal landscape to them, and they had the Saga Centre
guide telling them the saga. Thus, despite the logistic
problems such a guided tour faces (such as finding
enough qualified and available guides), the format it-
self has proven capable of conveying a powerful mes-
sage about the relationship between landscape and saga
narratives in Icelandic culture.
An informal survey of visitors^ suggests that the
tours were mostly effective at encouraging visitors to
work their imagination. Icelanders, especially those fa-
miliar with the saga, found it pleasurable to "see" the
saga events and to visit (or revisit) this saga landscape.
However, some foreign visitors commented that they
would like to have a map or understand more exactly
where the guide was pointing. Even the foreigners who
admitted to taking the tour only because they wanted
a chance to be outside, to see the Icelandic landscape,
expressed an appreciation for the stories. One visitor,
who was familiar with Njdis Saga from college, said
that he came to learn about Icelandic culture, and felt
there was no better way than getting a sense of how
important these stories are to Icelanders.
Conclusion
The majority of tourism campaigns about Iceland, such
as the slogan of the 1 990s that dubed Iceland "The
Land of Fire and Ice," foster and project an image of a
wild, uninhabited land, devoid of the works of man.
While brochures might mention Iceland as the land of
the sagas or of the Vikings, the beautiful and mysteri-
ous physical landscape and raw natural beauty are touted
as the primary attractions. This tacitly implies the land
is solely there for the enjoyment of outsiders, and in-
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 273
deed the major activities offered are glacier snowmo-
bile rides, hikes to untamed waterfalls, and horseback
tours through the uninhabited interior.
Such a view of the landscape is directly at odds
with the well-documented tradition Icelanders them-
selves have of filling their landscape with stories. When
Icelanders look at a scenery or take a country drive,
their perception is influenced by a storehouse of narra-
tives. For Icelanders, it is the places tied to specific
people and historic events which are of interest. The
other geographic features may be beautiful, but they
carry little, if any, cultural meaning. At the Saga Centre,
the guides and the locals who work in the sales shop
and kitchen, or act in the Saga Centre plays on the
weekends, are telling people about something that is
particularly meaningful; a saga landscape. As described
by one of the local magistrates involved in the cre-
ation of the center
Tourists who come to a foreign land want to
have interesting information about the
people and the land that they are visiting. . . .
[i]f they do not receive such information . . .
they will not be intrigued despite the fact
that the land is beautiful and the sun is
shining. In this nation live the people, and
they must acquaint them with a wider
perspective. The people and the land have
their stories and the land has meaning (Letter
to Board of Trustees, 21 July 1998).
As in no other tourist spot in Iceland, the Saga Centre
acts as a host, inviting tourists into Icelanders' sym-
bolic home, a culturally meaningful landscape. Just as
a polite host leads a guest through the home, pointing
out which objects in the home have special meaning,
the guides on the bus tours make tourists feel wel-
come and a part of the wider cultural milieu by sharing
with them meaningful stories. For a brief moment, the
tourist can try to see the land through the eyes of an
Icelander. And then they are offered home-cooked meals
and told a story in a welcoming room by more locals.
This means that foreigners who come to the Saga Cen-
tre have a great deal more interaction with local people
than they will have in other tourist sites in Iceland. The
Saga Centre, as a nexus for local-international interac-
tion, has skillfully utilized this opportunity, and it seems
foreign visitors do come away with an understanding
of this region's saga landscape.
For Icelanders, the Saga Centre has other import.
Here their national identity as Icelanders interacts with
a particular local form, whether they go on the tours or
only come for the evening entertainment. Going to the
Saga Centre thus becomes an enactment of their Ice-
landic-ness, the shared cultural heritage common to all
Icelanders, Just as the debates in the paper or the com-
mon cliches do; perhaps even more so. Like a pilgrim-
age in the Roman Catholic world, it is simultaneously a
mental and physical act, demonstrating that cultural
affiliation and buttressing the importance of the sagas
in Icelandic culture. With every footstep, and each turn
of the wheel of bus, Icelanders are making that pre-
existing cultural landscape meaningful again.
Maintaining the meanings associated with saga land-
scapes faces a number of challenges. Iceland has un-
dergone tremendous social and economic change in
the last fifty years. The rural population has been en-
couraged, via tax incentives and the existence of good
schools and hospitals, to move to urban centers, par-
ticularly the capitol of Reykjavik. Though young
people still learn about the sagas through various means,
these uniquely Icelandic stories must now compete
with satelite television, the Internet, and other forms of
popular entertainment. Once an agrarian economy, the
Icelandic economy is now a modern, capitalist
economy. By demonstrating that cultural heritage can
become a viable source of economic gain, the Saga
Centre offers Icelanders a model for how to bridge the
gap between the past and the present. Unlike other
Northern peoples described in this volume who are
currently documenting their cultural landscapes,
Iceland's ethnographic landscapes have been docu-
mented for eight hundred years, beginning with the
efforts of the anonymous saga writers. What is required
is a means to encourage young Icelanders to continue
to honor that heritage.
274 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
The Saga Centre offers one such means, and a timely
one at that. The number of tourists coming to Iceland
has begun to eclipse the size of Iceland's population
itself, and a moment of cultural crisis, like those experi-
enced by small Caribbean nation-states, may be on the
horizon (Shimany et al. 1 994). The number of Iceland-
ers who have visited the Saga Centre suggests a pro-
active response. In the face of an onslaught of tour-
ists—many of whom come with no appreciation of the
history or culture of the land, and expect to see an
exotic wilderness—Icelanders are attempting to shift
the focus to that which is meaningful to them, their
Icelandic saga landscapes. They face an uphill battle,
as tour companies and promoters try to package the
Saga Centre as a more traditional tourist stop; some
book groups only for the dinner or musical play, and
not for the bus tour itself. As the Saga Centre contin-
ues to evolve into an increasingly popular foreign tourist
destination, it is unclear what role the original focus of
the center, the bus tours through the landscape, will
have. In the meantime, this small farming village in
southern Iceland will continue to be the unlikely spot
where local attempts to transmit and maintain an Ice-
landic sense of the landscape compete with the needs
and expectations of foreign tourists.
Acknowledgments
While perhaps the greatest thanks belong to the
many, unnamed tour participants who kindly became
subjects of our study, a few named individuals also
deserve thanks. Ambassadors Einar Benediktsson and
Jon Baldvin Hannibalsson facilitated introduction of
the co-authors, Gunnar Jonsson of Icelandair gener-
ously provided airfare, and the Ladies Club of
Flotshlid extended use of their summer cottage.
Thanks to Ted Birkedal of the U.S. National Park
Service for encouraging the inclusion of an Icelan-
dic component in this northern ethnographic land-
scape volume and to the volume editors for their
careful and thoughtful feedback. John Steinberg of
UCLA also provided critical commentary which
strengthened the paper, and Gisli Sigurdsson of the
Arni Magnusson Institute assisted with illustration
suggestions. But we reserve our final thanks to the
anonymous author of NJdl's Saga, whose careful
crafting of the tale has inspired generations and en-
riched the landscape immeasurably.
Notes
1 . This aspect of saga literature has not been
extensively studied, though Adalsteinsson 1996,
Overing and Osborn 1994, and Petersson 1981
make use of the continuity in saga placenames
and descriptions of the landscape in their respec-
tive arguments. One author (E.W.) will be focusing
on the relationship between sagas and the land-
scape for her dissertation research.
2. A Viking dining hall in a community near
Reykjavik has been a popular tourist destination
since the early '90s. So they were hoping to rec-
reate that, but soon found forming the cadre of 1 5
performers needed for such a Viking re-enactment
hall impossibly complicated.
3. One of the authors of this paper, Arthur B.
Bollason, was director of the Saga Centre from
1999 until fall 2003.
4. The bulk of this paper is based upon data
from the summer of 2001, when Arthur Bollason
hosted Elisabeth Ward at the Saga Centre. Com-
ments pertaining to visitors' experience are based
on several ride-alongs Elisabeth made with vari-
ous tour groups and interviews with participants.
Other information regarding the background of tour
groups comes from Arthur's reservation
system.
5. The Saga Centre began to break even two
years ahead of schedule.
6. Children born out of wedlock were not
and are not openly biased against in Icelandic
culture, though they may not have completely
equal access to inherit land and money.
7. One of the pieces found at this site is a
bone ring likely used to protect the index finger
while drawing back a bowstring. Of considerable
interest to some saga enthusiasts, this piece is
decorated with a stag design, and the name of
Gunnar's brother, who died at the attack, means
stag. Lay people therefore speculate this was the
ELISABETH I. WARD AND ARTHUR B. BOLLASON 275
exact piece used by Gunnar's brother.
8. Gunnar the Priest transferred parishes
in early 2002 and is no longer conducting tours.
9. Conducted by E. Ward, August 1 3-1 9, 2001
.
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off Freyfax's rockface). Mulafjing 23:67-89.
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1 999 Njdiuslodir (The region associated with Njal).
Reykjavik: Mai og Menning.
Collingwood, W.G. (William Gershom), and Jon
Stefansson
1 899 A Pilgrimage to the Saga-Steads of Iceland.
Ulverston: W. Holmes. 1 899. Reprinted 1 988 as Fegurd
Islands og fornir sogustadir: svipmyndir og sendibref
ur Islandsfor W.G.Collingwoods 1 897 with a forward
by Haraldur Hannesson, Bjorn Th. Bjornsson and Janet
B. Collingwood Gnosspelius. Reykjavik: Orn og Orlygur.
Fridriksson, Adolf
1 994 Sagas and Popular Antiquarianism in Icelandic
Archaeology. Aldershot: Avebury.
Hann, CM., ed.
1 998 Property Relations: Renewing the Anthropologi-
cal Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Hastrup, Kirsten
1985 Culture and History in Medieval Iceland: An An-
thropological Analysis of Structure and Change. Ox-
ford: Clarendon Press: New York: Oxford University
Press.
Helgason, J.K.
1998 Hetjan og hofundurinn (Heroes and the au-
thors) Reykjavik: Mai og Menning.
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1997a Njal'sSaga. \n The Complete Sagas ofIceland-
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1983 Essays in the Hstory ofLinguistic Anthropology.
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Beskrivelse afIsland {Jovj&rds an historic-topographic
description of Iceland). Copenhagen: Gyldenalske
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1997 Introduction. In The Complete Sagas of Ice-
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Hreinsson, ed., pp. xxix-liii. Reykjavik: Leifur Eiriksson
Publishing.
Magnusson, Magnus, and Hermann Palsson
1 960 Njal'sSaga. London: Penguin Books.
Olason, Vesteinn
1 998 Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and
Representation in the Saga of the Icelanders.
Reykjavik: Heimskringla.
Overing, Gillian R. and Marijane Osborn
1 994 Landscape of Desire: Partial Stories of the Me-
dieval Scandinavian World. Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press.
Petursson, Halldor
1 981 SogusloSir a Utherabi (Saga regions in the ru-
ral areas). Mulaping 1 1 :91 -1 03.
Russell, W.S.C.
1 91 4 Iceland: Horseback Tours in Saga Land. Bos-
ton: Richard G. Badger and Toronto: The Copp Clark
Co., Ltd.
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Roser
1994 Aspekte der Moderne: negative Dialektik,
Nationalismus, Towmmws (Aspects of modernity: nega-
tive dialectics, nationalism and tourism). Egelsbach,
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Sigurdsson,Gisli
2004 The Medieval Icelandic Saga Tradition and Oral
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bridge: Harvard University. Translation of Tulkun
Islendingasagna i Ljosi Munnlegrar Hefdar: Tilgdta um
Adferd. Reykjavik: Stonfun Arna Magnussonar A
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19 59 Matthias Johannessen: Njdla i islenskum
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74. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press.
2 76 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SAGA LANDSCAPES
(Cultural Seascapes
P'^e5ervln^ Locai ["islnernien's |<!^nowleclge in !\|ort!-iern |\jorwatj
ANITA MAURSTAD
The word "landscape" was first used in the late six-
teenth century (Oxford English Dictionary). The term
"seascape" did not come into use until 200 years later,
and it is usually simply translated as "pictures of the
sea." However, seascapes have other values beyond
the picturesque that I will focus on in this article. I
could make a systematic comparison of seascapes with
landscapes and list their basic differences. Some are
quite obvious. The land holds footprints and paths-
traces of human occupancy that often date back thou-
sands of years. Water is fluid and ever changing. The
traces of a boat moving through a seascape last only a
few minutes. The land impresses with its mountains,
green valleys, and rivers. In some areas fences also
stand out to mark borders of property. At sea there are
no such visible marks. Regional, national and interna-
tional borders are ink on paper conventions and charts
while fishermen's perceptions of local common-rights
are imprinted in their minds. The sea has mountains
and valleys though, but they are invisible, hidden un-
der the surface. The surface may also hide strong cur-
rents. The sea is dangerous. It can produce violent
storms that easily crush human-made entities, like boats
and buildings. People drown at sea. Dying on land,
people are normally found and given a specific place
to rest. The sea holds no such place and we talk of the
sea as we talk of the Lord; it gives and it takes.
The sea is also mysterious in other aspects; it repre-
sents the unknown and is surrounded by folklore and
myths. Draugen is the Norwegian name for a monstrous
sea spirit who sails the sea and takes other vessels
down. He is more cruel and intelligent than the land
trolls that humans can outsmart. Humans can lure land
trolls into sunlight where they are turned into stone, a
common theme in many fairy tales. The different char-
acter of Draugen and land trolls can symbolize the
human degree of control with seascape and landscape,
respectively. Draugen also directs his viciousness to-
ward men only and the character may, as suggested by
Hauan (1 995), tell about men's mastering of their ac-
tivities at sea.
Comparing land and sea, the seascape appears as
an opposition to land. But to its daily users the sea is
much more. It is movement, action, purpose, and inter-
action—between people and the sea as well as among
the people of the sea. The conceptualizations of both
landscapes and seascapes are experiential and con-
ceptual constructs, as cultural experience and percep-
tions form their descriptions. The concept "seascape"
and the cultural elements it contains, however, are highly
invisible and scarcely described. In Norwegian we talk
of landscapes (landskap) but do not have an equiva-
lent term for seascapes (ie: sj0skap). "Seascape" is also
rarely used in the scientific discourse, to say nothing
about heritage- and land-preservation literature. With
the growth of the sport diving industry in the 1950s
grew the Norwegian concern for the submerged mari-
time cultural history as the divers brought several valu-
able items on shore, as well as made important discov-
eries that were later excavated by marine archaeolo-
gists (Naevestad 1 992). Cultural history, however, even
maritime, does not capture the cultural elements of the
277
seascape that I will address here. Borrowing from the
growing body of literature focusing on cultural or eth-
nographic landscapes (see most recent reviews: Buggey
1999; 2000; this volume), I will look at seascapes in
terms of the everyday practice of small-scale fisher-
men. Buggey (2000) proposes a definition for Aborigi-
nal cultural landscapes as places "valued by an Ab-
original group (or groups) because of their long and
complex relationship with that land. ... It embodies
their traditional knowledge of spirits, places, land uses
and ecology." Rather than focusing on archaeological
sites in the seascape, and seeing the seascape only as
an opposition to the landscape, I will conceptualize
the seascape as I have learned it from my study of
small-scale fishing practices in the north of Norway.
Cultural seascapes make up a large part of the hu-
man environment, particularly in northern areas, where
many groups traditionally made and still make their
living by fishing and/or marine hunting. There are dif-
ferent perceptions of landscapes and, similarly, there
are many varying visions of seascapes. Since I have
studied small-scale fisheries I will focus on the knowl-
edge of the seascape that local small-scale fishermen
use in their daily activities. I will present various char-
acteristics of a cultural seascape, as it functions in the
minds and daily life of small-scale fishery experts in
Northern Norway. More specifically, I will focus on cul-
tural seascapes created and maintained by the small-
scale, shore-based, traditional fisheries in Troms and
Finnmark, the two northernmost counties of Norway
(see map in Holand, this volume). By small-scale fish-
ery, I refer to those fishermen using vessels less than
thirteen meters (about forty-three feet) long. These char-
acteristics form the point of departure for my following
discussion on how northern seascapes could be man-
aged in the present Norwegian resource management
framework.
The data used in this paper were collected during
several long-term studies of small-scale coastal fishing
in Troms and Finnmark conducted over a twelve-year
period. These counties hold around forty percent of
the nation's small-scale fishing vessels (Maurstad 1 997).
The data were collected intermittently since 1989
through participant observation and unstructured open-
ended interviews with fishermen, in addition to my per-
sonal first-hand experience in small-scale commer-
cial fishing for a full year (see Acknowledgements,
below).
Basic Features of Northern Norway Sea-
scape
Finnmark and Troms counties cover an area of 75,000
square kilometers (30,000 square miles) and have a
combined population of 225,000. Most people live on
the coast in small towns and shore villages, as the area
has few cities (the biggest local city, Troms0, had a
population of 60,000 in the year 2000). The fishing
villages in Northern Norway are mostly scattered along
the coast and on offshore islands. In some places, the
distance between neighboring villages is quite large;
in others, one can find five villages within a range of
1 50 kilometers (93 miles). Some villages have five ac-
tive fishermen; others have twenty. Very few are larger.
Although Northern Norway coastal seascapes are
located above the Arctic Circle (between 68° N and
71 °N), the warm Gulf Stream maintains a water tempera-
ture that supports extremely rich marine resources. Also
surface temperatures along the coast are quite mild:
-2° C (28.4° F) is an average for the winter months.
Besides the traditional two or three winter storms, winds
normally range between the strengths of a gale and a
breeze. A gale of twelve knots or more makes fishing
difficult, and local fishermen normally do not fish in
such weather conditions.
The topographic conditions of the area favor fish-
ing. The coastal seascape consists of open waters off
the barren, mostly rocky, coast. Small bays, numerous
islands and islets, and large and small fjords often break
several miles into the country. The water of the coastal
seascape can be as deep as 500 meters (270 fathoms).
Some fish species stay in the area year round whereas
others migrate for a certain season for spawning or feed-
278 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
92/ The fishing village Kjollefjord, Finnmark, northern
from all over Norway traveling to the seasonal cod-fishi
ing. Both the fjords and the open coast are used for
fishing. Fishing depths depend on the species and the
gear at hand, and can take place in shallow waters with
a depth of twenty meters (65 feet) or more, as well as in
the very deepest waters.
The northeast arctic cod stock, which migrates to
the coast twice a year, is the basis of the coastal fisher-
ies' sustainability in northern Norway. In early winter
months, the bigger cod comes from the Barents Sea to
spawn. The bulk of the cod swims for the spawning
grounds off Lofoten Islands, providing fishermen along
its main migration route, as well as in Lofoten, with
good fishing opportunities. In early spring, a smaller
sized cod arrives at its feeding grounds off the coast of
Finnmark. Many small-scale fishermen fish in their home
waters throughout the year, but some travel to the
Lofoten Islands fisheries in early winter, or to the more
northerly Finnmark fisheries in spring (Fig. 92). This
pattern follows a traditional cycle of seasonal move-
ment and activities that has long been followed in peas-
ant coastal fisheries off northern Norway. Other migrat-
Norv\/ay, is an important bay for small scale fishermen
'.ry in spring.
ing resources include haddock, saithe, and herring; these
also provide local fishermen with good seasonal op-
portunities. In addition there are smaller local cod stocks
and other local resources, such as halibut, flounder, red-
fish, cusk, monkfish, wolf-fish, and lumpfish.
Although rich, the ecology of the northern Norway
seascape has changed during the last fifty years. While
my mother and older cousins could once sit on a rock
on the shore and catch fish using a bent needle and
some sewing thread, there is neither the same amount
of fish along the shore, nor is it that easy to catch
anymore. The basic technology is still simple: gill net-
ting, jigging, and baited long lines form the three most
common traditional gear types. Newer fishing gear, such
as purse seining, is increasing rapidly, particularly after
the catch quotas were introduced in 1990. As quotas
are maximum allowances, time has become a critical
factor and many see the purse seine as the most effi-
cient method in getting the quota on board the vessel
quickly (Maurstad 2000a).
Fishing sometimes takes place in near shore wa-
ANITA MAURSTAD 279
ters, almost at people's doorsteps (Fig. 93). In the fjords,
one can often fish fifty to one-hundred meters (1 60 to
325 feet) from the shore. Along the open coast, small
boats usually fish farther away, four to six nautical miles
off the coast. In a few places, the shore-based fishing
extends up to twelve nautical miles. Larger vessels oc-
casionally use these waters as well; so, conflicts arise
from time to time. Small-scale fishermen usually insist
that since larger vessels are capable of using more dis-
tant offshore waters, they should do so and leave the
inshore waters to the local fishermen.
The smaller vessels are also very efficient and ca-
pable. Most full-time fishermen now operate fully
equipped vessels with modern technology such as Glo-
bal Positioning System (CPS), radars, echo sounders,
and jigging machines. Today, an experienced person
can easily master a fishing vessel of thirty-five feet;
and if the fishery is good, the vessel can very well
provide a living for two. In recent years, quotas have
pushed fishermen more towards individually operated
boats. It is the boat that holds the catch quota and
sharing it with a crew has become economically unfa-
vorable (Maurstad 2000a).
It is the men who catch the fish. Of the total Norwe-
gian fishermen population of 20,000, only two percent
are women. Women who are engaged in fishing do it
either with their male relatives, usually husbands or
fathers, in small boats, or as factory workers on board
larger fishing vessels (Munk-Madsen 1 998).
No official Norwegian statistics cover small-scale
fishermen; but according to my estimates (Maurstad
1997), the total Norwegian small-scale fleet in 1996
consisted of some 5,600 boats. These small vessels are
most numerous along the northern shore. They make
up eighty percent of the total Norwegian cod fishing
fleet by number, and they catch around twenty percent
of commercially important cod species. The Troms and
Finnmark small-scale fleet counted 2,200 vessels in
1 996; those caught around 30,000 tons of cod that
year.
As for training, no school has taught the fishermen
their knowledge. Like the common practice among
previous generations, today's fishermen learn their craft
from each other, mostly from their fathers and uncles.
Through growing up in a fishing culture, boys normally
acquire skills in navigation and dealing with the sea
through their play. Young boys are often taken on an
occasional fishing trip at the age of ten and even
younger, and they become full-time fishermen in their
early teens. Of course, this is mostly true for the senior
generation of today's fishermen. Present-day children
now attend school until age sixteen or mostly eigh-
teen with their schoolwork occupying more of their
time. Recently, some type of formal education in the
form of craft certificates has been established, but very
few local fishermen have these certificates. Hence, the
training to become a fisherman is still first and fore-
most informal.
Fishermen's Knowledge of the Seascape
Fishermen need basic knowledge on where and how
to find fish, how to get there and come back safely,
what tools to use, and how to use them. This has to be
done in a safe manner, as the sea is a moving floor and
every operation has to be carefully performed. The
complex knowledge surrounding this particular use of
the seascape is hard to comprehend and visualize. If
we were to follow a fisherman on a fishing trip with a
silent movie camera we would understand only a small
portion of what fishermen do to make their living. We
would see a fisherman leave his house around three or
four in the morning, board his ship, and sail out to sea.
At some point he would cut back his engine. We would
see him remove a buoy from the sea and start hauling
his nets or his longline. Hauling the gear, he would
pick off the fish as it enters the boat. When done, he
would run the engine for a while, then suddenly stop it,
and throw the gear back into the sea. Then he would
start the same procedure at another buoy in a different
place. If he were jigging, the same procedures occur;
the only difference is that there would be no buoy to
mark where to start.
280 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
93/ Small-scale fishing in the near-shore seascape of
This silent movie is quite illustrative to an outsider's
perspective on what fishermen do. What I aim at here is
to "subtitle" the silent movie, that is, focus on aspects
that represent critical components of fishermen's knowl-
edge of the seascape. I will organize my description as
follows: First, I will talk of the vertical and horizontal
dimensions in space as fishermen's knowledge relates
both to what is located under the water surface and
how to move across that surface. Furthermore, there is
a time dimension that organizes activities as well as
regionaland /oco/dimensions, since fishermen use vari-
ous sections of the sea at various times during the
year. As both competition and cooperation character-
ize the fishery, and as fishermen acquire knowledge
from each other, the relational dimension is another
important component of the seascape. Finally, since it
is mostly men who fish, I will also talk of a gender
dimension in the cultural seascape.
Lyngenfjord, northern Norway.
Vertical Dimension: Catching Fish
When the fisherman sets his gear into the sea, the as-
sumption is that the gear will catch the fish. Actually,
when it comes to the gear used by small-scale fisher-
men, it is the other way around. Gill nets, long lines,
and various hook-and-line devices are all called "pas-
sive gear," since their success in fishing depends on
the fish finding the gear at the right time and in the
right place. Using passive gears implies that the fisher-
man must know how to make the fish find his gear. In
other words, he must know precisely (more or less) the
location of the fish he is after on every trip.
The fisherman knows a lot about the sea floor, as
well as the many characteristics of the body of salt
water between the sea floor and his vessel. The sea
floor is basically flat ground, a depth or a slope, and its
shape is often expressed in the fishermen's names of
places in the seascape. There are flat grounds such as
ANITA MAURSTAD 281
Ole-Nilsa-grunnen, Paalsgmnnen—compounds from
people's first names plus the word floor—and Lodde-
gmnnen, and A/zse^rw/i/ie/i—compounds refering to cer-
tain species that inhabit the sea, capelin and porpoise
respectively. There are rocky grounds such as Rakkenes-
skallen and Ste'mskolten, Rakkenes is a common place-
name, and often place-names at sea have their counter-
parts ashore—the fishing site's location is in relation
to known land marks. There are depths known as Soyla
and slopes known as Leitbakken. The names Stein and
S0yla describe physical features of the bottom: it is
rocky and/or shaped as a gauge, respectively. The mean-
ing of Leitbakken refers to the technology commonly
used at this fishing site; leit means search, so here jig-
ging—searching the sea for fish with a hook and line-
is implied (Hovda 1961).
As with landscapes, there are far more local names
in the oral history of places than there are to be found
on charts. Although the use of GPS, a satellite-based
system that can pinpoint the exact location of its owner
by coordinates of latitude and longitude, has become
more common, fishermen still know and use the sea-
scape place-names. As they start fishing, they learn not
only the place-names, but also their location by land-
scape coordinates. Thus, fishing places are embedded
in a rich cultural history of the area, where one has
to know the names of mountains, valleys, points, or
other special characteristics of the landscape in order
to orient oneself in the seascape. One fisherman ex-
plained to me that he realized the relevance of this
knowledge only when he tried to teach his brother-in-
law some good fishing sites. As his brother-in-law had
grown up elsewhere, he first had to learn the names of
the mountains in the new area before learning the
names of the fishing places, thus making the teaching
process last longer than usual. The fisherman also com-
plained about other fishermen's increasingly using CPS-
coordinates instead of names. He himself was operat-
ing a vessel without this technology; and when he asked
where other fishermen had been that day, they re-
sponded by citing their CPS-positions. "Give me a break,"
he said, "use the names of the places. I don't know
where 69.48.389 N and 01 7.40.21 1 Els!"
There are more good reasons for fishermen to keep
using the place-names, as many names are valuable
concepts that hold information about different species.
Different fish species stay at different places at sea.
Hence, the name Karibakken (the slope of Kari) tells
that this is a slope where cod is likely to stay. Redfish
stays in the depths; cod stays along the slopes to shal-
lower depths during the spawning season; and the fast-
moving saithe tends to accumulate in places character-
ized by strong currents, like around the points. But
whether he knows the names or not, the fisherman who
enters a seascape unknown to him can assess the sea-
scape for good sites of saithe, cod, redfish, lumpfish,
and so on by a variety of different approaches:
He can look at the sea chart to check the depth
conditions;
He can check the coastal landscape in search of
any points where the fish is likely to occur;
He can listen to the boat radio to hear where other
boats are fishing;
He can talk to friends in the fishery in order to learn
what they have caught at various places;
He can gain personal experience, that is, drop his
gear into the sea, following the assessment men-
tioned above and, thus, get more information about
the place.
Most fishermen, however, use areas they know and fish
in places that are known to provide certain resources.
In those areas they do not use maps, as they fish in
places that they have used throughout their long fish-
ing career and/or have learned about from their fa-
thers.
A wealth of accumulated ecological knowledge is
used in the fishery. For many species, fishermen know
their local migration routes. Fishermen from any par-
ticular fjord, for instance, can describe how the cod
enters the fjord some time in March, swims in on the
eastern side of the fjord, and that it takes three weeks
for the cod to come to the village where they live.
Then, they would be able to fish it for another two
282 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
weeks, until it spawns and swims out.
An example of other local knowledge is that in the
cusk (of the codfish family) fishery fishermen say that
they cannot use one area for longer than, perhaps, two
weeks in a row. The fish "fishes itself up," they say, and
the area needs to rest for a while. Fishermen then ex-
ploit another place for a couple of weeks before re-
turning to the first site again, after the fish has recov-
ered. This local ecological dynamic was argued by lo-
cal coastal fishermen as imperative to understanding
the effect of automatic long-line boats' exploitation of
the local areas. The fishermen maintained that after the
long-liners' use, it took a month or more before the
fish stock recovered; sometimes the season was off
completely for the small-scale fishermen afterwards. The
reason for the long-liners' longer exploitation of the
area is that they have very effective gear; they can stay
in the area with a lower profit rate than the small-scale
fishermen could afford. The latter usually left when the
return fell below seventy kilos (155 pounds) per tub of
line, thus leaving the field at a higher fish concentra-
tion than did the automatic long-liners.
Another example of fishermen's ecological exper-
tise is their knowledge about the nature of the sea
floor. Not all places that hold fish are good fishing
sites. Some places hold "slime eel" (Atlantic hagfish)
that will eat fish trapped on gill nets and long-lines.
The sea bottom also sets limits for gears: if it is rocky,
gill nets will be damaged. This does not mean that the
fishermen run home after their discovery, in order to
change gear. Usually, the fishermen tend to use the
gear they like the most. If they prefer gill netting, they
develop their knowledge about favorable places for
that kind of gear and vice versa. It does mean, how-
ever, that fishermen always benefit from an intricate
knowledge of local seascapes. One fisherman claimed,
for instance, that when the weather was bad and he
could not go off the coast, he knew a small place where
seven tubs of long-line could fit. This was also a site
no large vessel could use or be able to find. It would
be hard to access, because of its closeness to the shore;
and was not considered profitable for large vessels.
As such, fishermen have well-developed knowledge
of local ecology, which in many aspects goes way be-
yond what scientists know (Maurstad and Sundet 1 998).
This should not come as a surprise as coastal resources
have not been subject to detailed stock assessment
research until recently. Concerning local cod, fishermen's
knowledge has proved especially valuable. Norwegian
cod stock assessments are based on the studies of two
types of cod: the northeast arctic cod and the coastal
cod. My interviews with fishermen, however, have sup-
ported recent research that argues that there are sev-
eral local stocks of cod. This is important management
knowledge. Local stock health may be different from
that of the northeast arctic and the coastal cod stocks,
thus implying the need for other, if not locally adapted,
protective measures.
Fishermen themselves have for a long time talked
of different types of cod, according to the specifics of
cod's habitat, status, and age. Eythorsson (1 993:1 36)
discusses the local Sami taxonomy in Lille Lerresfjord,
Finnmark. Here fishermen talk of three fjord types of
cod that are different from the northeast arctic cod:
tararunuk, vuotnaguolli and buoiddesguolli (seatangle
cod, fjord cod and migrating cod). Fishermen that I in-
teni/iewed had Norwegian names for the first two fjord
types of cod, taretorsk and fjord-torsk. In addition,
they talked of blankfesk, referring to the shiny look of a
migratory cod. Some other categories included gotfesk
(cod with roe), gjeldfesk (immature cod), nikolaifesk
(cod that Nikolai used to fish in this territory), and
berlevdgtorsk (the local cod that is present near the
community of Berlevag, Finnmark).
A final comment concerning vertical aspects of
fishermen's knowledge of seascape relates to technol-
ogy. Fishermen know what technology to use for vari-
ous areas, species, and seasons. As mentioned earlier,
they often tend to favor one gear type over another;
they often explain their choice of gear with reference
to individual preferences. "I am not a hook and long-
line guy" they say, or "I do not have a stomach for that
ANITA MAURSTAD 283
tool." By this expression they mean that in jigging one
has to move from place to place or have patience to
wait at one place. While using gill nets or long-lines,
they put the gear into the sea and haul it later. Tem-
perament, experience, and skills developed with the
use of one tool seem to decide what gear fishermen
prefer. I should add here, however, that these choices
were more relevant before the quota system was intro-
duced in 1 990. The quotas have changed many charac-
teristics of the fishery, most importantly by forcing the
fishermen to speed up their efforts (Maurstad 2000a).
As quotas are maximum allowances, and as it is impor-
tant to catch out one's quota in order to be allowed a
quota for the next year, the fishermen's choice of gear
is now more a result of what is seen as profitable. For
many this means continuing to operate tools they are
most skilled at; but as new incentives are introduced,
more and more fishermen see purse seining as an ef-
fective small-scale gear.
Horizontal Dimension: Traveling to a Fishing Site
Knowing the seascape, fishermen seldom use maps
when they travel to their fishing places. Rather, they
rely upon the seascape's three-dimensional, more vi-
sually complete counterpart, the coastal landscape.
Mountains, valleys and other characteristics are navi-
gational points as well as location signs marking where
to go and where to fish. Although the use of CPS has
become more common, the coastal landscape has not
lost its critical value in marking the route. First, place-
names that are parts of the landscape can be remem-
bered better than just numbers. Second, moving
through a coastal landscape gives you a sequence of
the real journey: when you reach Silda (the Herring)
you know you have come this far and that you have
the long S0r0ysunclet (South Island Sound) to pass. Some
time thereafter come the heavy streams of Mageroy-
sundet (Meagre Island Sound). All the names along the
route enable the fishermen to remember the trip and
also some of its important characteristics, like the lo-
cation of underwater reefs and sunken rocks. Although
sea charts are quite detailed, not all of the sunken
rocks are marked. As a part of the knowledge I ac-
quired while fishing from Tromso to Finnmark, I still
remember, some fifteen years later, several routes I
once traveled. For example, as you enter the Meagre
Island Sound, when the currents run strongly against
you, by holding hard to the right side of the sound you
would be able to run with a good current. But then
you must beware of a sunken rock fifteen minutes or
so into the sound. I would never have remembered
that these events would occur in that sequence if they
were presented as a configuration of numbers of the
GPS locations. On the other hand, had I had a CPS at
that time, I could have marked the places and stored it
forever electronically. The GPS is therefore a good sup-
port, but rarely a full substitute to the fishermen's
highly sensitive knowledge of places in the coastal
land- and seascape.
To highlight more aspects of "horizontal" knowl-
edge of the seascape, one has to remember that fisher-
men often travel by way of shortcuts. They know how
to navigate between islands and sunken reefs on routes
that the map does not mark. Newcomers have to travel
the long way when they come on their own. When one
follows a local fisherman, the trip to the shore may be
considerably shorter.
Such shortcuts are especially good to know when
the weather changes, since this can let you reach the
harbor much faster. Knowledge of weather and how the
various winds affect the local land- and seascape are
also part of the fishermen's local expertise. A weather
report on gales, for instance, may still enable fishing.
The southeastern winds are often tamed by the land-
scape, thus enabling the fisherman to find places to
fish, or find refuge if that is necessary (Fig. 94).
While speaking of safety, I should also mention
that fishermen often travel across a seascape with a
partner. "Comrade-vessels" is an established concept
and comrade-vessels often go together for longer dis-
tances, for example, to and from the fishing areas of
Lofoten Islands or Finnmark. They often also fish to-
284 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
94/ Sudden weather changes challenges the fisherman, though intricate knowledge on wind performance in the
local seascape may still provide the fisherman with fishing opportunities.
gether, providing safety by lool<ing out for eacin other.
Other safety issues, such as the careful handling of ma-
chinery, apply to many professions besides fishermen.
What is special in dealing with the seascape is that it
provides a moving floor for the operations. Accidents
do happen. If the fisherman slips while pulling the nets,
he can get caught in the capstan. That may lead to a
broken arm or, in the worst case, to one being stuck,
and having no way to get to the radio and call for help.
Another dangerous operation is when the fishing
gear and lines go overboard. The fisherman may get
trapped in a loop, an event that will throw him over-
board immediately. To avoid this the fisherman must
be alert, always, of where his feet are. He should try to
plant them down safely before setting the gear and not
move them before the operation is over.
Naturally, there are safety issues related to weather.
The stronger the wind, the more stress is put on a fish-
erman to be careful and on alert. The wind is but one
aspect of the fishing trip. Currents are as important both
for setting the gear and for moving through the sea-
scape. There are areas that are quite strenuous to pass
if the wind and currents run against each other. But
currents can also help one to move. Small-scale ves-
sels normally run at a speed of seven to ten nautical
miles per hour; and running with the tide will make a
difference of, perhaps, one mile an hour. Traveling from
Tromso to the seasonal Finnmark fishery, on a trip that
normally takes a day and a night, a fisherman's local
knowledge tells him that departing when the high wa-
ter mark has sunk one foot in Tromso provides a good
current for the first part of the trip.
ANITA MAURSTAD 285
As such, fishermen share a vast body of knowl-
edge on the routes between areas of the seascape.
Weather conditions, underwater stones and rocks, spe-
cial currents, and so on, form the image of the sea-
scape and are the imprints that fishermen store in their
memory. Having traveled the route before or traveling
with a comrade-vessel, they can memorize the whole
trip, they can plan when to be alert or when they may
have time to boil coffee. Traveling from Tromso to the
Finnmark fishery, for instance, there is a rough bit of
sea some six to seven hours after one's departure that
lasts for an hour or so. Then all loose equipment on
the vessel should be fully secured. Thereafter comes
some four hours of shielded sea, where one can turn
on the autopilot and make pots of coffee or even
dinner as one wishes.
Regional/Local Dimension: Multiple Seascapes
Another critical feature of fishermen's knowledge of
the seascape is that fishermen normally know many
seascapes. Of course, they know best the area they
fish, and that may not necessarily be in their home
area. As most of the fishermen also partake in fisheries
in Lofoten and Finnmark, they usually develop detailed
knowledge of the seascapes that are far from their home-
towns. One man I interviewed had used the same Lofoten
fishing area for fifty years. He had an extremely de-
tailed knowledge of this area, as well as of the area
where he had grown up.
Fishermen's knowledge is, thus, both regional and
local. There are general aspects in the fishermen's
knowledge that apply everywhere— like which gear
to use and how. Such knowledge refers to depths,
grounds, and slopes all over the North. Experience
acquired from years of fishing on a small boat also
has a fairly universal application. But there are as-
pects of seascape knowledge that apply only in a
local setting, like the above-mentioned story of a
local fisherman who could fit seven tubs of long-lines
at a particular site, where no other gear could be used.
Time Dimension
Currents vary with time, that is, with the tide; and fish-
ermen travel in sync with currents and tides. As men-
tioned, the tide will help to increase the speed of the
journey as well as to make the journey less trouble-
some or dangerous, as there are areas at sea that can be
quite unpleasant if the wind and the current work against
each other.
Time is also important in deciding when to fish. If
the currents run strong one could be at the right loca-
tion, but the gear may not be effective when it reaches
the bottom. It could be tangled due to the heavy cur-
rent, or the meshes could be folded together, thus pre-
venting the fish from entering the net. Therefore,
not only does the fisherman have to know the
strength of the current, but he also has to know its
direction to ensure good placement of the fishing
gear at sea.
Fish behavior also varies with time, as the stock
goes through various cycles during the year. Fish feed
and spawn in different seasons, and their presence in
local waters depends on these cycles. A combination
of moon phases and tides is of special importance. For
herring, especially, the moon cycles are critical to fol-
low, as the herring fishery is reportedly the best around
the full moon. For other species, fishermen also refer
to how the fishery fluctuates with the moon cycles.
They also know what biology and biological changes
occur throughout the year, so that they can record the
distribution of various species in time and space for
almost every month. They also know how to exploit
those species, the most efficient gear types to employ,
and the best species to fish in a certain season or month
of the year.
Relational Dimension
I have already mentioned how the fishermen acquire
their knowledge. Usually, they learn from male men-
tors, such as fathers and uncles, through both play and
direct teaching. They also learn continuously from each
286 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
other. They talk by radio on their vessels, in the harbor
when they deliver their catch, and at home by calling
each other on the phone. Although fishermen talk con-
stantly about fishing, this is not a free flow of informa-
tion. Knowledge of good fishing sites is an important
production asset, and thus it often remains confidential
to individual fishermen or within the local community
of fishermen. Fishermen share information in a rather
selective way. Newcomers often complain that coming
to a new place and asking local fishermen where to go
produces few clear answers. Only after they fish in the
harbor for a while, proving themselves as "worthy," will
the door to local knowledge open. The notion "wor-
thy" is mine, but it encompasses certain personal quali-
ties that fishermen value among themselves, such as
being good at catching fish and being knowledgeable
and respectful with regard to informal rules and
regulations.
This way of communication can be ascribed to
the fact that fishing is both a competition and involves
cooperation (Bjorna 1 993). Fishermen need each other
as colleagues both for the purpose of information and
in case they need help. They also compete over re-
sources and space, so that they would like to know
more about a competitor before dealing with him in
any close manner.
Thus, informal codes of conduct shape the rules of
behavior in the seascape. There are also access regula-
tions to abide by. Local fishermen tend to be the
prime users of the home area. A newcomer who tries
to access the best local sites will meet sanctions, such
as having his gill nets or other gear damaged. Most
newcomers know this; when accessing a new area, they
normally exploit places that locals do not use (Maurstad
1 997).
Newcomers often have some sort of relation to the
locals before entering a new area, especially a fjord or
a small fishing village involved in gill netting. Knowl-
edge of people is a prerequisite in the use of the sea-
scape and people usually know each other over long
distances. Fishermen may talk about how they know
so and so, when they prepare to go to a new place to
fish. The relationship to people in the area will help
one be accepted among local fishermen, as well as
learn something about the local fishing sites. As this
knowledge is not found in any book, one must talk to
people in order to learn about a new area. Being granted
access to the local knowledge network is always easier
when there are friend or family bonds to activate.
Another relational element operating in the sea-
scape is that fishing crews often consist of relatives,
such as brothers, brother-in-laws, or fathers and sons.
Relatives are considered worthy of sharing competi-
tive advantages, such as production secrets on fishing
sites. Kin-based organization of crews also offers cer-
tain economic advantages. A father—who usually has
low debts based on his long work experience and age-
may leave the vessel for part of the year when fishing
is not as good, thus allowing his sons to share the
income. The sharing of the catch is regulated by stan-
dards set by the Fishermen's Association; but often
these standards are not followed strictly when close
relatives man the vessel.
Gender Dimension
It is mostly men who work the coastal waters of north-
ern Norway, and therefore the knowledge related to
the seascape is mostly a male knowledge. The sea-
scape is a man's world, a part of men's culture, whereas
women spend more of their time in the cultural land-
scape. The village looks different to men and women.
Men usually see it twice a day from the sea, when
going to and coming from fishing. Women, although
they sometimes go out with their men, mostly see the
village from within, by walking the ground in the course
of their daily activities. Similarly, they see the sea from
the village, while men see it from being on it. This
provides unequal frames of reference for the percep-
tion of the seascape by men and women.
But men and women do share each other's worlds.
Several researchers have referred to the valuable work
that women do in relation to the fishery (Davis and
ANITA MAURSTAD 287
Nadel-Klein 1988). Cerrard (1983) names women as
the "ground crew" of the fishing vessels. Their ground
crew tasks include equipping the vessel, taking care
of the fishermen's clothes, cleaning, baiting longlines,
and so on. Although women still perform such jobs,
today it has become common that women have their
own careers. That leaves less time for women to pro-
vide ground support to the men in the fisheries (Jentoft
1989). Davis's recent work in Newfoundland illustrates
that although women's roles are changing in ways that
undermine the harmony of gender relations, women
still remain committed to raising their families in coastal
communities (Davis 2000).
Gender perspectives are also relevant with regard
to the socialization of children in coastal villages. Boys
and girls live and grow up in different worlds. They
obtain different perspectives on the seascape very early.
On visiting a fishing harbor, one may often find boys
playing in racing speedboats with outboard engines.
Few girls do this, and those who do take on the status
of a "tomboy." Feminist researchers have advocated
that many women want to fish, but that they face insti-
tutional and cultural barriers. Overcoming those barri-
ers by providing, for instance, easier access to the fish-
ing quotas for women is seen as one way to include
more women in the seascape (Munk-Madsen 1998).
Today girls, more than boys, tend to leave their vil-
lages for schools. Stimulating women to enter the fish-
ery is also thought to help recruitment to the remote
fishing villages.
A Jack of all Trades
By focusing on the fishermen's knowledge, I have thus
far reviewed some issues that are directly linked to the
use of the seascape. A full description of the fishermen's
knowledge, however, should include a much broader
range of issues and activities that are crucial to the
fishermen's success. Fishing is a multi-faceted task, and
every fisherman performs many other jobs that are not
directly related to fishing. Administrative work is one
such aspect, as a fisherman has to administer his boat,
his crew, the shares, and so on. He also markets his
fish: while the boat is at the fishing site, a fish buyer
calls with a request for a certain species and a deal is
set. While going to and from the site, he cooks break-
fast and dinner. Hence, the fisherman is a cook. There
is also constant education. As the fisherman listens to
the radio and talks with others on the mobile phone,
he constantly educates himself, as well as plans the
next set of operations. While at sea, things may break
down; so, the fisherman must do maintenance, repair
machinery and so on. Finally, there is personnel man-
agement, security management, and political work, not
to forget being a family man. Often while at sea, the
fisherman talks with his wife and family.
The fisherman is definitely a jack-of-all-trades; and
many aspects of his activities, though not related di-
rectly, are nevertheless important components of cul-
tural seascapes. It is this manifold nature of seascape
that holds all other activities together.
Current Status of Coastal Fisheries in
Northern Norway
Coastal fishermen in Norway have been politically
strong, especially during the last century, when consid-
erable institutional protection was built to preserve their
way of living. For example, as the trawler technology
developed in the late nineteenth century, England, Scot-
land, and Germany had some 1,500-steam trawlers at
the turn of the nineteenth to twentieth century
(Christensen 1991). But in Norway, as in Canada, the
coastal fishermen's opposition halted the development
of the trawler technology (Apostle et al. 1 998). The
Norwegian authorities passed several acts in support
of the coastal fishermen's interests. As a result, as late
as the 1 920s and 1 930s, when the international trawler
fleet had expanded tremendously, Norwegian trawlers
still counted less than twenty (Sagdahl 1 982).
After World War II, however, freezing technology
and industrialization were seen as having a promising
future. A process of modernization and industrializa-
tion for the Norwegian northern fisheries was started,
288 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
this time initiated by the government authorities. Even-
tually, the Norwegian trawler fleet expanded, but not as
much as the authorities wanted it to. Coastal fishermen
rejected working on the trawlers, and they did not fol-
low resettlement programs advanced by the Norwe-
gian government after World War II. Upon its retreat
from northern Norway, the German Army burned to the
ground nearly all houses and public buildings in North-
ern Troms and Finnmark counties. In rebuilding the
region, the Norwegian authorities aimed to relocate
people from their traditional coastal communities. They
wanted to centralize the settlement, but people rejected
such a development. Local residents just wanted to
rebuild their individual houses in remote coastal areas
and on the islands (Brox 1 966).
Thus, the post-World War II modernization programs
did not succeed as planned. Instead, an extensive local
infrastructure of roads, electricity, and public services
was built around Norwegian coastal fisheries. Even
though this infrastructure is now scaled down, the coastal
fishing culture is still living side by side with the indus-
trial fishing culture. Coastal fisheries do enjoy political
support. They are seen as the social and economic
backbone of the many coastal communities, whereas
employment and settlement in the North are still con-
sidered national political goals. But coastal fishermen
face harder conditions since the introduction of indi-
vidual catch quotas and new access rules in 1 990. As a
result, there has been a steady decline in the number
of active fishermen during the last decade. In 1 986,
there were 3,500 small-scale cod-fishing vessels in
Troms and Finnmark counties altogether; only 2,200
were in business in 1 996, ten years later (a reduction of
thirty-seven percent). In terms of the overall catch, how-
ever, the reduction was only eleven percent. The re-
duction of the catch is probably moderated by the fact
that the total Norwegian catch was thirty percent larger
in 1 996 compared to 1 986. But another factor is as
important: the new regulations provided the fishermen
with new incentives to expand. As fishermen must fish
their quota to be assigned future fishing rights, fisher-
men can no longer let individual needs decide their
efforts. Rather, small-scale fishermen catches, which used
to show great variation, are now more homogenous.
One can say that while fishermen used to fish cod, they
now strive to fish quotas (Maurstad 2000a).
Small-scale fishermen also compete over space and
resources with other interests in the coastal zone. Of
particular interest is that Norway is planning a huge
increase in its fish farm production. The knowledge in
the seascape depends on how it is used, as small-scale
fishermen, large scale vessels, fish farming, tourism, and
so on, set their different imprints on the seascape. If
fishermen no longer use the area, the knowledge I have
addressed here cannot be generated by other indus-
tries and will be lost.
Loss of knowledge can also result from elderly fish-
ermen passing away, of poor or no recruitment of
younger people into the fishery, or of village closure
and abandonment. We can assume that a substantial
wealth of knowledge on coastal seascapes is already
gone, due to these factors. Although shifting modern-
ization projects of the Norwegian governments have
been halted by local residents' unwillingness to com-
ply, the projects of the 1950s and 1960s did lead to
substantial resettlement. In the latter decades, the
national fisheries' infrastructure has also been scaled
down. Several fish plants have been closed since
the 1980s. Post offices and other public services
were also reduced. Many smaller communities have
been closed and/or abandoned along the northern
coast of Norway. Some of the fishermen who have
moved from their former residential places continue,
however, to fish the areas off the coast of old villages
where they were born. But since there is little recruit-
ment of younger people, the stock of knowledge about
local seascapes is decreasing with each year.
The coast is also a shipping lane. In recent years,
there have been several shipwrecks in people's back
yards, and many wrecked ships and boats are still lying
there, causing a loss of the aesthetic value of both the
seascape and the coastal landscape. There are plans for
ANITA MAURSTAD 289
increased petroleum activity in northwest Russia, as
well as plans to transport nuclear waste for treatment in
Russia, causing concern about traditional fishing
grounds being lost because of oil spills and nuclear
contamination.
As such, there are several threats to the future small-
scale fisheries and to the present knowledge of the
seascape. The small-scale fishermen may be able to
cope with these new challenges, however. Small-scale
fishing is an intrinsic part of northern culture (Fig. 95).
To many people, it is far more than a job or a seasonal
occupation, and it will not disappear quickly and eas-
ily. This is its main source of strength. But it has been,
and still is, an "invisible" type of activity in the sense
that knowledge about small-scale fishing practices is
not well disseminated and is poorly protected. The un-
expected effects of the new regulations, for instance,
must be seen as a result of the authorities' lack of
knowledge about the small-scale fishery. Since the main
problem the authorities had to deal with was a sudden
shortage of fishing resources, it could not have been
their intention to increase small-scale fishermen's ef-
forts. Nor was there a need to, as the lack of profitabil-
ity was not an issue among small-scale fishermen.
Preservation of Cultural Seascapes: Pro-
tecting the Invisible
As small-scale fishing practices remain all but invis-
ible to the authorities, the same is even truer with re-
gard to the knowledge related to the seascape. This
knowledge is primarily unwritten, maintained through
practice, and transferred orally between fishermen. That
means that it is very hard for regulating authorities to
understand, access, and implement this knowledge in
their regulatory practices. More importantly, it means
that a particular cultural seascape exists only as long as
the particular knowledge about it is maintained within
the user's community. When fishermen no longer use
the seascape, it will turn back to a "sea wilderness"—an
uncultured sea. The same applies to the seashore. When
fishermen no longer use mountains and places along
the shore and on the seabed as reference points for
their fishing and traveling, the knowledge about place-
names, navigation, and local conditions is gone. The
shore will become "wilderness" in the same way the
unused seascape became the uncultured and unrecog-
nized scenery that we observed earlier through a vir-
tual silent movie camera. The question is, then, how to
make the cultural seascape more visible.
Legal and General Framework for Protec-
tion of Seascapes
A range of recent international conventions stipulates
that states shall codif/ in their national laws the need
for the preservation and maintenance of indigenous
and local knowledge that is important for sustainable
use (Posey 1 994). This is highly relevant to the protec-
tion of cultural seascapes; but to my knowledge, these
laws and conventions have not been transformed into
any specific policies or measures in the protection of
the cultural seascape. The UNESCO Convention on the
Protection of World Cultural and Natural Heritage of
1 972 defines "cultural heritage" as monuments, groups
of building or sites (Article 1 ), and "natural heritage" as
areas important from a scientific or aesthetic point of
view (Article 2). The proponents of protection of cul-
tural landscapes argue that this current definition of
protection neglects important cultural values. As de-
fined by Buggey (2000), Aboriginal cultural landscapes
embody traditional knowledge of spirits, places, land
uses and ecology. The convention has not integrated
these points. It hardly refers to any knowledge about
the cultural landscape itself, related traditions, stories,
myths, and so on. In light of its inadequacy for protect-
ing cultural landscapes, the World Heritage Conven-
tion is also insufficient, in its present form, to protect
cultural seascapes.
Norwegian laws do take the issue of cultural land-
scape preservation into account. The Norwegian Con-
servation Act of 1 970 (1 9 June, No 63), Article 5, allows
for preserving "characteristic or beautiful . . . natural
or cultural landscapes." By specifically mentioning
290 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
95/ Small-scale fishing vessels resting in Troms0 on their way to the Finnmark fishery.
"cultural landscapes," the Norwegian Conservation
Act seems to go further in protecting cultural values
than the World Heritage Convention. However, most
sites that are protected in Norway with reference to
the Conservation Act are given their protected sta-
tus because of their scenic or wilderness value. Bans
on hunting formerly overexploited bird populations,
such as puffins and eiders, have long been in place.
In more recent years, there has been a concerted ef-
fort to create coastal marine reserves to protect bird
nesting areas. Although it is important to protect the
natural resources of the seascape, as well as to see the
seascape itself as nature, those are certainly not the
most important values to be considered in cultural sea-
scape preservation. Thus, the Norwegian Conservation
Act is also an insufficient tool for protecting cultural
seascapes.
The Norwegian Cultural Inheritance Act of 1 978 (9
June, No. 50) sounds more promising. Cultural inherit-
ance is defined as "all traces of human activity in the
physical environment, including places that embed
historical happenings, belief or tradition " (Article 2)
and some aspects of fishing culture could certainly
find protection within these frames. However, the
management practice with reference to the Cultural In-
heritance Act has been to protect items in the seascape
such as sunken vessels, as well as other single findings
of archaeological importance. As I have argued, pro-
tection of cultural seascapes involves more than pro-
tecting monuments and archaeological sites. It involves
the protection of immaterial objects such as the knowl-
edge in the everyday practices of fishermen. Should
the Cultural Inheritance Act be of use to the protec-
tion of cultural seascapes, the awareness of what is
the cultural seascape must be broadened. In fact, any
protection of cultural seascapes will first and fore-
ANITA MAURSTAD 291
most depend on an awareness of cultural seascapes.
Managers need an image of it first and second a will
to manage. This hypothesis applies not only to manag-
ers. Fishermen also need a different image of the sea-
scape. They know the sea through their practices, but
they do not talk of cultural seascapes. As I mentioned
earlier, there is not even a Norwegian word for sea-
scape. No wonder then, that the cultural seascape lacks
protection in the existing legal framework. But this situ-
ation could be changed.
During the last decade, Norway has demonstrated a
growing focus on the planning and regulation of de-
velopment in the coastal zone. The Planning and Zon-
ing Act of 1985 (HJune, No. 77) was expanded in 1989
to include the sea within the straight base line. So far,
this law is used mostly for development: it allows local
municipalities to plan the use of the municipal sea-
space, such as where to allocate sites for fish farms,
recreational areas, industrial effluence, and so on. This
law may provide a basis for developing an awareness
of the cultural seascape for two reasons:
—The Planning and Zoning Act is in the making.
Although established in 1 989, planning in the north-
ern coastal zone did not begin until the late 1 990s,
when Norway decided to increase her fish farm pro-
duction. Today, there are ongoing debates on the
law's future form and practice, and it should be pos-
sible to integrate the concept of the cultural sea-
scape within the scope of this act and within the
institutionalized practices of managers.
—Under the Planning and Zoning Act, the munici-
pal governments seek knowledge on the current
use of and various interests within seascapes under
their authority. The law states that affected groups
or individuals should be involved early in the plan-
ning process; and local fishermen are already in-
vited to map out their fishing practices, especially
fishing sites.
Thus, the fishermen, the main users of the sea-
scape, have gotten new arenas for speaking of
the seascape, thereby conceptualizing their prac-
tice for managers and a broader audience. This
user approach in visualizing the seascape is espe-
cially important when it comes to managing cul-
tural seascapes, for reasons I will discuss below.
A Management Approach
Recently, scholars in the international resource man-
agement studies have taken a greater interest in local
fishermen's knowledge. The key issue is whether such
knowledge should be or will be integrated into main-
stream fishery and biological research. The benefits of
doing so are twofold. First, the fishermen's knowledge
of local marine environment is supposed to improve
scientific biological knowledge, upon which manage-
ment recommendations are usually constructed. Sec-
ond, local fishermen are regarded as being able to suc-
cessfully negotiate the complex nature/culture rela-
tionship through their sustainable harvest (Coward et
al. 2000; Durrenberger and King 2000; Dyer and
McGoodwin 1994; Freeman and Carbyn 1988;
Inglisl 993; Maurstad and Sundet 1 998; Neis 1 992; Neis
and Felt 2000; Newell and Ommer 1 998; Pinkerton 1 989,
1999; Wilson etal. 1994).
In many case studies, fishermen are actively sought
as consultants for their knowledge of specific issues
that are critical to science and management. Scholars
in the field of co-management argue, nevertheless, that
fishermen should be more than just "consulted" and
that it should be a real power-balance between fisher-
men and government agencies. Otherwise, fishermen
may feel they are being "co-opted into [the] govern-
ments' convenience" (Pinkerton 1989:4). The process
of co-management may be characterized by symbolic
gestures and make-believe (Jentoft 2000); or—as I have
argued elsewhere (Maurstad 2000b)—fishermen enter
the process of cooperation by anticipating that they
will be regarded as the Ph.D.s of the fishing grounds,
whereas they are, in fact, treated merely as research
assistants to the biologists.
These perspectives are especially relevant when
talking about seascapes. As mentioned earlier, the
fishermen's knowledge of fishing sites and how to use
them may be seen as production secrets. The knowl-
292 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
edge held by an individual fisherman may offer him a
competitive advantage over other local fishermen. In
the same way, the seascape knowledge of one com-
munity of fishermen may provide competitive advan-
tages over other neighboring communities. These days,
there is no legal protection for such secrets. There ex-
ists a vague set of informal rules that guide access to
the knowledge and the right to use this knowledge
locally. The knowledge is oral, and fishermen dissemi-
nate it to others when they find them worthy. Knowl-
edge has a meaning in a certain social context and as a
part of a specific social activity. Revealing fishing sites
in a book, or in any other written and published form,
does have the potential of changing the informal rules
of the fishery. This is because the book interferes with
the process of transmission of knowledge and with the
existing rules of the game. Acquiring fishing knowl-
edge from a book—ready to buy in the bookstore and
available to everyone— is a completely new way of
gaining local fishing information. One does not have
to prove oneself worthy and to perform according to
culturally defined standards before reading a book on
fishing sites. When knowledge is accessible through
the book, the obligations toward those who originally
possessed and shared that knowledge may become
less strict and valid, and, perhaps, even totally absent
(Maurstad 2002).
The consequences of publicizing the fishermen's
knowledge pose an obvious dilemma when it comes
to visualizing the knowledge of the seascape. In the
course of coastal development, various interests need
to be clarified and, if fishermen do not speak out, they
may become more invisible and peripheral than they
are today. If they do decide to speak out, they may
lose access to certain fishing sites, as various competi-
tors can use that knowledge to their own advantage. In
Maurstad (2002), I discuss the various solutions to the
dilemma of documenting valuable knowledge on the
seascape and, at the same time, protecting the produc-
tion assets of individual fishermen. I conclude that the
most valuable lesson to learn is that the relationship
between fishermen and managers must change char-
acter. Fishermen must be more than consulted. They
should be actively engaged in cooperative approaches
to management. They should politicize their knowl-
edge and meet in arenas for discussions on first what is
their knowledge of the seascape; second on how can it
be used; and third, used by whom.
Researchers also play a role. Apart from their gen-
eral role in understanding, documenting, and describ-
ing various aspects of the management process, re-
searchers can help facilitate the process of mapping
fishermen's knowledge. As Tobias (2000) illustrates, in
citing many mapping projects in Canada, where indig-
enous people were involved in mapping landscapes as
proof of their physical occupation in order to be used
as evidence in court cases, good research methods are
crucial. Indigenous peoples, when defending their is-
sues in court, have learned that having no data is even
better than having poor data. Methodology is also an
issue when it comes to presenting knowledge on the
seascape. Since there are many users in the coastal
zone, conflicts over space abound; and good mapping
projects become crucial to the legitimacy of fishermen's
rights to and knowledge of the seascape.
Scientists' performance, however, raises a whole set
of other debates. Since fishermen's knowledge of the
seascape is oral and orally transmitted, moving knowl-
edge from the oral sphere to the written will definitely
influence the knowledge in ways we do not know and
with consequences we cannot anticipate at the mo-
ment (Maurstad 2002). Furthermore, science is not just
an objective reporter of knowledge. When science helps
in conceptualizing the seascape, it also helps in creat-
ing it (Maurstad 2000b; Holm 2003). The cooperative
approach mentioned above between fishermen and
managers should also include scientists, but it is impor-
tant that fishermen become more than research assis-
tants to scientists and managers. The problems of de-
fining what is the cultural seascape, who can access the
knowledge about it, and how it should be protected
will not be solved immediately by empowering
ANITA MAURSTAD 293
fishermen's positions. Nor would we easily gain an un-
derstanding of the consequences of writing down oral
culture. Integrating fishermen in cooperative approaches
to management and knowledge production, would,
however, enable more qualified discussion, as well as
give fishermen a say in these important issues of their
prime concern.
Another consideration when attempting to integrate
fishermen into the debate over how to protect the sea
is that most local inhabitants, including fishermen, have
mixed feelings toward the concept of "protection." Re-
cent Protection plans have advanced various forms of
protection of areas and resources that local inhabitants
have traditionally exploited. Locals have seen these
plans as a ground for cultural conflict; "educated" plan-
ners from the south come to the north "to protect the
wilderness." Locals complain that the planners do not
understand their cultural use of resources and places
(Sandersen 1996). Fishermen do consider themselves
worthy of protection because of the economic value
of their small-scale fisheries, as well as their cultural
role in preserving Norwegian folk traditions. They main-
tain that they protect nature better through their use of
nature than when there is no use of nature. When they
use the landscape (or seascape), they act as its caretak-
ers; but when no caretakers are in place, other interests
may rob nature. Thus, local people will most probably
meet the idea of protecting seascapes with little enthu-
siasm. The matter may be different when the issue is
the protection of their fishing culture. Thus, including
fishermen in the management may facilitate a new ap-
proach to the protection of seascape as something that
is helpful to the fishermen's own culture.
The Norwegian Planning and Zoning Act of 1 985 is
a tool that could be developed for such purposes. Its
focus is planning the use of— in my terms here—the
seascape, and it states that users shall be involved in
the process of planning. The important future issue is
how the awareness of cultural seascapes develops, as
well as where power to make decisions on protection
is located. For now the law assigns but a consultant's
role to the users. Even the municipal governments have
no real power in managing the sea; they can make
plans for allocation of space, but the national and re-
gional fishing authorities make resource management
decisions while the national and regional environmen-
tal authorities decide what culture needs protection.
Because protection of cultural seascapes is so closely
linked to fishing activities, there are several dilemmas
here. One is the power of local municipalities; cur-
rently, many municipalities face severe economic ex-
penses and it is likely that they would hesitate to pro-
tect cultural seascapes should the protection involve
rejecting development by other industries. Although
local municipalities assumingly have the best knowl-
edge of local seascapes, state governments may be a
better facilitator of protection—provided of course that
they develop the will to protect. The other dilemma
relates to the divided sector interests mentioned above.
Government agencies do not seem to agree on the
issue of use or protection, neither on the national level
nor on the regional level. Regarding coastal zone plans,
the County Fisheries Director can object to the munici-
pal plans with reference to a range of Norwegian laws
besides the Planning and Zoning Act of 1 985. So, also,
can the County Governor object to their plans. Osland
(2001 ), who has worked in the bureaucracy of manag-
ing fish farming for fifteen years, says that the munici-
palities often feel that the higher government bodies
use the planning processes as arenas for their own fights
over principles.
Real co-managementthen—one which balances use
and protection, interests of various users and interests
of various management bodies— is thus rather hard to
accomplish. Regarding the protection of cultural sea-
scapes, the Norwegian Planning and Zoning Act can
assist in increasing awareness of cultural seascapes, since
discussions on how to use the sea is already going on
with reference to the law. In a later stage, when the
issue is specifically which law should be respon-
sible for protection of cultural seascapes, the rela-
tionship between this law and the Cultural Inherit-
294 PROTECTING THE INVISIBLE/ SEASCAPE
ance Act should be discussed further. In any case,
both laws need be broadened: the Cultural Inherit-
ance Act to include contemporary fishing culture
and fishermen's knowledge of fishing activities in
the seascape; and the Planning and Zoning Act to
increase awareness of the cultural seascape.
Conclusion
A vast body of the fishermen's knowledge exists
and is linked directly to the use of the sea. Fisher-
men know how to move through the seascape by
way of reference points on the coastal landscape as
well as in the seascape. They have knowledge of
the sea floor that helps them navigate successfully.
They also have knowledge of tides, currents, and
winds—all invisible to the outsider or to a non-knowl-
edgeable person.
Contrary to the common view, the value of the
seascape is more than that it is picturesque. This is
very similar to the role of the landscape, although
far more elusive and difficult to document. As is so
with landscapes, knowledge of the seascape is main-
tained almost exclusively via fishing activities,
memories and oral stories, that is, via cultural modes
of transmission. As such, it is priceless. Should the
seascape transform into the "uncultured" sea, the
knowledge about seascape is gone. Unlike histori-
cal landscapes, where certain information on the past
can be extracted via archaeological excavations and/
or from written sources, there is almost no way to
restore the lost knowledge about cultural seascapes.
Moreover, this knowledge is useful far beyond
the practical needs of the economy and social wel-
fare of coastal fishing communities. It is also ex-
tremely useful to fishery science and management.
This is another reason to talk about seascapes. Cur-
rently, it is landscapes that can gain protection; when
such protected status is given, the preservation of
landscape is primarily based upon certain historical,
aesthetic, wilderness, or scientific reasons. There is
a surprising lack of consciousness about seascapes.
and that is especially so concerning cultural aspects
of both land- and seascapes. Therefore, expanding
the concept of -scape may increase awareness and
help to draw attention to the relationship between
human activity and natural environments, be it on
the land or at sea.
Protecting seascapes is indeed a big challenge,
since it is very much like protecting the invisible.
To the majority of people, the special uses and val-
ues in the seascape remain unknown. While cultural
landscapes are also mostly invisible, cultural sea-
scapes are even more so, as seascapes lack any physi-
cal marks of human presence, and exist in human
mind, memory, and knowledge only. Increased pub-
lic consciousness about these parts of the world's
cultural heritage is, thus, very important. Although
landscapes, and even cultural landscapes, do have
some protection under current Norwegian law, the
awareness of the meaning of the sea seems to stop
at the seashore. The ongoing coastal zone planning
holds promise for changing this situation by the
fact that it takes place locally, quite near the local
seascapes and involves the users directly by allow-
ing them to state their concerns. When these pro-
cesses have developed more, the hope is that the
border of awareness of what is the sea may be
expanded.
Acknowledgements
First, I want to thank all the fishermen who willingly
shared with me their knowledge of seascapes. They
made writing this article possible. I am also grateful
to the Norwegian Research Council for providing
financial support for my earlier studies of small-scale
fisheries in northern Norway. Last, but not least, I
thank my colleagues, particularly Igor Krupnik, Terje
Brantenberg, and Dona Lee Davis. Igor and Terje in-
spired me and provided much helpful advice during
my research and writing, while Dona offered valu-
able comments for the final article. I am deeply grate-
ful to these three for their constructive input.
ANITA MAURSTAD 295
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ANITA MAURSTAD 297
96/ Harry Simpson, a Dogrib elder, demonstrates how Dogrib chief Edzo used Big Rock, near Mesa Lake on the
barrenlands, in the 1 820s to hide his son and brother while he negotiated a lasting peace with Akaitcho, chiefof the
Yellowknives, their long-term enemies.
REGIONAL APPROACHES TO DOCUMENTATION AND PROTECTION

"J^he Land is Like a ^ooL":
(^ultura! Landscapes f\4a'"iagement
in the [\jorthwest "7 erritones, (panada
THOMAS D. ANDREWS
To the Indian people our land is really our life.
Without our land we . . . could no longer
exist as people. (Richard Nerysoo, Fort
McPherson, 1976—from Berger 1977:94).
On April 1 , 1 999, following nearly fifteen years of land
claims negotiations, the map of northern Canada
changed dramatically with the creation of the new terri-
tory of Nunavut. Nunavut—the homeland of Canada's
Inuit—represents the transformation of a cultural land-
scape into a geopolitical landscape, where political self-
sufficiency is now in the control of the Inuit them-
selves. In reality, two new territories were created: the
new Nunavut, and a smaller Northwest Territories (NWT),
largely forgotten in the glow of media interest in the
creation of its newer sibling. If Nunavut represents the
transformation of a cultural landscape into a geopoliti-
cal one, what is the status of NWT cultural landscapes?
Cultural landscapes, still important from the perspec-
tive of NWT Aboriginal worldviews, are under pressure
from changes and impacts from resource development,
which have escalated in the last two decades. What
trends, changes, and developments have taken place
over the last two decades? How are NWT Aboriginal
societies working to preserve and protect northern cul-
tural landscapes? This paper reviews these changes from
the perspective of cultural landscape research, with par-
ticular emphasis on the recent developments in the
Mackenzie River valley of the Northwest Territories.
Cultural Landscapes in the NWT
[l]f we remember the teachings of the legends
and live them, if we take the sign set on the
land for us as our symbol, we will never have
any trouble surviving as a nation. (Stanley
Isiah, as told to George Blondin from Dene
Nation 1981:ii)
We kept on traveling, and grandfather
. . . kept
on talking to me. . . . That was how the
grandfathers taught the children (George
Blondin, Deline, 1 990—from Blondin 1990:
204)
For the Dene, Metis, and Inuvialuit' of the Northwest
Territories (Fig. 97) the land is indeed a special thing.
More thanjust a space, it is a blanket woven from strands
of stories centuries old a landscape imbued with riv-
ers of meaning. It is a cultural landscape where physi-
cal features are used as mnemonic devices to order
and help preserve oral narratives, which themselves
encode knowledge relative to identity, history, cul-
ture, and subsistence. To paraphrase Richard Nerysoo,
the land is life.
The mnemonic link between geographic feature,
place name, and oral narrative has been well docu-
mented in many societies that preserve rich oral tra-
ditions (see Buggey, this volume; Andrews et al. 1 998;
Feld and Basso 1 996; Hirsch and O'Hanlon 1 995). Vast
territories known intimately by members of highly
mobile societies and codified by names form the basis
of a complex ethnogeography, where the physical world
is transformed into a social geography in which culture
and landscape are fused into a semiotic whole. These
cultural landscapes meld natural and cultural values
and are often difficult to compare with Western catego-
301
97/ The Northwest Territories, Canada. Three land claims have been negotiated in the NWT and passed into
settlement legislation—for the Inuvialuit, Gwich 'in, and Sahtu Dene and Metis. The Dogrib, occupying the region
north of Yellowknife, have completed a land claim agreement, but it awaits passage by the Canadian Parlia-
ment. The roads represented by dotted lines are usable only in winter.
302 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
ries of geographical description. As young people travel
with their elders, they are told the names and stories,
using geographic features as mnemonic aids, and in
this way travel, or mobility, becomes a vehicle for learn-
ing. Elders who have worked on the land all their lives,
who have visited places of spiritual significance, who
have traveled to the edge of the world—and who have
learned and recounted the stories about these places-
are regarded with great respect because they are very
knowledgeable. In this way, knowledge passed down
through the ages in stories is mediated through per-
sonal experience. Mobility, and the knowledge gained
from it, is therefore tied to notions of prestige as well
(Andrews et al. 1 998:31 1 -1 3). The ethno-pedagogy of
educating and socializing children with the land is an
ancient tradition, corroborated by oral tradition and sup-
ported by archaeological research (see below).
Though there are many examples to draw upon to
illustrate this relationship, the site of Ayonikj (Fig. 98)
is particularly useful, as it is said that the site witnessed
the creation of the Sahtu Dene and their neighbors.
The following passage is taken from the Sahtu Heri-
tage Places and Sites Joint Working Group report
(T'Seleie et al. 2000:18-20), which is described more
fully later in the paper:
The story takes place at a time in Sahtu
history long ago when humans and animals
could change form. Sahtu Dene history is
divided into two great time periods: the time
of the 'Old World,' when animals and humans
could change form, and lived together. This
was succeeded by the 'New World,' a time
when humans and animals took their final
form. With the New World, people and
animals lived in harmony, abiding by rules of
mutual respect and conduct. These are the
rules that guide hunters to respect the
animals that give themselves for food. We
are living in the New World today. As told by
an Elder from Colville Lake, the story of
Ayonikj begins...
In the ancient days everyone lived together—
the Inuit, the Gwich'in, and the Dene from
this region. The big war that happened at
Ayonikj happened because of two children
that were fighting one another over an owl.
Everyone began to fight because of the
children and it is said that the battle was so
fierce that there was a lake of blood that
formed on that hill. Finally an Elder stood and
asked the people to stop fighting. Everyone
went their separate ways, and even the
languages changed with time. A lone dog
wandered toward Gwich'in country and that
represents the Gwich'in. A young man wandered
to the Arctic coast and that represents the Inuit.
That is why the Inuit are so agile. The children
ran towards Great Bear Lake; they represent the
Neyagot'ine [Deljne people]. That is why the
people of Bear Lake are so energetic. An Elder
stayed here, and he represents the people who
live here today. That is why the people of this
area are so wise.
Generally stories are not interpreted for young people,
and are told without the explanation that ends the story
of Ayonikj, above. The elders say that young people
must try to understand the meaning of the story through
their own experience, noting that this encourages in-
dependent thinking, and provides for a strong future
for the youth. As family groups traveled from place to
place along the trails that cross the Sahtu landscape,
children were told the names of the places and the
stories that reside at each. As they grew to adulthood
and began telling their own children the same stories,
the places themselves became aids for remembering
the vast oral tradition in which Sahtu Dene and Metis
culture finds its roots (Fig. 99). In this way the land
teaches the young their identity, their history, the rules
of their society. Experience becomes the catalyst for
the acquisition of knowledge. These places are con-
sidered sacred, and are important to the future well
being of Sahtu Dene and Metis culture.
The link between land and culture in the NWT rep-
resents an ancient system that operates in complete
harmony with the landscape, where both mental and
physical sustenance is sought and found. What remains
of this today? Does this system continue to function?
With the current pace of change in the North, is this
ancient ethno-pedagogy still valid?
The Changing Landscape
Some young people today claim that the
traditional way of life is a thing of the past. I
believe that as long as there are Dene, then
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 303
we will not abandon the traditional way of life.
I tell the young people to listen to what we
have to say because then they will be able to
benefit from the teachings that we are passing
on to them. Our oral tradition, once written, will
last as long as this land, and if they retain this
information in memory they will gain from it.
That is why we are working on the land. (Harry
Simpson, Rae Lakes, 1991—from Andrews et
al. 1998:317)
Someone once remarked in reference to the pace of
change in the NWT that if you are unhappy with the
status quo, wait a few days until negotiations change it.
Over the last century, both the pace and degree of
change have been dramatic, and it has had dramatic
impacts on northern indigenous societies. Beginning
over two centuries ago with early exploration and the
fur trade and continuing today with the prospects of
major resource development, the landscape of the NWT
has been of international interest as multinational com-
panies vie for development rights. While development
proceeds at a tremendous pace, Aboriginal inhabit-
ants of the Northwest Territories have been negoti-
ating a relationship with Canada for more than a
century, attempting both to gain a degree of self-
sufficiency, but also to exert control of and ultimately
benefit from resource development on their tradi-
tional lands. Beginning with the negotiation of Trea-
ties 8 (1899) and 11 (1921), Aboriginal inhabitants
of the NWT—the Dene, Metis, and Inuvialuit—have
struggled to find a relationship with Canada. Though
comprehensive land claims—which many refer to as
modern treaties—were signed with the Inuvialuit
(1984), the Cwich'in (1992), the Inuit of Nunavut
(1993), and the Sahtu Dene and Metis (1993), land
claim negotiations continue in the southern reaches
of the territory, as do self-government negotiations
in most.^ Part of a long and difficult process, self-
sufficiency is the ultimate goal of these efforts.
98/ Significant places and sites mentioned in the text.
304 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
99/ Drum Lake, Mackenzie Mountains, a Mountain Dene sacred site wliere oral tradition tells that the spirit of a
giant mountain sheep lives underwater and must be avoided by travelers on the lake.
How have indigenous societies of the NWT
moved to protect their cultural landscapes from the
onslaught of market-driven forces? What impacts are
occurring to cultural landscapes? Is the changing geo-
political landscape of the NWT straining perceptions of
cultural landscapes? Have other social and cultural
changes caused changes to the interpretation or appre-
ciation of cultural landscapes? Though a detailed ex-
amination of these questions is beyond the scope of
this paper, an attempt will be made to address them in a
broad compass, providing a general perspective on
cultural landscapes and change in the NWT today, by
presenting a selected description of current or recent
research approaches and projects directed at document-
ing and protecting cultural landscapes. However, in or-
der to set the context for these, this paper will first
review NWT social, political, and economic trends
today.
The NWT Today
With twenty-eight communities and a total popula-
tion ofjust over 42,000^ in an area of 1 ,346,1 06 square
kilometers (519,734 square miles), much of the NWT
today is still remote and difficult to access. Although
all of the communities are accessible by air, only half
of them are linked by some 2,200 kilometers (1,367
miles) of all-season road. Winter roads link many of the
remaining communities, as well as several large mines,
though these roads are available for use only four
months out of the year. A few communities are ser-
viced by river barges or sealifts. Today all communi-
ties have access to telephone and electricity, though
for the smallest and most remote, these services ar-
rived only in the 1 990s.
As a territory of Canada, the authority for respon-
sible government in the NWT rests ultimately with the
federal government. The territorial government has been
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 305
gradually taking on a larger role as portions of these
responsibilities are transferred through devolution
agreements. However, whereas provinces in southern
Canada hold title to land in right of the crown and
consequently have broad legislative rights over pro-
vincial lands, in the NWTthe federal government main-
tains title, and consequently also maintains legislative
control over crown land. The largest private landown-
ers in the NWT today are the Aboriginal land claim
authorities where settled claims have been completed.
For example, the Cwich'in of the Mackenzie Delta re-
gion received title to 22,422 square kilometers (8,657
square miles) of land in the NWT as a component of
their land claim, representing forty percent of their settle-
ment region. Continuing self-government negotiations
will also change the political map of the NWT, as Ab-
original groups negotiate control of some government
responsibilities over portions of their traditional lands.
As these negotiations are still underway, it is prema-
ture to discuss their nature, but they have the poten-
tial for making significant adjustments to the way the
NWT will be governed in the future.
Taxes generate only a small fraction of territorial
government revenues, with the main cost of local gov-
ernment managed mostly through federal transfer pay-
ments, representing about sixty-one precent of nearly
$800 million (CAD) required annually to finance public
government. The government continues to be the larg-
est employer in the NWT. Fur trapping, traditionally an
important aspect of the subsistence economy, has suf-
fered a dramatic decline over the last three decades,
which many attribute to the campaign of the animal-
rights movement and its effect on the fashion industry.
In 1 988, fur trapping generated almost $600 million in
the NWT, compared with just $750,000, one decade
later (CNWT 2000b). In contrast to this trend, resource
development has been booming. In 1 998, the value of
mineral and oil and gas production in the NWT was
worth $289 million while a year later (1 999) it had risen
to $861 million. This three-fold increase was due solely
to the opening of a new diamond mine, owned by BHP
Diamonds, Inc., a subsidiary of the multinational BHP-
Billiton. These figures will rise to much higher levels
over the next decade as two new diamond mines be-
gin production,'' and there will be significant increases
in gas production. Natural gas development is also boom-
ing, and the prospects of a new pipeline bringing gas
from the Mackenzie Delta to southern markets is cur-
rently receiving much attention from government, in-
dustry, and Aboriginal groups. The latter have formed a
consortium, the Aboriginal Pipeline Croup, uniting Dene
and Inuvialuit partners, to negotiate joint venture agree-
ments with multi-national companies to develop and
own a percentage interest in a new gas pipeline. Explo-
ration activities are on the rise as companies rush to
prove-up resources in the advance of a potential pipe-
line, already in the environmental review process.^
The economy of these projects often betters, and
sometimes dwarfs, the cost of governing the NWT. In-
deed, some of the larger multinational mining compa-
nies employ more people worldwide than the number
of residents in the NWT. These are daunting facts, and
they illustrate problems that both the territorial gov-
ernment and Aboriginal communities must overcome
to negotiate meaningful partnerships and benefits.
The boom, bust cycle of development has created
pressure on the delivery of government health and
social services and programs. Social problems linked
to drug and alcohol abuse are prevalent in many north-
ern communities and seem to be exacerbated by the
"bust" of the development cycle. However, many com-
munities have chosen to battle these trends by ensur-
ing that "wellness" and healing programs, supported by
government and other agencies, are easily and widely
available for those who request assistance.
A century ago, diseases introduced by Euro-Cana-
dian newcomers decimated northern Aboriginal popu-
lations. Smallpox, scarlet fever, influenza, tuberculosis,
and measles, among others, all had dramatic effects
on northern populations. One estimate suggests (Krech,
1 978:99) that between first contact with Europeans
and 1 860, eighty percent of the Cwich'in died from
306 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
the introduction of new diseases, for which they had
no immunity or treatment. Today, though most of these
diseases have been eradicated or have been made
manageable through medical advances, tuberculosis
and influenza still result in some deaths each year.
Today, a few of the larger centers have hospitals;
and the smaller communities have nursing stations,
though it is often difficult to find and keep qualified
nurses for those facilities. The Government of the North-
west Territories (CNWT) provides a medical air evacua-
tion service, which brings patients to hospitals in Inuvik
or Yellowknife; and when necessary, serious cases are
medevaced to larger centers in southern Canada.
The Northwest Territories has eight official lan-
guages (Chipewyan, Dogrib, Slavey, Cree, Cwich'in,
Inuktitut, English, and French). The Dene or Athapaskan
group of languages (Chipewyan, Dogrib, Slavey,
/ 00/ A Dogrib hunter and dead bull moose.
Knowledge of areas where game might be encoun-
tered is critical to living in a subarctic landscape.
Cwich'in) represents the largest Aboriginal linguistic
family, and many adults are fluent in both their first
language and English. The worldwide trend of language
homogenization has left many NWT Aboriginal lan-
guages in danger of disappearing, as fewer young
people learn to speak their parent's language. Many
Aboriginal communities are actively fighting this trend
by implementing language revitalization programs and
are hopeful that it will ensure language preservation.
Caribou hunting, long the touchstone of northern
culture and the mainstay of the subsistence economy,
continues to be important in both metaphorical and
nutritive senses. In heavily forested areas of the NWT,
where migratory caribou herds are absent, moose
hunting (Fig. 100) is important. Fishing is also of criti-
cal importance, and perhaps because it is considered a
more mundane activity—less romantic perhaps, than
hunting— it is often under-represented in the literature
on subsistence economy. For people who live off the
land, however, it is easier and less expensive in terms
of labor to catch fish every day than it is to hunt for
caribou or moose, and consequently, people who live
on the land eat fish more than they eat meat. Nonethe-
less, caribou are essential to northern subsistence and
take a central place in the ideology of life in the North.
As people moved in phase with the migration of cari-
bou and the spawning runs offish, living in and off the
land (Helm 2000:35) meant a yearly round spent in the
"bush." With the coming of the fur trade, periodic visits
to the fur trade post were added to the yearly round,
and the economy of trapping and trading fur was a new
focus for families who made their life primarily on the
land. Federal government transfer payments and the
development of a Canadian social support network in
the 1950s lead to people moving into town and a
gradual erosion of "bush" life. Today northern commu-
nities flourish with modern homes and conveniences,
with municipal and government services providing elec-
tricity, telephones, and satellite television.
Though country food is still an important part of
northern diet, the practice of hunting has changed dra-
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 307
matically. In September 1999, I accompanied a group
of Dogrib hunters to the barrenlands to partake in the
traditional fall hunt, which I later described in a letter
to anthropologist June Helm. In her recent book "The
People of Denendeh," Helm (2000) excerpted part of
the letter as a contrast to hunting techniques in the
1820s. Whereas hunting techniques of the 1820s in-
cluded stalking with movements that mimicked cari-
bou behaviour and the use of snares and a variety of
drive techniques, today's hunters use modern conve-
niences to their benefit. Though the nature of the hunt
has changed, it is still founded on a tradition and knowl-
edge centuries old, as indicated in my letter to June
Helm (2000:70-1):
Hunts organized by the band councils of the
four Dogrib communities [Rae-Edzo, Wha Ti,
Camiti, and Wekweti] were taking place at the
same time and in the same general area. The
camp locations had been chosen carefully the
week before. Hunters first referred to satellite
maps distributed weekly to the communities
by the Department of Resources, Wildlife, and
Economic Development (RWED), which show
the locations of fourteen collared caribou
cows. These are usually posted on a bulletin
board near the band office and always attract
lots of attention. The RWED study is designed
to examine the impacts of recent diamond
mine exploration and development on the
Bathurst Caribou herd, which numbers nearly
350,000 animals. The satellite transmitters on
the collars send signals once every five days
for six hours. Biologists in Yellowknife
download the location data and maps are
prepared and sent to the communities. Once a
general [hunt] location was chosen, the bands
then chartered a small plane to scout for
caribou, and ultimately, specific locations for
the camps. The caribou are widely distributed
in small groups ranging in size from a few
animals to thousands, over an area of many
thousands of square miles. The preparation in
locating suitable sites is necessary because
the bands use expensive aircraft charters to
move hunters and camp supplies to the
caribou. In contrast. Just a generation ago
hunters traveled to the barrenlands by canoe
and were consequently much more mobile
and able to cover large distances in pursuit of
caribou. With the use of aircraft, the camps are
set up at locations where caribou are fairly
numerous and hunters range from camp on
foot. Consequently, it is important to choose
areas where sufficient numbers of caribou are
moving through to make a successful hunt.
Though the satellite maps provide current
data regarding the distribution of the herd, it
only parallels Dogrib traditional knowledge
of caribou movements and behaviour. Indeed
the camp we visited had been used over
many generations and the lakes and features
in the area all have Dogrib place names. [For
example,] Grizzly Bear Lake (known as Diga
Ti, or "wolf lake" in Dogrib) is located on a
traditional canoe route used to access the
summer/fall hunting areas. Consequently, it
was no surprise that we located two ar-
chaeological sites during our visit. One . . .
consisted of an old stone ring measuring four
metres in diameter, ... a grave (surrounded
by a picket fence, and [therefore] dating [it]
to the twentieth century), and the remains of
three birch bark canoes. Based on the state
of preservation, the canoes are likely less
than 100 years old. There were also a small
number of stone flakes scattered throughout
the site indicating a potentially much older
use. A second site was located on a high
bedrock hill . . . where we found a large
surface scatter of stone flakes. The hunters
we were traveling with had stopped there to
rest and look for caribou. In discussing the
[archaeological remains], they felt confident
that the flakes were the result of an ancestor
from long ago sitting on the top of the hill
passing his time by working on a stone tool
while waiting for caribou. It was interesting
to reflect on these two episodes, separated
by time and vast differences in technology,
yet linked by the knowledge of the area
passed down through the generations.
Today, the worldview of northern Aboriginal youth
is different from that of their grandparents as televi-
sion, the Internet, world travel, a southern-based edu-
cation system, and a community-based life have cre-
ated vastly different life experiences for young
people. Partly due to a language barrier, where youth
struggle to speak the first language of their elders,
traditional knowledge and values are in danger of
being marginalized—overwhelmed by dominant so-
cietal values of urban or southern Canada. Most
young people today prefer the comforts of town life
to the rigors of the bush and no longer pursue tradi-
308 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
tional lifestyles on a fulltime basis. As a result, an
economy based on wages has gradually eclipsed
one rooted solely in subsistence activities. Today,
hunting, fishing, trapping, and bush life have become
recreational activities for many Aboriginal norther-
ners. Where just a generation ago young people were
socialized and educated through travel and experi-
ence in a cultural landscape, where place was im-
bued with knowledge through stories, today chil-
dren are largely educated in school settings and
based in modern communities. These changes have
come with a cost, and for many elders this situation
represents a crisis. Elders are struggling to finds ways
to ensure that the knowledge that guided them
through life, passed down to them orally through
many generations, is transmitted by other means to
today's youth. If they no longer learn by traveling,
by listening to the stories associated with place, are
the North's cultural landscapes in peril too?
History of Cultural Landscape Research
and Management in the NWT
There are many stories about that hill, so
when we get there I will tell stories about it.
There will be many, many stories. We'll have
to check all the areas mentioned in the story,
and we will have to climb to the top of it.
When we get to the hill there will be lots of
work to be done (Harry Simpson, Rae Lakes,
1 992—from Andrews and Zoe 1 997: 1 73).
Cultural landscape research in the NWT has a long his-
tory. Often partnered today with environmental assess-
ment studies, documenting traditional ecological
knowledge has become a part of doing business in
the North. Natural gas producers in Alaska and
Canada are currently debating routes for transporting
Arctic gas reserves to market, one of which would see
a pipeline constructed through the Mackenzie River
valley. Recently a consortium of Inuvialuit and Dene
organizations issued a statement in support of this
proposal, indicating that they would be interested in
negotiating a percentage ownership of the pipeline.
This statement was in stark contrast to the position
taken by the same groups in the mid-1970s when a
pipeline proposal caused outcry, launched a major
study called the Mackenzie Valley Pipeline Inquiry
(Berger 1 977), and led to twenty-five years of land claim
negotiations, which continue today in some areas.
Aboriginal organizations struggled during these
decades to meet a government negotiating agenda by
conducting ambitious land use and occupancy studies
to document the context of cultural landscapes in the
North. The Inuit Land Use and Occupancy Project (Free-
man 1 976), and the Dene Mapping Project (Asch et al.
1 986) are two examples of these efforts from the area
treated here. Funded through government loans ad-
vanced against the final compensation to be paid as
part of the claim, these projects served to preserve a
picture of landscape use which was under severe pres-
sure from outside sources and which was undergoing
tremendous change. Future generations of northern
Aboriginal youth will find much of value in these stud-
ies as they grapple with new challenges.
In 1989, UNESCO Canada published an inventory
of community-based resource management projects in
Canada (Cohen and Hanson 1 989). The chapter on the
NWT (DeLancey and Andrews 1 989) focused on resource
use conflicts and inventoried a total of twenty-five
projects designed to help communities prepare for ne-
gotiating their interests through comprehensive land
claims. Most of the community-based research in the
NWT in the 1 980s was directed at documenting tradi-
tional lifeways, including knowledge about cultural land-
scapes as perceived by elders, for use in land claims
negotiations or in environmental assessment hearings.
The report (ibid.) classified community-based research
efforts into a variety of categories, based on the sub-
ject of the research. The majority of these projects were
designed to either document traditional lifeways in re-
sponse to development pressures or to provide sup-
port for negotiations designed to empower local com-
munities in managing resource use in their area. Though
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 309
more than a decade has passed, today little has
changed in this regard.
Large-scale development often serves to generate
large sources of funding, which researchers from a vari-
ety of disciplines can draw on. The Northern Oil and
Gas Action Plan of the 1 980s and early '90s represented
a consortium of industry and government that contrib-
uted equally to fund the collection of baseline data on
the Mackenzie Delta region for a variety of disciplines.
Managed by government, in its early days it made few
allowances for Aboriginal research interests or needs.
More recently, with the explosion of interest in dia-
mond exploration and development in the mid-1 990s,
Aboriginal groups, industry, government, and environ-
mental organizations partnered to create the West
Kitikmeot/Slave Society (WKSS). Taking its name from
the geological region in which diamonds are found
(the West Kitikmeot and Slave geological provinces),
the WKSS was begun in 1 995 and was funded largely
through contributions from industry, government, and
environmental organizations. Aboriginal groups con-
trol more than half of the seats on the WKSS board. As
reflected in the organization's vision statement, its
objective "is to achieve sustainable development
in the West Kitikmeot Slave Study area which respects
Aboriginal cultural values, so that the land is protected,
culture is preserved, and community self-sufficiency
and reliance [are] enhanced" (WKSS 2000:iii).
Maintaining Cultural Landscapes Today:
A Brief Survey
So this place has a story, and it's a good story
too (Harry Simpson, 1 994—from Andrews et
al. 1998:311).
Recognizing the continuing need to document and
maintain cultural landscapes (Fig. 101), Aboriginal groups
and their partners have been working diligently over
the last decade. As in the recent past, a significant per-
centage of the ethnographic landscape research of the
current decade is driven by resource use conflict—as
the pace of development increases, so does the need
to document cultural landscapes. Since a detailed in-
ventory of current research is beyond the scope of this
paper, instead I will discuss five different approaches
to preserving cultural landscapes in the hope that these
examples will demonstrate the direction that recent re-
search is taking, as well as illustrating the diverse ways
these projects are being managed.
Comprehensive Land Claims: Negotiating Pres-
ervation
Land claim negotiations in the Northwest Territories
have been underway for nearly thirty years. Indeed, an
entire generation of Dene and Inuvialuit youth has
grown up thinking that negotiations are as much a part
of life as is hunting. Summarized in brief compass, land
claims completed to date empower Aboriginal groups
by granting land ownership and management rights, by
providing compensation for relinquishing certain rights,
and by granting economic and social measures to pro-
vide for self-sufficiency. Many Aboriginal groups have
begun to negotiate self-government provisions, ei-
ther as a component of ongoing land claim negotia-
tions, or through dedicated negotiations following the
completion of a land claim.
Within these agreements, Aboriginal groups have
used many strategies to maintain and protect cultural
landscapes. Land selection allows Aboriginal groups
to protect (through fee simple ownership) portions of
their traditional lands that are deemed most important.
However, the need to balance protection of cultural
landscapes with economic self-sufficiency has meant
that some land has been selected with an eye toward
future development. The Gwich'in and Sahtu claims
provide for the development of land use plans that are
designed to sustain development through the estab-
lishment of land use policy. Conservation of cultural
values is predominant in these plans. Some skeptics
have wondered if the lobby to protect rights to mineral
interests in these areas has caused government to pause
before passing these plans; after years of negotiations,
a new plan has finally been signed.*^
310 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
/ 1/ Marking the confluence of the Bear and Mackenzie Rivers, Bear Rock (in the distance) is sacred to most NWT
Dene groups; this is where Yamoria, a Dene culture-hero, stretched the hides of three giant beavers he had killed.
Bear Rock is today depicted in the Dene Nation 's corporate logo as a political symbol
.
The Sahtu Dene and Metis Comprehensive Land
Claim (Government of Canada 1993) tool< a unique
approach to protecting cultural landscapes. A clause in
the chapter on heritage called for the creation of a
joint working group charged with the responsibility of
making recommendations to government on how spe-
cific places and sites should be protected. Representa-
tion on the joint working group included one repre-
sentative from the federal government, one from the
territorial government, and two from the Sahtu region.
The four members elected a fifth person, a Sahtu resi-
dent, to act as chair. The Sahtu Heritage Places and
Sites Joint Working Group released its report in January
2000 (T'Seleie et al. 2000), which presented recom-
mendations on how to commemorate and protect forty
sacred or cultural sites, or site groupings, in the Sahtu
Settlement Area (see Fig. 97). It also presented an addi-
tional twenty-one general recommendations that ad-
dress the direction of future research and the need for
cultural landscape protection and advocacy in the re-
gion. The Working Group met over a four-year period
(1995-1999), often contracting elders and community
experts to assist with the research.
Though many of the report's recommendations still
await action by government and Sahtu land claim au-
thorities, the Report has proved useful for developers
wishing to avoid impacting Sahtu cultural sites, and to
planners who are developing a land use plan for the
region. As well, some teachers in the region have used
the Report as resource material in the schools. These
are positive advances and serve ultimately to protect
Sahtu cultural landscapes.
Education: Taking the Classroom on the
Land
Recognizing that the ethno-pedagogy of educating
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 311
youth through travel is disappearing, several Aborigi-
nal groups have established annual educational trips
using traditional trails where young people and elders
interact in much the same way as they did in the past.
For example, the Cwich'in have organized an annual
snowmobile trip between Fort McPherson in the NWT
and Old Crow in the Yukon. The trip, which follows a
traditional dog team trail, allows families residing in
both communities to connect and exchange greetings,
and provides elders an opportunity to teach young
people aspects of traditional life. Other groups have
organized similar trips. In 1 999 elders and youth walked
from Colville Lake to Fort Good Hope, following a
summer walking trail and recreating what was many
years ago an annual event to trade at the Hudson's Bay
Company post in Good Hope. The Yellowknives Dene
First Nation have organized summer canoe trips, fol-
lowing traditional birchbark canoe trails, and designed
specifically to provide learning experiences for youth.
In 1 971 , in his remarks on the occasion of the open-
ing of the new high school in the Dogrib community of
Edzo, Chief Jimmy Bruneau recognized the need to
educate Dogrib students in both a southern Canadian-
style school system and in Dogrib cultural ways. Re-
flecting the chiefs perspective in her remarks to a meet-
ing of Dogrib elders, educators, and education adminis-
trators working to develop a mission statement for the
Dogrib school system in 1990, elder and education
innovator Elizabeth Mackenzie, noted that "if children
are taught in both cultures equally, they will be strong
like two people." The Dogrib education board rec-
ognized the importance of this and adopted it as an
educational philosophy for the Dogrib school system
(Dogrib Divisional Board of Education 1991). The mis-
sion statement argues that if young people are pro-
vided a formal education in a southern Canadian-style
school setting, in conjunction with instruction in Dogrib
language, culture, and identity, they will grow to be
"strong like two people," taking the best from both
worldviews. Because much of Dogrib history and iden-
tity is tied to life on the land, this new educational
strategy uses every opportunity to take the class-
room out on the land—or more relevant for this pa-
per—to use the cultural landscape as a classroom.
Through organizing cultural camps in all seasons,
by canoe trips in summer, by bringing elders directly
into the classroom, and by providing for formalized
Dogrib language instruction, the Dogrib education
system has forged a unique learning experience for
Dogrib youth based on this collaborative philoso-
phy.
Recognizing that their youth face a different world,
Dogrib elders are working to bring the past into the
education system, always guided by the pervasive phi-
losophy of "strong like two people." Throughout the
last decade, Dogrib elders have participated in a vari-
ety of research projects in partnership with linguists,
anthropologists, and archaeologists.' In a general sense
the research has been designed to apply Dogrib tradi-
tional knowledge within the theoretical and method-
ological constructs of these disciplines. However, for
the elders a single objective has been tantamount: that
these partnerships provide products that can be used
to educate youth in the Dogrib school system (Fig.
1 02). As a result many of the research projects have
been founded on complex partnerships with the Dogrib
school system (see below).
Other efforts at using the cultural landscape as a
classroom include the many science camps that have
been organized in various regions of the NWT. De-
signed to combine Western scientific method and
theory with traditional ethno-pedagogy in a land-
based setting, these camps have met with much suc-
cess. Since 1995, the Gwich'in Social and Cultural
Institute (CSCI), with their head office located in
Tsiigehtchic (formerly Arctic Red River), has orga-
nized a ten day "on-the-land" fall camp for high
school students (Kritsch 1996). The curriculum fo-
cuses on the Gwich'in cultural landscape and in-
volves instruction in a variety of topics including
ethnobotany, renewable resource management, heri-
tage resource management, and land claim history
312 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
and implementation, presented by instructors from
both Western and Aboriginal traditions.
The Tundra Science Camp, located at the Tundra
Ecological Research Station (TERS)** at Daring Lake,
about 1 50 kilometers (ninety-three miles) north of
Yellowknife in the barrenlands, immerses high school
students in a ten day program of hands-on scientific
and cultural exploration (Strong and Hans 1 996). Pro-
vided with an opportunity to participate in ongoing
research programs being conducted atTERS, students
gain an understanding of the cultural landscape of
the barrenlands, through instruction in archaeology,
botany, biology, geology, environmental research
advocacy, and Dogrib culture. Science camps such
as these follow the tradition of "strong like two
people" using cultural landscapes as classroom.
Environmental Assessment: Mitigating Land Use
Conflicts
Diamond mine exploration and development in the
NWT has stimulated a wealth of research under the
framework of environmental impact assessment. Re-
cently enacted environmental protection legislation
(Mackenzie Valley Resource Management Act 1 998)
gives high profile to the need to document traditional
knowledge and for assessing potential impacts to cul-
tural landscapes. As mentioned above, one outcome
of this effort was the creation of the West Kitikmeot/
Slave Study Society (WKSS). Projects funded by WKSS
include several community-based efforts directed at
documenting aspects of the cultural landscape of the
Chipewyan, Yellowknives, Dogrib, and Inuit. These
projects have received significant funding and have
been used to establish trained community-based re-
search teams, which have been instrumental in direct-
ing changes to development plans to ensure that sig-
nificant cultural sites are protected.
The "Habitat of Dogrib Traditional Territory Project"
was undertaken by the Whaehd99 Naowoo Kg (Legat
1998; Legat et al. 1999, 2001), a research institution
under the aegis of the Dogrib Treaty 1 1 Council, and
1 02/ The importance offish is often underestimated
in anthropological literature, but here Dogrib elders
make a point to teach youth how to properly clean a
large lake trout.
funded through the WKSS. Staffed largely by Dogrib
researchers, the Whaehdpg Naowoo Kp group has car-
ried out several projects designed to record and present
Dogrib traditional knowledge, with specific reference
to Dogrib classification of the environment. Focusing
on place names, nomenclature for habitat, animal, and
plant species occupying them, these projects have
built a strong core of trained researchers, which the
Dogrib Nation can employ in addressing other tasks.
The Chipewyan of Lutselk'e, located on the East
Arm of Great Slave Lake, also undertook research funded
by WKSS. Community researchers focused on docu-
menting traditional ecological knowledge of elders and
land users of the Lutselk'e Dene First Nation for a par-
ticular area within their traditional range. Known as
Kache Kue, or Kennady Lake, the region was being
intensively explored by Monopros, a subsidiary of
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 313
DeBeers Canada, the Canadian arm of the diamond-
mining giant of South Africa. DeBeers Canada has ap-
plied for permission to open a mine at Snap Lake, a
nearby site located about 1 00 kilometers (sixty-two
miles) north of Lutselk'e, and at the time of writing
(April 2002) had just submitted an environmental im-
pact assessment report. The WKSS funds will assist the
Lutselk'e Dene First Nation in presenting their own
interests— particularly the documentation of the
Chipewyan cultural landscape in the development
area—and permit the people an opportunity to partici-
pate in the environmental review.
The use of innovative computer techniques, such
as Geographic Information Systems (CIS), to record cul-
tural landscapes ensures that traditional knowledge
gathered through these projects will be archived and
made available for future projects. These research
projects also allow the Aboriginal groups to develop
management strategies to monitor long-term and cu-
mulative impacts from development on cultural land-
scapes. CIS computer technology is a tool designed to
provide a way of managing place-based or geo-refer-
enced information and is well fitted to recording tradi-
tional place names, trails, and other aspects of Aborigi-
nal land use. As well as providing a tool for archiving
and managing data, CIS technology allows Aboriginal
youth to make significant contributions, by bringing
new computer skills into the mix. By working with their
elders to record land-based knowledge, and then to-
gether reviewing CIS-generated maps, young and old
interact in new ways, providing a serendipitous oppor-
tunity to use the land as teacher.
Cultural Institutes: Taking Control of the Research
Agenda
Created in 1992, the Gwich'in Social and Cultural Insti-
tute (CSCI),^ has been working to inventory traditional
place names and land use, sacred sites, and trails in the
Gwich'in Settlement Region. The work has resulted in
numerous research reports and publications that docu-
ment the Gwich'in cultural landscape by recording an
extensive body of traditional place names and associ-
ated narratives (Kritsch et al. 1994; Kritsch and Andre
1 997; Heine et al. 2001 ). This work continues as a pri-
ority for the institute.
Working in a collaborative arrangement is a priority
of GSCI, and they have entered several partnerships
with southern and northern researchers. With CSC! help,
the Gwich'in Tribal Council has drafted a traditional
knowledge (TK) research policy'" that outlines guide-
lines for all research activities conducted within the
Gwich'in Settlement Region (GTC 2004). Designed to
ensure Gwich'in collaboration, to protect Gwich'in in-
tellectual rights to traditional knowledge, and to en-
sure that work is conducted in an ethical fashion, the
policy strives to encourage all types of research in the
region. The development of policies such as this helps
ensure that research agendas are relevant to northern
life and priorities. More important perhaps, it provides
non-Gwich'in with a clear point of entry into establish-
ing meaningful partnerships with Gwich'in researchers.
In 1 997-1 998 the Gwich'in partnered with Parks
Canada to create a National Historic Site that com-
memorated a portion of the Gwich'in cultural land-
scape as being of national significance (Heine 1 997;
Neufeld 2001). Called Nagwichoonjik National His-
toric Site, it covers a 1 75 kilometer (1 1 mile) stretch
of the Mackenzie River (see Fig. 98) and adjacent
lands where the river flows through the center of
the Gwich'in traditional land use area, making it one
of the largest designated Aboriginal cultural land-
scapes in Canada, and among the first to be so
commemorated (Buggey 1999, this volume). Pre-
senting numerous named places, archaeological
sites, cultural sites, and subsistence camps, the Na-
tional Historic Site commemorates a synopsis of
Gwich'in history and culture. These examples of col-
laborative research efforts serve as models for fu-
ture efforts in preserving and managing northern
cultural landscapes.
Museums: Partnership and Collaboration
314 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
/ 03/ An elder examines archaeological remains ofa
birchbark canoe.
The Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre (PWNHC),
a government-run territorial museum based in Yellow-
knife, has focused much of its research efforts on forg-
ing partnerships with elders, community organizations,
and school boards that allow museum staff to develop
close ties with many communities in the North. Through
the 1980s and 1990s, these efforts were focused on
projects in several regions, including:
—Ethnoarchaeological and traditional place name
research with the Inuvialuit of the Mackenzie River
Delta and Arctic coast region (Arnold 1 988, 1 994;
Arnold and Hart 1 991 ; Hart 1 994).
—Inventory of trails, place names, and archeologi-
cal sites in the Mackenzie Mountains, in partner-
ship with the Mountain Dene (Hanks and Pokotylo
1 989, 2000; Hanks and Winter 1 983, 1 986, 1 989).
--Inventory of cultural sites and development of
recommendations on how to preserve and pro-
tect cultural landscapes as part of the Sahtu Heri-
tage Places and Sites Joint Working Group (T'Seleie
et al. 2000).
—Heritage resource inventories of Dogrib traditional
birchbark canoe and dog team trails, and related
projects (Andrews and Zoe 1 997, 1 998; Andrews et
al. 1 998; Andrews and Mackenzie 1 998; Woolf and
Andrews 1997,2001).
Much of this work focused on building inventories of
archaeological and cultural sites throughout the North,
which permitted archaeologists at the Prince of Wales
Northern Heritage Centre to serve as expert advisors in
the land use review and environmental assessment pro-
cess, providing recommendations on the potential for
impacts to heritage sites from development.
Documenting place-names, trails, and cultural land-
scapes, and then using this information to locate ar-
chaeological sites, has made it possible to examine
aspects of the temporal nature of cultural landscapes
and in the process corroborate oral narratives that spoke
of ancient times and events. The ethnoarchaeological
research conducted with the Dogrib has demonstrated
that place names themselves preserve knowledge of
sources of raw material for making stone tools, demon-
strating that the names encode centuries-old knowl-
edge (Andrews and Zoe 1 997:1 65-7; Hanks 1 997).
Often these projects lead to related projects or fol-
low-up research that usually starts because of an inter-
est expressed by an elder or community member. For
example, during the heritage resource inventories con-
ducted in partnership with the Dogrib, archaeologists
found the remains of thirty-five birchbark canoes at
sites the elders had identified along the trails (Fig. 1 03).
This provided the researchers with a new perspective
on the role and importance of these craft for traversing
the Dogrib cultural landscape. As a result a related project
was undertaken to document by video the entire pro-
cess of building a Dogrib birchbark canoe (Andrews
and Zoe, 1998; Woolf and Andrews, 1997). Working
within the Dogrib philosophy of "strong like two people,"
the project was conducted in partnership with the lo-
cal school board, and several high school students
served as apprentices to the six elders from Rae who
THOMAS D. ANDREWS
made the canoe. While the canoe was being con-
structed, exhibit designers from the PWNHC worked
with the industrial arts class at the school to build a
display case for the finished canoe. Designed to roll
through any door in the school, the canoe could be
brought directly into classrooms and used by elders in
instruction.
The Internet, which now links all NWT schools, pro-
vides an opportunity to introduce innovative new re-
sources into northern classrooms. Following the ethno-
pedagogical tradition of using the land as a teacher,
the PWNHC, in partnership with the Dogrib Community
Services Board, and the Inuvialuit Social Development
Program, have developed a web-based virtual tour of
northern cultural landscapes. Called "Lessons from the
Land," the web resource provides students an opportu-
nity to tour two cultural landscapes—the "Idaa Trail," a
Dogrib birchbark canoe and dog team trail, and "Jour-
ney with Nuligak," which focuses on Inuvialuit culture
and history (wAvw.lessonsfromtheland.ca). Additional
modules will be added in the future. Through photo-
graphs, illustrations, narrative, video and sound clips,
and 3-D animation, students can opt to take a tour of
these landscapes, with "on-line elders" as their guides.
The web resource is structured to allow teachers to
select specific features to make a lesson pertinent to
the grade level being taught. Developed in conjunc-
tion with the GNWT Department of Education, Culture,
and Employment, "Lessons from the Land" is featured
as a component of the recently revamped Northern
Studies curriculum. Using computers to create a virtual
experience, "Lessons from the Land" takes the cultural
landscape into the classroom, providing a learning al-
ternative to taking the classroom out on the land.
Protecting Cultural Landscapes
The land is like a book. (Harry Simpson, Rae
Lakes, 1998—Andrews and Zoe 1998:79)
Clearly these and other recent efforts have made great
advances in documenting traditional knowledge and
cultural landscapes across the NWT, creating sources
of recorded knowledge that will be invaluable to fu-
ture generations. How effective are these efforts in
preserving and protecting cultural landscapes today?
Though the northern education system has made
some advances in developing northern-based curricu-
lar material, broad-based advances are lacking. Currently,
the NWT has only two elementary school curricula (Dene
Kede GNWT 1 993 and Inuuqatigiit GNWT 1 997) based
on Aboriginal worldviews. Though these curricula are
used in several regions quite successfully, they are not
used in all, and the resources to accompany them are
scarce. The Dogrib have been very active in develop-
ing programs for their own schools. Special program
curricula like "Trails of our Ancestors" (Dogrib Divi-
sional Board of Education 1 996), which provides for
summer canoe travel through Dogrib cultural landscapes,
are very popular with students. Though successful, these
programs are expensive to operate, and the lack of
published curricular material reflecting northern values
and realities makes them difficult to deliver in a class-
room setting. Land-based classes are always fun and
instructive, but difficult and expensive to run. Fund-
ing for these programs is always difficult to obtain,
and organizers are constantly searching for sources to
draw from. As a result these programs are not widely
available. Government needs to focus on developing
northern curricula based on Aboriginal worldviews, and
then funding school boards to move classrooms out
onto the land whenever possible. The use of educa-
tional alternatives, which allow for innovation in the
classroom through computers and the Internet, must
also be maximized. These programs will provide future
generations with an appreciation for the need to stew-
ard cultural landscapes as their ancestors have done
(Fig. 1 04).
Though environmental assessment has supported
traditional knowledge and cultural landscape research,
thereby making a significant contribution to the north-
ern knowledge base, the ability of these efforts to actu-
ally preserve and protect cultural landscapes has yet
to be demonstrated. For community elders, who
316 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
104/ Kwedoo (blood rock), a Dogrib sacred site. A spot is rubbed free of lichens from years of people
kneeling here while leaving votive offerings in the rock crevice.
hold vast amounts of knowledge pertinent to the
cultural ecology of their lands, and who speak their
Aboriginal language as a first language, the formality
of an environmental hearing can be an intimidating
experience and one not conducive to expressing an
Aboriginal worldview. Furthermore, many communi-
ties find the process of participation in environmental
proceedings to be little more than token efforts de-
signed to appease political agendas. These programs
are also tied to the boom and bust cycle of develop-
ment and are therefore intermittent in their availability
and patchy in their application. The WKSS, created in
1 995, was designed with a lifespan of only five years.
Though it was extended for two years, researchers
must eventually look for alternate sources of funding.
Consequently, although these projects add greatly to
the documentation of traditional knowledge, they
make minor practical impact on efforts in preserv-
ing cultural landscapes over the long-term. Commu-
nity-based research capacity developed through these
projects must be maintained through the bust part of
the development cycle that is almost certain to fol-
low. Also, the use of CIS technology, and perhaps more
importantly, the educational and training opportuni-
ties to learn how to use it, must be maximized in north-
ern communities.
The commemoration of Aboriginal cultural land-
scapes is relatively new in Canada (Buggey 1 999). In
1998 the community of Deline, in the Sahtu region,
celebrated National Historic Site commemoration for
a cultural landscape in their traditional territory—
Sahyoue and Edacho National Historic Site." As with
the Nagwichoonjik National Historic Site, these desig-
nations serve to raise the profile of Aboriginal cultural
landscapes through national commemoration, long
part of the Canadian National Historic Site system plan
(Parks Canada 2000; Buggey 1999, this volume).
Though they cover large tracks of land, they offer little
concrete protection because the commemorations are
only honorific. The community of Deline has negoti-
ated an interim land withdrawal for Sahyoue and
Edacho National Historic Site, but the governments
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 317
have dragged their heels in finding a permanent way
of protecting these landscapes.
The interim withdrawal was granted through the
auspices of the Protected Area Strategy (PAS), a joint
federal-territorial program approved in 1 999 (GNWT
1999). Designed to identify and establish protected
areas in the NWT, the program seeks partnerships
with northern Aboriginal groups in advancing areas
for protection. The PAS secretariat (located in Yellowknife)
has worked with communities to develop a plan to
protect the Horn Plateau, a 10,000 square kilometer
(3,861 square mile) area critical to both the Mackenzie
Valley Slavey and Dogrib cultures.'' While this interim
solution protects it for five years, a permanent protec-
tion measure has not been developed.
With respect to the protection of cultural landscapes
the report of the Sahtu Heritage Places and Sites Joint
Working Group (T'Seleie et al. 2000:24-5) made the
important observation that virtually all Canadian legis-
lation designed to protect landscape or landscape fea-
tures focuses on natural values instead of cultural ones.
The laws designed to mark sites noted for their cultural
value usually provide for honorific commemoration of
these places only and do not protect them from incom-
patible land uses. Though cultural landscapes are men-
tioned in the PAS documentation, no special legisla-
tive tools were identified for protecting places of cul-
tural value. The joint working group recommended that
government move immediately to rectify this deficiency.
Places exhibiting a natural value have a plethora of
legislative tools available to protect them, which de-
fines acceptable types of land use (such as tourism)
and sets guidelines for their practice. Most importantly
however, these instruments of law protect natural land-
scapes by protecting them from inappropriate forms of
development. George Barnaby, a Sahtu Dene elder has
remarked that "[w]e have no word in our language that
means wilderness, as anywhere we go is our home"
(Fumoleau 1984:59). This statement expresses a view
that does not differentiate between the natural and the
cultural—both are inseparable parts of a whole. The
Sahtu Dene worldview, which expresses an intellec-
tual unity between the natural and cultural aspects of
the environment, is in stark contrast to the philosophy
of separating cultural from natural values represented
in Canadian law and there is need to reflect this holis-
tic view in new legislation designed to protect cultural
landscapes.
The development of Aboriginal cultural institutes
in the NWT is a major advance as it allows local com-
munities to shape research agendas within their tradi-
tional lands. The Dene Cultural Institute, based in Hay
River; the Whaehdpp Naowoo K9, based in Rae; and the
Cwich'in Social and Cultural Institute (GSCI), based in
Tsiigehtchic, are all examples of community-based ef-
forts striving to document cultural landscapes and pre-
serve Aboriginal worldviews (Fig. 1 05). These are posi-
tive developments that encourage collaboration be-
tween research and Aboriginal communities. However,
these organizations face several limitations. One of
the most significant is the lack of stable funding needed
to carry out long-term research and programs. For ex-
ample, GSCI estimates that nearly fifty percent of its
time and staff effort is spent on raising funds (Ingrid
Kritsch, pers. comm.). Another problem faced by cul-
tural institutes is one of scale. These institutes are of-
ten operated by a small number of dedicated people
—
and in the NWT it is most often women—who have
been working consistently for many years. When in-
teracting with government to access program fund-
ing or support, cultural institutes find they must re-
spond to a bureaucracy many times larger. This often
creates misunderstandings and makes it difficult for
these small agencies to deal with government expec-
tations. Significant and long-term funding must be found
to support their activities, as it will be these groups
who bring cultural landscapes forward for protection.
Lack of funding is also an issue of constant concern for
museum or government research projects. Competition
among cultural organizations, museums, and gov-
ernment researchers for limited funding sources is ulti-
mately counterproductive for preserving and protect-
318 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
ing cultural landscapes in the NWT, as well as else-
where in the Canadian North.
Though major advances have been made in the
last decade toward documenting and protecting cul-
tural landscapes in the NWT, much work remains to
be done. Efforts in the coming decades must con-
tinue to focus on documentation as a priority. They
must also strive to develop broad-based education
programs that provide youth with an understanding
about the cultural landscapes they live in. Northerners
must urge governments to create legislative tools to
protect cultural values. Finally, government must de-
velop significant and stable funding sources for com-
munity-based cultural and heritage research.
Epilogue
"The land is like a book." I have worked with Harry
Simpson, the Dogrib elder who spoke these words, for
many years now, and after hearing him use this simile
many times I have come to understand I think what
he means. Clearly it captures the essence of the Dogrib
ethno-pedagogy of using the land as a teacher—an
aid in remembering the thousands of years of accumu-
lated knowledge, transmitted to youth through an oral
tradition and through travel. Moreover, this simile is
really a carefully crafted translation of this Dogrib edu-
cational philosophy, because by making the compari-
son with a book, he has also made it relevant and
easily understood by non-Aboriginal people who store
their knowledge in books and not in oral narratives
tied inextricably to a cultural landscape. Cultural land-
scapes are ultimately creations of a collective con-
sciousness. They are places that are valued by society.
If a society is to ensure that they are valued by future
generations, then they must transmit that sense of
value from generation to generation, something that
the Dogrib and many other northern groups have done
and continue to do with great eloquence.
In the struggle to protect their cultural landscapes.
Aboriginal people in northern Canada have sought part-
nerships in the global community. Partnering with envi-
ronmental groups, lobbying national governments and
international agencies, including UNESCO and others,
and traveling to far-flung places to develop support
networks have all become tools in the struggle for
preserving and protecting the cultural landscapes at
home. In September 2001, a group of Gwich'in from
Canada and Alaska traveled to Washington, D.C., to lobby
U.S. government representatives to vote against the
proposed exploration for oil and gas reserves in the
"1002 lands" on the Alaska North Slope. Though the
Gwich'in representatives had been in Washington many
times before on similar missions, the events of Sep-
tember 1 1, 2001 were to cause them much anguish.
Family and friends in the North watched on television
the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center in New
York and on the Pentagon in Washington worried for
the safety of their loved ones so far from home. After
several fretful hours of silence residents of the NWT
learned that no harm had come to the Gwich'in repre-
sentatives, and through a cell phone connection with
CBC North radio in Canada heard familiar voices de-
scribing first-hand in the vernacular of the North, the
atrocities that took place so far away. These terrible
events—an attack on icons of the American cultural
landscape, long thought to be impenetrable—serve to
demonstrate that in today's world, cultural landscapes
are indeed very fragile.
Acknowledgments
Over the years of my working and living in the Cana-
dian North, I have been blessed with numerous reward-
ing friendships and experiences—many of which I have
called on to write this paper. To the unnamed many
who have helped form my understanding and apprecia-
tion of northern cultural landscapes I say mahsi cho/
thank you. Several colleagues took time from their
busy schedules to read and comment on a draft of this
paper. I would like to thank Chuck Arnold, Susan
Buggey, Melanie Fafard, June Helm, Mark Heyck, Inghd
Kritsch, Igor Krupnik, and Leslie Saxon for their helpful
and insightful comments. If I have misrepresented a
THOMAS D. ANDREWS 319
fact or omitted an important concept or issue, I bear
this responsibility alone. I would also like to thank vol-
ume editor, Igor Krupnik, for inviting me to submit a
paper, and for the support of both Susan Buggey and
Ellen Lee, my Canadian compatriots, for suggesting me
in the first place. Igor's lively and respectful encour-
agement at the beginning of this process was much
appreciated. I wish also to thank Miles Davis of the
Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre'^ CIS facility
who, with his usual spirit of synergism, prepared the
maps under tight time constraints, and to John Poirier,
also of the PWNHC, who helped me format some of the
images. Finally, to my wife, Ingrid, whose editorial skills
I turn to most frequently, I express my sincere appre-
ciation and thanks.
Notes
1. Readers wishing to read more about Dene,
Metis, and Inuvialuit ethnography and history should
consult Volumes 5 (Damas 1 984) and 6 (Helm 1 981
)
of the Handbook of North American Indians, pub-
lished by the Smithsonian Institution. All Dene words
are presented using the practical orthography of the
Covernment of the Northwest Territories.
2. The Dogrib have been negotiating a land
claim and self-government agreement with the fed-
eral government since 1992. In 2003 they signed a
final agreement that will provide ownership to 39,000
square kilometers of land; co-management and hunt-
ing rights over a larger area; self-government rights,
and $152 million CAD in financial compensation.
As of June 2004, the Parliament of Canada had yet
to pass the settlement legislation needed to give
the agreement the force of law.
3. Approximately half of the NWT population
is Aboriginal. Almost half of the population (1 8,000)
lives in the territorial capital of Yellowknife. The
next largest community is Hay River, population
4,000.
4. Diavik mine is located thirty-five kilome-
ters from BHP-Billiton mine, and it began produc-
tion in 2003. De Beers Canada, 1 50 kilometers north-
east of Yellowknife, completed environmental ne-
gotiations in 2003 and should begin construction
soon.
5. The Mackenzie Gas Project was proposed
by a consortium of companies, including Imperial
Oil, ConocoPhilips, Shell Canada, ExxonMobil, and
the Aboriginal Pipeline Croup. The project will see
construction of a gas pipeline stretching from the
Mackenzie River delta to northern Alberta, follow-
ing the right bank of the Mackenzie River. If the
project proceeds as expected, natural gas prodution
could start in 2010.
6. See http://www.gwichinplanning.nt.ca/
landUsePlan.html.
7. For example, see Andrews and Zoe 1997,
1 998; Andrews et al. 1 998; Legat 1 998; Legat et al.
1 999, 2001 ; Woolf and Andrews 1 997, 2001
.
8. The Department of Resources, Wildlife, and
Economic Development established TERS to study
tundra ecology and to create baseline data against
which environmental impact assessment of diamond
exploration and development might be measured.
The science camp is organized by RWED, with assis-
tance from the Prince of Wales Northern Heritage
Centre.
9. Located in Tsiigehtchic, one of four Gwich'in
communities, in the Mackenzie Delta region of the
NWT
10. The policy is now available as a download
from the Cwich'in Social and Cultural Institute's website
at http://www.gwichin.ca.
1 1. Also known as Crizzly Bear Mountain and
Scented Crass Hills. See Buggey (1999:21-3) for a
discussion of the significance of this site in terms of
the Canadian experience with cultural landscape
designation.
12. Horn Plateau's Dene name is Edehzhie.
1 3. Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre,
P.O. Box 1 320, Yellowknife, NT XI A 2L9, Canada.
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322 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
[documenting Ethnographic Landscapes
in /Alaska's fxjationa! farks
TONIA WOODS NORTON
In his travels through the Indian lands of the American
West in the 1 830s, the famed portraitist George Catlin
was greatly affected by the threatened extinction of
the buffalo herds throughout the Great Plains. Writing
at a time in which traditional Indian hunting practices
for subsistence were beginning to be overshadowed
by the commercial and sport hunting practices laying
waste to vast herds, his concern about the buffalo was
not simply that of a species' extermination, but rather,
was linked, inextricably, to the American Indian cul-
ture, which he saw "rapidly wasting away at the ap-
proach of civilized man... in a very few years, to live
only in books or on canvass [sic]." As a consequence
of this perceived lack of "preservation and protection,"
Catlin proposed, essentially, the first idea of a national
park based on preserving the view of "Indian and the
buffalo—joint and original tenants of the soil":
And what a splendid contemplation too,
when one (who has travelled these realms,
and can duly appreciate them) imagines
them as they might in the future be seen, (by
some great protecting policy of government)
preserved in their pristine beauty and wild-
ness, in a magnificent park, where the world
could see for ages to come, the native Indian
in his classic attire, galloping his wild horse,
with sinewy bow, and shield and lance, amid
the fleeting herds of elks and buffaloes. What
a beautiful and thrilling specimen for America
to preserve and hold up to the view of her
refined citizens and the world, in future ages!
A nation's Park, containing man and beast, in
all the wild and freshness of nature's beauty!
(Catlin 1844/1973:261-62)
His romantic impulses and antiquarian view of culture
as a curio show aside, Catlin's compelling argument for
a "nation's Park" unwittingly—and naively—prefigured
a view toward national parks that would not come to
the fore until the late twentieth century: the concept of
the ethnographic landscape and its preservation as cul-
tural heritage.
Catlin's insistence on the "joint tenancy" of both
man and beast within a protected landscape actually
reflected more the reality of the American landscapes
as parks than the credo of scenic nationalism exempli-
fied in the panoramic expanses of Yellowstone, Grand
Canyon, and Yosemite. The imperative to presen/e grand
scenery, which dominated the creation of national parks
in the United States in its infancy, was argued in terms
of both the frontier and of American exceptionalism
(see Runte 1987:1 1-8). Catlin's "nation's Park" was an
inhabited one in which the ecological relationships
between man and environment—albeit fragmentary—
were viewed as vestiges of culture worthy of preserva-
tion. Despite the emergence of distinctly historical and
archaeological parks in the early twentieth century (such
as Civil War battlefields and Southwestern Indian ruins)
through both congressional legislation and the Antiq-
uities Act allowing presidential proclamation, the
overarching themes for park and monument designa-
tion were those related to nature—an idealized sanctu-
ary in which man was the visitor and not the resident.
Nature cast in the form of cultural heritage excluded
the prime ecological agent: humankind.
TONIA WOODS NORTON 323
In creating protected areas to be experienced "from
the outside in," this model for a national park embod-
ies institutional frameworks— in essence, historical per-
spectives—which not only prescribe what kinds of re-
sources constitute a park, whether "natural" or "cultural,"
but the hierarchy of values that attend each category
of resources. These perspectives profoundly influence
not only the public perception of the parks as experi-
enced through interpretive tourism, but the manage-
ment of large-scale habitats and historical communi-
ties as discrete entities, as opposed to critically exam-
ining the integral relationship between them. The diffi-
culty here occurs when the heritage resources of a na-
tional park, on an abstract level, are identified accord-
ing to discrete categories of natural or cultural, in ef-
fect, mirroring an institutionalization process. This, in
turn, sets the parameter for the interpretive paradigms
by which parks are designated, managed, and "consumed"
by the public, obscuring the fact that these models re-
flect distinctly historical concepts of nature and cul-
ture. A critical part to this is the designation of 'wilder-
ness'; instead of its most commonly held perception as
land in a pristine state of being, it is, rather, an idea
about nature and culture that is time-bound, reflecting
values of differing eras responding to the exigencies
of cultural time and space (cf. Spence 1 999).
This disjuncture between the national park model
emerging from the late nineteenth and early twentieth
century and contemporary ecosystem dynamics of pro-
tected areas is particularly evident when we view
parks as landscapes, most notably ethnographic land-
scapes in which the human presence is key to their
preservation as cultural heritage. The existence of op-
posing vantage points—whether seen from within or
without, through the lenses of nature or culture—criti-
cally impacts our ability to view landscapes as the lay-
ered, multi-faceted, mutually dependent double helix
of humans and environment.
How, then, do we begin to understand parks as land-
scapes in which cultural heritage is ethnographically
conceived, i.e., cultural landscapes? How do these land-
scapes reflect attitudes about culture and history that
continue to evolve, rather than static portraits, artifac-
tual in nature? What promise does the cultural land-
scape paradigm hold for the management of national
parks? And critically, to what extent does the idea of
the cultural landscape restructure history-writing, heri-
tage production, and place-making themselves?
This paperwill examine the concept of ethnographic
landscapes within a discussion of this construct. The
application of cultural landscape preservation, in es-
sence, constitutes historical revisionism in terms of how
environmental and Native American histories are writ-
ten (or not)—and thus, heritage acknowledged—through
the documentation and interpretation of heritage val-
ues in the landscape. Catlin's vision for a national park-
though flawed and time bound— is not as irrelevant to
a discussion of contemporary parks as it may seem
upon first glance. This is particularly true when one
considers the origin of Alaska national parks in the last
quarter of the twentieth century, and the implications
for defining park landscapes as "ethnographic."
Unlike the lower forty-eight states, Alaska's Native
population was not subjected to a reservation system.
Aboriginal land claims in Alaska, then, continued to
exist until the discovery of oil on the North Slope.
Though sparsely populated, much of Alaska continued
to be traversed and used for a network of subsistence
activities—inhabited—by Native peoples. The concept
of parks as wilderness areas did not exist.
Before the 1 970s, only three parks—two as national
monuments, one as a national park and preserve—ex-
isted in Alaska; Katmai, Denali (established as Mt.
McKinley), and Glacier Bay. With the massive changes
wrought in the disposition of Native and public lands
as a result of the desire for oil exploration and drilling,
the resulting legislation, Alaska Native Claims Settle-
ment Act (ANCSA, 1 971 ) and the Alaska National Inter-
est Lands Conservation Act (ANILCA, 1 980; see Williss
1 985), essentially reformulated the concept of a na-
tional park as an uninhabited place. In particular,
ANILCA's passage determined the fate of 1 04 million
324 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
acres; it created six new national parks, enlarged one
existing park, established two new national monuments,
added acreage to two existing monuments, and set aside
two new national preserves. In the words of historian
Roderick Nash (1982:272), ANILCA was the "single
greatest act of wilderness preservation in world his-
tory," single-handedly doubling the number of acres
in the entire National Park Service (NPS), and by
adding an additional fifty-six million acres to the
National Wilderness Preservation System, more than
tripled its size.
Even more striking, ANILCA initiated an entirely
new policy with respect to Native land rights: in this
case, those of the Native Alaskans. As opposed to the
national parks in the lower forty-eight states, the ANILCA
parks recognized the land rights of pre-existing tra-
ditional cultures as legal, in particular, those related
to hunting and gathering activities in a "traditional
use of their subsistence resources" (Nash 1 982:272).
Despite an enduring and highly political contro-
versy over the subsistence issue since its passage,
ANILCA reoriented planning and resource management
in national parks toward the importance of ethnographic
research, particularly in those parks it directly affected.
The enabling legislation mandated a form of cultural
conservation—in this case. Native subsistence culture—
and created a legal obligation to preserve and protect
the full array of resources people use to define and
sustain their cultures.
The nexus of ethnography and history, of heritage
and sustainability, cultural conservation is rooted in
the concept of landscape—the physical matrix for cul-
tural, natural, and symbolic threads of human existence.
Interpreting park landscapes as ethnographic cultural
resources, however limited by definitions and compet-
ing priorities, is an endeavor to portray how humans
and land are inescapably woven together, a reciprocity
that cannot be abstracted out of the historical portrayal
of what a place is, how it has changed over time, and its
importance to identity, belonging, and the traditional
maintenance of the past through the present. Parks are
uninhabited, but their lands contain rich stories of oc-
cupation and use, memory and ritual, of seasonal rounds
and ceremonial visits to sacred sites. Revealing the
layered histories of these landscapes demonstrates the
"provisional, conditional nature of the past" and is cul-
turally empowering. This knowledge allows to reclaim
place through stories understanding landscapes as
"storytelling with the shapes of time" (Hayden 1 995:226).
The stories of two documented ethnographic land-
scapes in Alaska, Klondike Gold Rush National His-
torical Park (NHP) and Glacier Bay National Park and
Preserve, illustrate how the process is being adapted to
respond to the history of place—how re-visioning
through the lenses of Native American and environ-
mental history reinterprets park landscapes. As a baseline
format for identif/ing, documenting, evaluating, and ana-
lyzing cultural landscapes within the national parks,
the Cultural Landscape Inventory (CLI) is the first tier of
research for constructing such landscape histories. Its
methodology and application in the two Alaska parks
under discussion is a "work in progress," but one which
has begun to articulate new narratives of place.
These two parks represent a wide range of issues
from memorialization to the recognition of traditional
ecological knowledge as a key determinant of identity
and cultural preservation. By viewing park lands as eth-
nographic landscapes—or at the very least, landscapes
with ethnographic stories—the CLI process begins to
acknowledge Native Americans as historical agents.
This initial shift in perspective sets into place the im-
portance of historical processes and their spatial
dimensions:the functions of memory and identity within
processes of cultural conservation, how contemporary
perception and use shape the ideas of heritage and
legacy, and the importance of recognition through in-
terpretation—all tethered to physical places.
Dyea, the Chilkoot Trail, and Indian His-
tory in Klondike Gold Rush National His-
torical Park
in the late 1 980s, a Deisheetaan clan potlatch ceremony
TONIA WOODS NORTON 325
was held in a modest Legion Hall in the small South-
eastern Alaska town of Skagway. Hosted by an elderly
Native woman, Angela Sidney, from the Canadian vil-
lage of Carcross in the Yukon Territory, the event cel-
ebrated the arrival and dedication of a grave marker for
Tlingit/Tagish family members who had died between
1 898 and 1 901 at Dyea, otherwise known as the ephem-
eral gateway town at the foot of the famed Klondike
Gold Rush's Chilkoot Trail. At the time of their deaths,
Sidney's relatives had been buried at a "Native Cem-
etery" near the Healy and Wilson Trading Post at the
western edge of the Taiya River, their graves marked
by a "spirit house." Due to the dynamic river condi-
tions—seasonal flooding and bank erosion—at Dyea,
the spirit house marking the graves of her relatives, as
well as much of the Native Cemetery, had washed away
by the late 1 970s. Before then, Sidney made periodic
trips to visit the spirit house, which commemorated her
three siblings and several other cousins who died in an
outbreak of dysentery and German measles while her
parents were at Dyea, trading with the Tlingits and the
whites, Healy and Wilson.
Upon discovering that the spirit house had been
washed away, Sidney was disturbed that there was no
"mark" of her relatives' existence, no "spirit house on
them." Returning to Carcross, Sidney spoke to another
relative, Austin Hammond from Haines, about it:
So I asked him. I told him all about those
kids had a spirit house on them and I told
him it's washed out. And I told him I want to
put a gravestone on it. 'Do you think it will
be all right if I do that? Just to put a mark on
those kids? Just to know that they were
there? That our people were there? (Angela
Sidney in Cruikshank 1990:1 51-2).
Eventually, Sidney raised enough money for a stone
marker upon which the names of about ten of her rela-
tives were inscribed, and it was installed at the relo-
cated Dyea Native Cemetery (Fig. 105).
From the small grave marker at Dyea to the larger
Chilkoot Trail corridor. Native presence before, during,
and after the Klondike Gold Rush has been a story in
the shadows in the nearly thirty years of the Klondike
Gold Rush NHP's existence.' The park's enabling legis-
lation and its National Historic Landmark status pegged
its significance to the Gold Rush legacy, one in which
the predominant image of the lone, burdened prospec-
tor setting out to strike it rich was juxtaposed against
the teeming gateways of Skagway and Dyea,
boomtowns springing up overnight in response to the
discovery of gold in the Yukon River drainages. The
romanticism of the trail and the swashbuckling exploits
of frontier characters, along with the restoration of Gold
Rush buildings within a historic district in the surviving
Skagway, has been the primary narrative of both gold
rush towns, with Dyea having quickly succumbed to
abandonment when Skagway's White Pass and Yukon
Railroad obviated the need for the arduous Chilkoot
Trail route in 1900. Surviving physical resources from
the Gold Rush era, such as a complement of historic
buildings in Skagway, and the rich archaeological de-
posits at Dyea and on the trail buttressed the park's
claim to exceptional historical significance.
Missing, however, from this narrative are two criti-
cal historical agents whose roles are intertwined: the
Native people whose occupation preceded the 1 898-
1 900 flurry of activity, and the influence of the land-
scape itself, particularly its natural systems and features.
Interpretation of the park as an assemblage of historic
sites related to the Gold Rush, while critical, has not
addressed the complexity of the landscape as a con-
tinuum of cultural and ecological change. This is partly
due to the fact that most visitors to the park, arriving
predominantly by way of the summer cruise ships, ex-
perience the park through exhibits at the visitor center
and the historic buildings in the Skagway Historic Dis-
trict—places in which the emphasis is focused almost
exclusively on the years of the gold rush, a set of years
frozen in time mirrored, for example, by the life-like
tableaux exhibit of miners at a period bar in the Mas-
cot Saloon. However, an increasing number of visitors
are making their way into the large-scale landscapes—
Dyea and the Chilkoot Trail—by tour groups, highlight-
ing the interpretive potential of these sites as places
326 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
/ 05/ Relocated Tlingit grave marker at Dyea Native Cemetery, 200 1
.
greatly altered from their gold rush days. The contrast
is striking between the static urban grid of Skagway's
historic district and the dynamic glacial hydrology of
the Taiya River, which affects the trail and Dyea by
seasonal flooding and bank erosion.
Linked to the National Register of Historic Places
(NRHP - see Norton, this volume), and thus limited in
terms of redefining Dyea and the Chilkoot Trail as eth-
nographic landscapes, both CLIs expanded the histori-
cal chronology of the sites by identif/ing them as Na-
tive territory, the sites of cultural interaction first be-
tween Tlingit and Tagish, and then Euro-Americans. In
documenting the landscapes, strands of a story emerge
that reflect a more palpable presence of occupation
and use within both historical and environmental con-
texts. And while virtually none of this information is
new, its inclusion as a part of the physical history of the
site is critically important. Articulating Native pat-
terns of territorial use and control keyed to the re-
sources of a particular environment (read "place") re-
veals the larger dimensions of the history being con-
structed^that of a contact story in which centuries-old
rhythms of seasonal occupation and trading are largely
dislocated by an ephemeral event, the gold rush. In
essence, this is a remapping of the landscape as a con-
tinuum of ecological relationships, rather than cap-
suling a select "period of significance" related to the
gold rush. And while it may seem only a symbolic
gesture— like the grave marker—the addition of an
ethnohistorical aspect to the landscape history has the
potential to mitigate the rigid typology of the NRHP
by which salient aspects of sites as landscapes fall
through the cracks.
The name, "Dyea," in fact, is derived from the Tlingit
dayei, or "packing place," indicating the strategic value
of the tidal floodplain for the entrepreneurial coastal
Natives.' Consummate traders, the Tlingit predicated
their wealth upon the movement of goods to and from
the Athapaskan groups farther inland by controlling traf-
fic along the passages to the interior, one of which was
TONIA WOODS NORTON 327
the Chilkoot Trail whose name by Euro-Americans rec-
ognized, if tacitly, its Native history. As one of only
three non-glaciated passes connecting the Pacific coast
with the interior of present-day Yukon Territory espe-
cially the vast transportation network of the Yukon River
drainage, the Chilkoot Trail was a vital trade corridor
for at least two centuries before the Klondike gold rush.
Trade between the coastal Tlingit and the interior
Athapaskan people included a flow of marine products
to the north, in particular dried fish, clams, seaweed, sea
otter pelts, and fish oil, while the fur stocks of caribou,
moose, and beaver were transported to the south. The
importance of hooligan oil as a trade commodity gave
rise to Euro-American explorers dubbing the route as
the "grease trail." Traveling by family groups, the
Chilkat/Chilkoot typically made two or three annual
trips, the most important being the spring fur trade-
allowing for a return to Dyea before the annual hooli-
gan harvest at the mouth of the Taiya River in April.
Similarly, the Tagish seasonal rounds also affected their
trips to Dyea, as their trips coincided with the end of
"beaver season" in the north, hunting mountain goats
and groundhogs and other small game for drying dur-
ing their camp at Dyea (Cruikshank 1 990: 151).
Dyea's location at the foot of the trail, as well as at
the resource-rich tidal flats, established it not only as a
staging area for the rugged trade corridor, but also as a
seasonal camp for the Chilkat/Chilkoot Tlingit, whose
permanent settlement was at Klukwan (Haines Mission),
a few miles across the Lynn Canal. With the purchase of
Alaska by the U.S. in 1 867, and increased exploration
and prospecting throughout the 1 880s, the seasonal
trade and subsistence rounds that had characterized
Dyea shifted toward a more permanent settlement with
the arrival of Healy and Wilson's trading post in 1 884
(Fig. 1 06). By 1 887, records noted that 1 38 Natives
inhabited a settlement just north of the trading post,
which eventually included the Dyea Native Cemetery.
A decade before the gold rush, the importance of Dyea
as a trading post resulted in a shift of goods and com-
modities; in addition to the local marine products from
the Tlingit, the Tagish brought their furs south to trade
for guns, knives, and supplies at the trading post (Greer
1 993:39). As Angela Sidney recounted,
People used to go down to Dyea always all
the time before Skagway—go back and forth
from Tagish to the coast. It was just like
going to the store—that's the only place they
used to get their outfit, like flour and sugar
and tea and stuff. They get enough stuff there
for one whole winter's supply" (Cruikshank
1990:153).
At the outset of the gold rush fever, territorial conflicts
between the Chilkoot and Sitka Tlingit over trail pack-
ing rights resulted in a violent confrontation in 1 887
between the two groups; throughout the next decade,
increasing traffic through Dyea to the trail irrevocably
loosened the Chilkoot control over the packing trade
to include not only the Sitkas and other Tlingit groups,
but the Athabaskan (Tagish and Stikeen) packers as
well. Ultimately, negotiations with the Chilkoot over
use of the trail gave way in the face of thousands of
stampeders, although their sense of ownership remained.
Photographs taken during the 1897-1900 gold rush
heyday on the trail generally depict Natives in the nearly
invisible role of packers for the Euro-American pros-
pectors. When Dyea collapsed as a boomtown gateway
to the Yukon, the Native packing industry and trading
post were abandoned as well. Left behind were the
graves and markers, such as the spirit houses, of those
in the Native Cemetery.
Although little is known of Tlingit occupation and
use of Dyea and the Chilkoot Trail after 1 900, at least
one Native land claim with cabins was surveyed at
Dyea before 1 91 5; by the 1 940s, subsistence activities
in the area included at least one smokehouse, and
known wood-gathering areas around Dyea.^ Some fami-
lies may have remained at Dyea for a short period after
1 900, where at least one homesteading family, the
Matthews, was the result of aTlingit/Euro-American in-
termarriage. Interviews with Tlingit from nearby Haines
(Klukwan) in 1 946 indicated that Dyea was a traditional
summer camp and that it continued to be an area of
considerable resource gathering activities:
328 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
/ 06/ Tlingit village at Healy and Wilson trading post, Dyea, 1 897.
Dyea and Skagway are claimed by my
people. There are three streams at Dyea, and
there were three smokehouses there. The
people did not live there the year around,
but used the place a great deal. All three of
these smokehouses were owned by
Lukaax.adi people. They controlled a large
area of land. This place was used for berries
as well as for smoking fish. The Indian people
[Tagish?] also hunted there and smoked
meat. They generally went there in the fall of
the year. Some of the people would go up to
pick berries and then rush back to Chilkoot
to put them up. During the hunting season,
however, they stayed up there a long time
(Paddy Goennette in Coldschmidt and Haas
1998:33).
With the establishment of the park in 1 976, archaeo-
logical investigations at both the Dyea Townsite area
and along the Chilkoot Trail focused primarily on arti-
facts from the Gold Rush era since these deposits were
in abundance. This was partially due to the encroach-
ment of the Taiya River during the past century; all
physical evidence of the Native village at the trading
post, as well as the Native cemetery, was lost. Along
the Chilkoot Trail, rock cairns and tree slashes marking
the route were also subsumed, as early as the first wave
of stampeders, with only the name recalling its cultural
association before the gold rush (Brady 1 997:76,1 1 0).
In order to fashion a more inclusive landscape his-
tory for Dyea and the Chilkoot Trail, both CLIs con-
ducted began the landscape history with Tlingit occu-
pation and use before the Gold Rush, despite the fact
that little tangible "evidence" was available. Although
not characterized as "ethnographic landscapes" in the
inventories (rather, both are seen as vernacular land-
scapes), the ethnographic— in this case, Tlingit and
Athapaskan aspects of the landscape history were sig-
nificant in that the case could be argued that indig-
enous subsistence and trade use of the area far out-
lived the transitory boomtown. Thus, the history of
TONIA WOODS NORTON 329
Dyea as a cultural landscape originated in the earliest
known uses by the Native people for its resource-rich
environment as well as its strategic location at the
beginning/end of the trail as a trade corridor. Deter-
mining the extent to which Tlingit and Tagish peoples
participated in gold rush has proven elusive, as most
documentation points to their support roles as pack-
ers.
Marginal as it may seem, the Native contribution to
the park's historical narrative is an important one, for it
is a largely unarticulated ethnohistory that speaks to
the interrelationship of people and landscape. Perhaps
even more importantly, it serves as an anchor for
memory. Angela Sidney's lament that no one would
know that her people had lived and been buried there
led her to memorialize her relatives after the Native
village and its cemetery had long since vanished. The
Tlingit's land claim was subsumed under another home-
steader, and documentation of subsistence use after
1 946 is virtually nonexistent. Today, the legacy of the
Chilkat/Chilkoot is one of traces—the names "Dyea"
and "Chilkoot" and a small grave marker.
But, in attempting to capture the layers of the cul-
tural landscape in these places, it becomes clear that
the significance of Dyea and the Chilkoot Trail did not
begin in 1 898, nor did it end in 1 900. A landscape of
extremes, from the tidal flats to the towering summit at
the pass, the Chilkat/Chilkoot territory was one that
was clearly delineated in the minds of the Native Tlingit
and visiting Tagish as valuable terrain before the
arrival of the Euro-Americans; now, the "mark" of
memory, though a grave marker, speaks to the effi-
cacy of remembering a people's story, of heritage
rooted to place.
Traditional Cultural Properties and the
Wilderness Paradigm: Documenting Tlingit
Homelands at Glacier Bay
With ANILCA's establishment of the Alaska national
parks—and the recognition of Native peoples' rights
to subsistence resources—ethnographic research came
to the forefront of planning and management, prima-
rily due to the legalities involved in resource manage-
ment and land rights. Unlike the rest of Alaska, Natives
of Southeast Alaska—primarily the Tlingit were ex-
cluded from subsistence rights agreements incorpo-
rated into traditional and customary use of lands in
the newly created parks. Nowhere is this more pro-
nounced than, perhaps, the designation of the major-
ity of lands within—and perception of—Glacier Bay
National Park as a wilderness preserve. Although not
part of the federal subsistence regime, expanded eth-
nographic research is gradually becoming a key as-
pect of park management. This is due, in part, to the
park's increased cultural activities in support of closer
relationships with the Huna Tlingit, who claim Glacier
Bay as Haa Aani ('our \and"), their ancestral homelands.'*
Beginning in 1 999, the National Park Service initi-
ated Cultural Landscape Inventories (CLIs) in the park
to support potential nominations of two places to the
National Register of Historic Places as traditional cul-
tural properties (TCPs): Dundas Bay and Bartlett Cove.
Both places are of immense significance to the Huna
Tlingit, who live on the north end of Chichagof Island
at Hoonah, an hour's flight to the south of the park, but
who maintain that all of Glacier Bay is Huna territory.
Bartlett Cove, now the location of park headquarters,
includes a small cluster of islands; the vicinity of
the cove was an important resource procurement
zone with at least one semi-permanent village, sea-
sonal camps, and a turn-of-the century saltery. Mytho-
logically, it may be one of the most significant cultural
sites within Glacier Bay, as it is believed to be the
landscape of the highly potent Kasteen and Shawatseek
story validating Glacier Bay as a place of Tlingit origin
and identity.
Farther to the west, the promontory, tidal flats, and
waters of Dundas Bay contain archaeological remains
that range from an eleventh century Tlingit fort and
eighteenth century village site to late nineteenth-early
twentieth century cannery, settlement site, cemetery,
330 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
and seasonal camps; at least three Native allotments
were filed on lands in Dundas Bay. The most dominant
landscape vestiges of Tlingit historic occupation and
use are found at the site of the adjacent Dundas Bay
Cannery. The entire area continues to be important to
the Huna as a prized berry habitat, although histori-
cally, Dundas Bay had several productive salmon
streams, accounting for the documented remains of
smokehouses indicative of seasonal use. Both land-
scapes constitute rich areas of traditional cultural use
and association, borne out by historic patterns of site-
specific resource harvesting, creation stories, oral his-
tories, archaeological evidence, and place-names.
Mapping Dundas Bay and Bartlett Cove as cultural
landscapes with a view toward identifying them as
Traditional Cultural Properties (TCP), a designation for
the National Register of Historic Places, poses distinct
challenges, not the least of which is the construction
of an alternative view of history in which environment
and culture are inextricably woven in a designated "wil-
derness." As with Dyea and the Chilkoot Trail, this
history is one in which human ecology (of the Tlingit) is
the fundamental premise for cultural landscape recog-
nition—and inherently, protection—within the legal
framework of the National Historic Preservation Act.^
The process of identif/ing and documenting Dundas
Bay and Bartlett Cove as cultural landscapes essen-
tially controverts a centuries-long continuum of identi-
f/ing the landscape with Western ideas of origin and
discovery. In its place, the cultural landscapes are re-
vealed as integral repositories of history and identity
for the Huna Tlingit, places of traditional ecological
and cultural knowledge that retain their prominence
despite the fact that decades have passed since the
Huna actively fished and harvested there. Although
truncated, the landscape histories in the Bartlett Cove
and Dundas Bay CLIs reflect an intricately sophisticated
physical, social, and symbolic matrix in which cultural
values—homelands and wilderness—are at stake.
Part of this process is understanding how the wil-
derness paradigm— its "discovery," exploration, and in-
terpretation—emerged from Euro-American perceptions
of the Glacier Bay landscape, a far different perspec-
tive from that of Native Tlingit. The creation of Glacier
Bay National Monument by President Calvin Coolidge
on February 26, 1925, capped nearly fifty years of
interest in its glacial landscape as an "ecological labo-
ratory" worthy of preservation. In reality, the landscape
of Glacier Bay had been largely constructed in the Euro-
American imagination by narratives of exploration and
discovery beginning with the first systematic survey
of the Inside Passage, the expedition of Capt. George
Vancouver, 1791, chronicled in the journal of Dr.
Archibald Menzies (1 793-1 794), both surgeon and
botanist for the expedition. Serious encroachment of
glacial ice in the bay prevented ingress to the upbay
areas; nevertheless, Menzies described portions of what
would become park lands, including "a village with
some natives" at Dundas Bay (Menzies 1 993:1 61). Sub-
sequent reports of Tlingit activity in Glacier Bay were
limited primarily due to lack of glacial advance. How-
ever, a congressional report in 1 882 included a popu-
lation estimate of some 600-800 Tlingit at Hoonah,
their largest concentrated, permanent settlement at
Glacier Bay (U.S. Senate 1882:185).
The presence of the Tlingit in the shadows of the
monumental glaciers was featured in the account writ-
ten by Charles Wood, an American, whose reconnais-
sance of Southeast Alaska and the Yukon River head-
waters nearly a century later than Menzies in April 1 877
included Glacier Bay. Remarkably, Wood's account re-
flected more of his interaction with the Tlingits than
his awe at the glaciers (Wood 1882:323-39).
Two years later in 1879, however, the arrival of
John Muir at Glacier Bay heralded a more intense era of
focus on the glacial landscape in which the Tlingit oc-
cupation was noted, but accorded little serious atten-
tion. An intrepid naturalist, Muir's fascination with Gla-
cier Bay reflected the fusion of his beliefs in the "glacial
gospel" espoused by Louis Agassiz with the legacy of
Transcendentalism, in which human degradation of the
natural world had resulted in the loss of an Edenic
TONIA WOODS NORTON 331
legacy. Muir's ideology of a paradise regained was
implicit in his description of the glaciated Inside Pas-
sage of Southeast Alaska:
To the lover of pure wildness Alaska is one
of the most wonderful countries in the world.
No excursion that I know of may be made
into any other American wilderness where so
marvelous an abundance of noble, newborn
scenery is so charmingly brought into view"
(Muir 1915/1 998:1 3, emphasis added).
Muir's short statement, and his subsequent publications,
outlined in essence what would become the philosophi-
cal imperative for the creation of Glacier Bay as a pro-
tected area. His acceptance of Agassiz's glacial origins
theory, conjoined with the sense of an unspoiled land-
scape in which the sublime was evident at every view,
constituted the basis for a latter-day scientific creation
story. In fact, Muir's self-laudatory article recounting
this visit was both ecstatic romanticism and portentous
of the "natural" values by which Glacier Bay would come
under the legal protection of the U.S. government as a
national monument (Muir 1 895:234-47).
Muir reckoned that here, as an inevitable retreat of
glaciers, the "noble, newborn scenery"—encompassing
the remains of ancient interstadial forests with the rees-
tablishment of plant and animal life on the new land
revealed by isostatic rebound—elevated this particular
"wilderness" to distinction. "Fashioning the face of the
coming landscape," the glaciers were the elemental force
of a regeneration of earth" (Muir 1 895: 247). In reality,
Muir's assertion of the sublimity of the Glacier Bay
landscape aligned very nicely with the sweeping tide
of scenic nationalism parlayed into the creation of na-
tional parks, symbolic of an American heritage rivaling
claims of European historical supremacy.
The Tlingit, whose presence Muir recorded and
whose guidance was necessary in order for him to reach
the limits of the up-bay regions, were, for the most part,
anecdotal footnotes to the natural drama unfolding at
Glacier Bay. Even in its muted details, Muir's tale—in
essence, an ethnographic contact story—reveals the
disparity between the landscape of "discovery" and the
landscape of habitation and use. The impetus for Muir's
journey into Glacier Bay was his Chilkat Tlingit guide's
childhood experience in the bay "full of ice" where the
young man had been seal-hunting with his father. After
entering and camping at one of the western inlets at
the mouth of the bay, the group made contact with a
small group of Huna seal hunters at a seasonal camp,
more than likely in the vicinity of Bartlett Cove.*^ Dur-
ing the exchange, Muir's initial questions about the
presence of the "ice mountains" were met with "counter
questions as to our object in coming to such a place,
especially so late in the year." As seal-hunters on a
well-established seasonal round coming to a close (early
November), Muir's sudden appearance was suspect for
the Tlingit, leading them to ask if he was a missionary:
"Was he going to preach to seals and gulls, they asked,
or to the ice-mountains." After an exchange of tobacco,
sugar, and other items, the Huna revealed that
The main bay was called by them Sit-a-da-
kay, or Ice Bay; that there were many large
ice-mountains in it, but no gold-mines; and
that the ice-mountain they knew best was at
the head of the bay, where most of the seals
were found" (Muir 1895:235-6).
Unfazed by the Tlingit questioning of his motives, Muir
hired one of the seal-hunters to guide them up-bay. In
the next few days, Muir "discovered" the landscape of
"the five . . . huge glaciers. . . . \T\h\s was my first
general view of Glacier Bay, a solitude of ice and snow
and new-born rocks, dim, dreary, mysterious." While
Muir's rapture was only slightly tempered by the daunt-
ing climatic conditions, the Natives knew the risks of
traveling in the glacial waters, and feared the worst:
The Hoona guide said bluntly that if I was so
fond of danger, and meant to go close up to
the noses of the ice-mountains, he would not
consent to go any farther; for we should all
be lost, as many of his tribe had been, by the
sudden rising of bergs from the bottom"
(Muir 1895:237).
Muir was able to convince the Huna guide to continue
to the "head of the bay, and to the mouth of the north-
332 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
west fiord, at the head of which lie the Hoona sealing-
grounds. . . .[H]ere the Hoona guide had a store of dry
wood, which we took aboard" (ibid.).
The contrast between IVIuir's pursuit of knowledge
and the intimate knowledge of place revealed by the
Tlingit is striking. The landscape that one party sought
to explore and map as a terra incognitawas, in fact, one
in which the Huna imprint—however subtly perceived
through seasonal camps, ecological knowledge, circu-
lation networks, and place-names—had been in exist-
ence for centuries.
Despite the rise in steamship tourism that featured,
at one point, the seal hunting camp at Bartlett Cove as
somewhat of a local attraction in the 1 880s and 1 890s,
the impetus toward imaginatively capturing Glacier Bay
as a landscape of natural significance gained the upper
hand in the first decades of the twentieth century, cul-
minating in its designation as a national monument. In
1916, American ecologist William Cooper's foray into
Glacier Bay initiated the first systematic study of the
Glacier Bay landscape. Heavily influenced by Muir's
accounts of the terrain, as well as the scientific publica-
tions emerging from expeditions before the earthquake-
induced glacial activity after 1 899, Cooper's interest in
demonstrating the fledgling ecological model of plant
community succession led him to the reemerging coast-
line of Glacier Bay. Echoing Muir's rapture with the
landscape. Cooper's dedication to ecological study was
to last nearly half a decade—and resulted in federal
protection of Glacier Bay as a national monument.
Introducing his study to the scientific public. Coo-
per presented his case for the uniqueness of the Gla-
cier Bay ecology, and its potential for revealing natural
processes unavailable in other regions;
An ecologist will seize with eager delight
upon an opportunity to study the succes-
sional processes directly—a field where
change is plainly evident from year to year;
where the major part of a complete develop-
mental cycle may be encompassed within
the limits of a single lifetime. ... In Glacier
Bay we have a history of practically unbro-
ken glacier retreat, known to extend back to
1 794 and doubtless considerably farther.
Since 1879 the changes in position of the
various ice fronts have several times been
accurately mapped, and the geology and
especially the recent history have been well
worked out. We thus have a continually
expanding territory, quite fresh, exposed to
plant invasion, and upon it we find the
successive developmental stages displayed
in a definite logical order, from pioneers to
climax (Cooper 1923:93-4).
In setting forth a scientific investigation—studying plant
quadrants to monitor reestablishment of plant commu-
nities, mapping remnants of interstadial forests, and re-
cording climactic changes—Cooper was, in effect, con-
tinuing to map Glacier Bay as a scientific creation story,
albeit with much more precision, and less bombast, than
John Muir. As one of the first generation of ecologists,
his view was shaped by a vision of nature in which
balance, regeneration, and rational linear processes were
at play. In this view, there was no human—cultural-
interaction with the "ecological laboratory" of Glacier
Bay; the teleological succession of plant and animal
life as a result of glacial retreat constituted its own
independent, autonomous history of place. The appar-
ently seamless transition from Muir's philosophic ro-
manticism to scientifically interpreting Glacier Bay as a
"wilderness" devoid of human significance had been
set into motion.
Strikingly parallel and yet wildly divergent, the Huna
Tlingit view of Glacier Bay is not constructed on the
absence of humankind within a creation myth, but on a
presence intimately woven within it. Historically—and
to the present day—the Huna Tlingit have claimed Gla-
cier Bay as their place of origin and belonging. From
the Tlingit perspective, even in their diminished role
relayed by Muir's narrative, the landscape mapped by
the Euro-Americans as Glacier Bay was a resource-laden
homeland in which humans moved cyclically, with inti-
mate knowledge of climate, natural processes, and wild-
life, so since the beginning of their cultural time. Their
geographic and practical knowledge of the ice-strewn
bay areas was critical to "Muir's discovery."
In fact, the Glacier Bay area—both in times of gla-
TONIA WOODS NORTON 333
cial advance and in retreat—has been called S'ix' Vein,
or the "Big Dish," signifying its role not only as the
physical "breadbasket" or "icebox" containing a rich
panoply of life-sustaining resources, but perhaps more
importantly, the shared conception of the landscape as
TlitigitA'ani, Tlingit territory that persists to the present
day. Chookaneidi elder Ken Austin described the mean-
ing of "Big Dish":
It is the Big Dish all year round. ...Amy Marvin
(deceased Chookaneidi elder) told me 'We
gathered for winter time all the food. We did
it quickly. From the Big Dish area.' Summer,
winter, summer, winter. That was our home,
you know. So that's again, where, when we
say 'Glacier Bay,' we are also saying 'The Big
Dish' because that's where it all is. All the
berries. ..it's there (Ken Austin, interview,
September 2001, Anchorage).
For the Tlingit, the cognitive and symbolic mapping of
Glacier Bay represents not only possessory rights to
subsistence resources, but the very social organization
underpinning the uniqueness of their cultural life and
identity. Tlingit clans not only claimed their own dis-
tinctive locales through place-names, resource activi-
ties (berry-picking, sealing, seasonal fish camps) that
may or may not have had visible impacts upon the
landscape, but through symbolic ties as well, such as
stories, crests, and ceremonies, they reciprocally ac-
knowledged the territory of other clans. Clan property,
the at.oow, then, was manifestly tied to places in an
overall landscape of ha aani, or "our land."^ Unlike
other conceptions of contiguous or bounded property,
however, the Tlingit recognition of specific clan terri-
tory was "conceptualized not in terms of large swaths
of land, but rather as constellations of gathering, or
historical and navigational landmarks." (De Laguna
1 960:20).
With this culturally defined geography in mind, the
identification of two cultural landscapes in the park—
Dundas Bay and Bartlett Cove—set the stage for the
initiation of the CLIs in 1 999. The goal of the invento-
ries was to synthetically document the two landscapes
as places of cultural heritage for the Huna Tlingit in
order to explore the potential for their nomination to
the National Register as Traditional Cultural Properties
(TCP). A TCP documents heritage as an active process
in which the contemporary "property" demonstrates his-
torically rooted beliefs, customary practices, and the
maintenance of traditional knowledge—a task compli-
cated by the fact that active Tlingit occupation and use
of the sites effectively ceased due to park manage-
ment policies in the late 1940s to early 1950s.^ How-
ever, the vigor with which Tlingit elders still speak of
Glacier Bay attests to the deeply held cultural sense of
identity with its landscape and resources.
Fieldwork during the summers of 1999-2001, as
well as supporting oral histories and historical research,
focused on documenting the Tlingit historical associa-
tion with these sites—an interdisciplinary methodol-
ogy reflected in diverse and, perhaps, unconventional
ways of interpreting cultural data. Four primary sets of
cultural information were utilized: physical environs
and remains, documented through existing conditions,
photographic surveys, archaeological fieldwork, oral his-
tories and interviews; available place-name data; and
finally, historical and anthropological research (particu-
larly that of anthropologist Thomas Thornton). Field-
work included a study of traditional plant use inter-
views with fourTlingit elders: Winnie Smith, Esther Haze,
Katherine Grant, and Jennie Lindoff, conducted in July,
2001, along with field identification of specific plants
in the Bartlett Cove area.
This information was then interpreted through a site
history, as well as an analysis of the significance of key
landscape characteristics such as natural systems, spa-
tial organization, land use, cultural traditions, and ar-
chaeological sites. The inventories concluded with an
evaluation of the significance and integrity of these
landscape characteristics as contributing to the po-
tential designation of landscapes as TCPs.
Long the mainstay of historical construction for the
National Register, the field survey documentation of
archaeological evidence is the most problematic in
the Glacier Bay sites due to the character of the glacial
334 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
107/ Tlingit village ofKhartHeene [Cat-hi-ni], "Salmon Water." Photograph by George Emmons, 1889.
landscape. The advance and retreat of glacial ice sheets
during the most recent "Little Ice Age," (approximately
1 550-1 850 AD), with its corresponding rise and fall of
sea levels, isostatic rebound, and revegetation, destroyed
Tlingit settlement and seasonal camp sites and other
material evidence of occupation, complicating claims
of ownership and use from the Western perspective.
One of the few exceptions to this paucity of known
archaeological sites is found at Dundas Bay, Tinaak'w
(Little Copper Shield), a glacial fjord on the north shore
of Icy Strait, to which both the T'akdeintaan and
Chookaneidi clans have traditional claims. Because this
area had been in a state of glacial retreat since the
Pleistocene (1 3,000 BP), it sustained an incredibly rich
habitat for marine and plant resources harvested by the
Tlingit. Corroborated by oral history, archaeological
surveys have documented several historic settlements
in the Dundas Bay area:
—The late eighteenth century village of L'istee (oc-
cupied late 1880s to 1910s);
—The recently rediscovered Xakwnoowu (Gravel or
Dry Fort) dating to about 1 100 1 1 50 BP;
—Early twentieth century house pilings and a cem-
etery at the base of Xakwnoowu
;
—The remains of the Dundas Bay cannery (1900-
1930), probably the most visible historic remnants
of Tlingit occupation;
—A series of stone "nests" or monuments along
the adjacent ridgelines, perhaps the oldest material
evidence of occupation. Alluded to in stories as a
place of refuge from bears during a period of flood-
ing, this interpretations corresponds to the ice-
free conditions present in Dundas Bay when the
rest of Glacier Bay was under glacial advance in
the Little Ice Age.
Bartlett Cove, by comparison, lacks the archaeological
record of Dundas Bay due to its recent glacial history
of advance and retreat. Historic occupation of this area
can be dated to the remains of at least one salmon
saltery (1 888, possibly as early as 1 883) and an associ-
ated Native cemetery at Lester Island. George Emmons'
photograph from 1 889 documents the presence of a
sealer's camp and a village most likely at this site, which
was also associated with a productive sockeye salmon
stream (Fig. 1 07). Three Native allotments were recorded
for Bartlett Cove; a claim survey in 1914 noted a log
TONIA WOODS NORTON 335
cabin "formerly used as a smoke-house for drying
salmon," although no ruins exist today. At the time of
the CLI fieldwork, there were several culturally modi-
fied trees dating approximately to 1 900 within the im-
mediate vicinity of the cove, and others located in
adjacent areas. At least two uses for the peeled inner
bark were described by contemporary elders—fibers
stripped for basketry, and more common, the harvest-
ing of the cambium layer as a foodstuff.^
However limited the physical record may be, criti-
cal oral histories conducted in the 1 940s as part of a
study of Tlingit and Haida land rights illustrate that all
of Glacier Bay was described as S'ix Vein, the Big Dish—
the Huna "breadbasket," from which the material and
spiritual sustenance originated (Goldschmidit and Haas
1 998:25). Huna elders interviewed at that time recalled
seasonal camps at both Bartlett Cove and Dundas Bay
for marine and terrestrial resource harvesting as far back
as the 1 880s, with garden areas and thick patches of
nagoonberries, strawberries, cranberries, soapberries, and
raspberries, as well as rhubarb. The inter-tidal zone along
the beaches was particularly rich with ribbon seaweed,
crabs, and "gumboots" (especially at Bartlett Cove). Vi-
tal to the Tlingit diet, both salmon and seals were har-
vested in the waters at Bartlett Cove and Dundas Bay;
both the story of Xakwmonu and the 1 889 photograph
of Gatheemi seasonal village indicate sealing activities.
Land otters, porcupines, martens, wolverines, wolves,
and black bears were hunted and trapped in Bartlett
Cove. The interviews also documented summer camp-
sites, trap-lines, numerous smokehouses, gardens, and
possessory rights to salmon streams, all multi-genera-
tional in ownership, indicating a long-term presence in
both landscapes. Albert Jackson's statement revealed
his family's activities and attachment to Bartlett Cove:
Bartlett Cove was an important place for the
Native people. I have a dwelling and two
smokehouses there; also a garden...! had two
trap lines around the lake above Bartlett Cove.
The last time I trapped there was about eight
years ago [1938], but since I have become too
old my sons used these trap lines until it
[Glacier Bay] was made a reserve. I have fish
lines and traps in my house. ... I also have a
trapping cabin on the lake—formerly had two
or three cabins on the trap line. This place
belongs to the T'akdeintaan clan and has
belonged to my family for a long time. I am the
fifth generation to use it (Coldschmidt and
Haas 1998:55).
Similarly, oral histories recorded by Goldschmidt and
Haas (1 946) also confirm Tlingit occupation and sub-
sistence activities at Dundas Bay, corroborating the ar-
chaeological surveys and recorded mythology concern-
ing L'istee and Xakwnoonu. According to one interview,
At Dundas Bay, where the creek flows into the
Bay, there was a village called L'istee. On an
island at the mouth of the stream was a fort
called Xunakawoo Noowu. There was also a
camp for drying fish and picking berries on
this island. There were three big houses at
L'istee, and these are now rotted away. There
was also a graveyard for the "T'akdeintaan
clan. . . . This was formerly a T'akdeintaan
village and at one time, Mrs. Douglas's father
homesteaded the place. A potlatch was given
at this village about forty years ago [1906]
(Goldschmidt and Haas 1946/1998:55-6).
The streams and tidal flats of the Dundas River drain-
age provided "humpies, sockeyes, cohos, nagoonberries,
mountain blueberries, high-bush cranberries, porcupine,
black bear, mountain goat, marten, otter, and mink"
(Goldschmidt and Haas 1946/1998:55-6). In addition
to the interviews. Native allotment claims dating from
the 1 920s at Dundas Bay also indicate the presence of
active salmon streams, prime maintained berry patches,
and at least three adjacent smokehouses and fish camps
that had been in family ownership for several genera-
tions (lbid:54-5).
The rediscovery of the fort remains of Xakwnoowu
(c. 800 BP) in the mid-1 990s is especially important not
only in establishing the evidence of historic Tlingit
occupation at Dundas Bay (800 BP), but in reaffirming
ancestral ties for the both the Chookeneidi and
Ka'gwaantan clans. In a story recorded in 1 909 by John
Swanton, the protagonist is a renowned hunter from
Xakwnoowu who leaves the village after he returns from
a trip to find all its inhabitants dead:
From Xakanuwu went a man of the Xakanu-
336 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
kedi, who were named from their town. The
people used to go out from there after seals,
which, not having guns at that time, they
hunted with long-shanked and short-shanked
hunting spears always kept in the bow. . . .
the people of that town were numerous and
it was long (Swanton 1909:326-7).
The Menzies journal account for July 11,1 794, de-
scribed a village—possibly Xakwnoowu—on the tidal
flats at the mouth of Dundas Bay (Menzies 1 993). Even
Muir's return trip to Glacier Bay in 1 880 included a side
trip to Dundas Bay in a driving rainstorm; the party
took refuge in a "hut" occupied by a Huna, Ka-hood-
oo-shough, who offered to guide the American natu-
ralist and his party to the upper reaches of Dundas Bay
as a respite from berry-picking.
Contemporary interviews with Tiingit elders as
part of the CLI fieldwork reflect the enduring physical
and symbolic importance of Dundas Bay and Bartlett
Cove as resource procurement areas that continue,
even marginally, to provide traditional foodstuffs for
personal and ceremonial use. Although seasonal rounds
ostensibly ceased in the late 1 930s to mid-1 940s, tradi-
tional knowledge of plant and marine resources in the
Big Dish still dominant their conversations about the
Glacier Bay landscape, such as the much sought after
Dundas Bay nagoonberries and the delicacies of Bartlett
Cove gumboot clams. Dundas Bay, in particular, has
been nicknamed Tleikw Aani, "Berry Land." According
to anthropologist Thomas Thornton (1999:31) "These
berry patches were not only owned and defended but
celebrated and even cultivated by means of heixwa, or
"magic," and other techniques believed to enhance pro-
ductivity." In a letter supporting his claim to a Native
allotment at Dundas Bay in November, 1 924, Harry
Shudake wrote that "and the berries that grow on the
ground I all ways [sic] fertilize the ground like a
garden. "'°
Several elders interviewed spoke in detail about
berry-picking activities in Dundas Bay, including sa-
lient information on the changes in microclimate and
berry production due to the Tlingits' decreased role in
maintaining the landscape as a resource habitat. Not-
ing the vast changes in the appearance of the Dundas
Bay berry patches since the late 1930s, the elders at-
tributed this evolution to their absence. Without the
historical practice of seasonally weeding out alder
shoots from among the berry patches—a task relegated
to the Huna children—much of the area has become
overgrown with the alders, changing the environs from
moist to dry—and, according to the elders, significantly
reducing the availability of the nagoonberries. Ken
Austin recalled his distress at being unable to recog-
nize the landscape he visited as a youth upon return-
ing with another elder, the late Amy Marvin, in the late
1 990s to pick berries:
My dad and I, we would be trolling around
Point Adolphus, you know, close to Dundas
Bay. About the middle or latter part of August,
the aroma from the nagoon was so strong, he
told me, 'It's almost time.'. ...Nagoon was all
over the place. ..And all the berries we picked,
we all went as families, you know, different
clans. When I went back with Thornton [in
1999], oh I felt badly. I didn't recognize the
place. There was few nagoon around. . . . Our
traditional knowledge I got from Amy
Knutsen (Marvin). ... I ask her 'How come
there are not too many berries here?' [She
said] 'We are told by the white people not to
pick berries around here anymore. The berries
need to be picked; they need to be needed
and wanted like we need to be needed. Since
we didn't, they stopped growing because
we're not there to do it anymore.'. . As soon
as we stopped picking them, the nagoon
didn't feel needed anymore, so they didn't
come out like they usually did every end of
August. Just hang on the branches, you know,
now they're not there because we did not go
back. That's traditional knowledge (Ken Austin,
intep\/iew, September 2001 ).
The implication of such a changed landscape is vitally
important for the Tiingit. It reveals an inability to sus-
tain the reciprocal relationship between seasonal prac-
tices and the landscape resources that support Tiingit
cultural life as a whole, such as the role of berries in
diet, trade, and ceremonies, a loss of traditional eco-
logical knowledge with the passing of time. As one
elder prophetically voiced,
It's changed a lot. The place where they had
nagoonberries and strawberries, it's overgrown
TONIA WOODS NORTON 337
by alderwood and all these different kind of little
trees, and they wanted it to be a wilderness, so it
is come, become a wilderness, and them not
knowing it is where we get our food" (Winnie
Smith, interview, July 2001).
Aligned with the archaeological record and information
gathered from oral histories and interviews, compelling
evidence of Huna Tlingit landscape identity and asso-
ciation is emerging through the ongoing interviews and
collection of place-names with elders and clan mem-
bers." Though they are not "physical artifacts," place-
names are tied to the very core of Tlingit identity; there
is no separation between clan membership, place of ori-
gin, and means of territorial subsistence. To say that one
is from the T'akdeintaan or Chookaneidi clans signifies a
place of landscape origin and belonging—and, as a re-
sult, possessory rights to certain resource areas, such as
salmon streams and berry patches, as the clan property,
at'oow or "owned things."
Situating the cultural landscapes of Bartlett Cove and
Dundas Bay within the Tlingit geography of Glacier Bay
has particular resonance when attempting to frame these
places as Traditional Cultural Properties. Analysis of place-
names provides valuable ethnoecological clues to Tlingit
landscape history, conveying a portrait of a glacial envi-
ronment where the connections between major cata-
strophic events and Tlingit landscape history are evoked
through toponyms. The pre-Little Ice Age village in
Bartlett Cove, recalled as the site of the Kasteen and
Shawatseek story, has been identified as L'awshaa Shakee
Ann, or "Town on Top of the Glacial Sand Dunes," point-
ing to its location before another glacial advance prompt-
ing its abandonment except for the elderly Shawatseek.
The settlement site recorded in 1 889 as Catheeni on Lester
Island near the mouth of the Bartlett River—and more
than likely the same location of seasonal camps during
the next decade—translates as "Sockeye," designating a
productive source of salmon. Place-names at Dundas
Bay include the encompassing TIeikw Aani, or "Berry
Land," the rarely used Tina'ak'w, or "Little Copper Shield,"
and Xakwnoowu, "Gravel" or "Dry Fort," perhaps referring
to its location in an ice-free environment during the flood-
ing. The translation for the abandoned village site name,
L'istee, is unknown. On a larger scale, the succession
of place-names for Glacier Bay itself illustrates a Tlingit
conception of landscape history that corresponds di-
rectly to the processes of glaciation: S'e Shuyee ("End
of the Glacial Mud") at the inception of the bay at the
base of a morainal valley; XaatI Tu ("Ice Bay") as the
size of the bay increased with glacial debris during its
retreat, and the name used today. Sit' Eeti Ceeyi, "The
Bay in Place of the Glacier" (Thornton 1 997b:223; Ken
Austin, September 2001).
The conservation of place-names, like traditional
ecological knowledge, speak to clan history and own-
ership, legitimately— in the Tlingit sense of place-
validating their historical claim to their Glacier Bay
homelands, ha'a aani. The legacy revealed by place-
names, mythology, and oral history are indelibly in-
scribed upon the symbolic landscape of Glacier Bay,
and are borne out by physical evidence found in the
archaeological remains and contemporary resource
habitats. Incorporating the cultural geography of place-
names, traditional stories, oral histories, recent inter-
views, and field visits with Huna elders with more con-
ventional historical documentation, the Dundas Bay and
Bartlett Cove Cultural Landscape Inventories evince a
profoundly ethnographic portrait of landscape far re-
moved from the "pristine wilderness" paradigm.
By identif/ing and documenting places as cultural
landscapes within a designated wilderness, the impor-
tance of an ethnographic context recognizing—and,
perhaps, ultimately preserving—culture and nature in
an intensely complicated environmental history is un-
deniable. The implicit connection between place and
identity, between landscape and heritage, is borne out
in the Tlingit concept of sliagoon, loosely translated as
"heritage" or "legacy" (Ken Austin, interview, Septem-
ber 2001). In fieldwork among the Angoon Tlingit, de
Laguna described her perception of historical legacy
reflected in shagoon:
It has been claimed with justice that every
people live their own myths, that is, that
338 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
their conduct in the present reflects what
they believe their past to have been since
that past, as well as the present and the
future, are aspects of the 'destiny' in which
they exhibit themselves as they think they
really are. The Tlingit themselves sense this
and use the term 'ha (our) cagun' for the
origin and destiny of their sib [clan], including
the totemic animal or bird encountered by
the ancestors and the powers and preroga-
tives obtained from it, as well as their own
place in the universe and the ultimate fate of
their unborn descendants. This is something
that goes beyond asking the historian to
check the validity of native tradition, or
attempting through native tradition to check
the accuracy of historical documents. Rather
it poses for us the problem of how a people
view their history" (de Laguna 1960:202).
Elder Ken Austin specifically tied the concept—and
evocative power—of shagoon to place:
Ha shagoon. The Wooshketan ancestors lived
there, in Bartlett Cove. [They say] 'Our
ancestors lived here.' And the T'akdeintaan
validated it. So, ha shagoon from their time to
the present time. We still dance it, we still
dance the songs. Ha shagoon comes to the
present time to still validate it. And their oral
history, their crests, ha shagoon at.oow, 'our
ancestors owned it. ...Our grandchildren are
going to own that crest, the names, the
songs, and all that.' So, ha shagoon goes into
the future. Shagoon covers past, present
future in that way because of what they'll
bring out, the crests again, at certain part of
their potlatch. They want everyone to show
it validates, presently validates, what they
had long ago, and what they have now, and
what their grandchildren will have. That's
shagoon. Their at'oow is what they have, their
songs, their at'oow, they will sing it. Again
validating their own shagoon, Bartlett Cove,
that's Wooshketan" (Ken Austin, September
2001).
In this respect, the recognition of Tlingit cultural land-
scapes within Glacier Bay National Park is essential in
order to support the long term viability of cultural knowl-
edge increasingly in danger of being lost as elders,
who have specific knowledge of traditional practices,
pass away. The cultural landscapes documented by the
CLI process—even within the typological framework
of the National Register—reveal an alternative histori-
cal vision of landscape through an authentic story of
place, one that requires new avenues of interpretation
and preservation. Large-scale patterns of spatial orga-
nization (recognized possessory clan rights to specific
areas), historic land use patterns (the geographic net-
work and seasonal rounds associated with resource
harvesting), and most importantly, cultural traditions (sto-
ries, myths, place-names) connected with Dundas Bay
and Bartlett Cove point to their efficacy as Traditional
Cultural Properties as defined by the National Register,
even with its problematic conceptions of history and
place. As a result of the CLI process of documenting
Tlingit history at Dundas Bay and Bartlett Cove, the
Alaska State Historic Preservation Office concurred with
the CLI findings of eligibility of these two landscapes
as Traditional Cultural Properties in January 2004. The
significance of this determination cannot be overstated.
Though cultural ties to the landscape are now physi-
cally limited—precluding occupation and seasonal har-
vesting—the maintenance of traditional knowledge and
association, and the recognition of the landscape's pro-
tected status as a result of the TCP designation are vital
not only to the cultural survival of the Huna Tlingit, but
increasingly to the preservation of Glacier Bay itself.'^
Conclusion
In essence, this is a story of recovering landscape mean-
ing—writing new histories, reconstructing cultural maps
both literal and symbolic, and recognizing the potency
of place—using a methodology of cultural landscape
preservation that remains in its infancy. The produc-
tion of historical narratives, in this case through the
construction of ethnographic landscape histories, is, in
itself, a cultural act that restructures the past as provi-
sional and contingent, defying the pervasive belief in
its representation as a scientific absolute. Perhaps no-
where is this more evident than in the contested terrain
of national parks where the master narratives forged in
executive proclamations and legislative mandates of-
ten obscure the richness of the storied landscapes they
are designed to protect.
Like landscapes, memory and commemoration are
TONIA WOODS NORTON 339
active processes that allow us to reclaim stories that
range from the mythic to the personal, illustrating the
"power of historic places to help citizens define their
public pasts" (Hayden 1995:46). Tied to place knowl-
edge, the interpretation of park landscapes is key to
not only the protection of vital resources, but to the
sustenance of American cultural diversity. Where eth-
nographic landscapes have not been acknowledged as
historically significant, the revisioning of the past
through the Cultural Landscape Inventories constitutes
a powerful tool. It provides a unif/ing framework in
which multiple histories can be told, and a forum where
values attendant upon conflicting definitions of nature
and culture can be negotiated.
From the subtleties of grave markers to the dra-
matic remapping of cultural territory, the recording of
landscape history and evolution through the CLIs sug-
gests not only a new vision of place history, but a
reformulation of the landscape concept itself:
The term landscape no longer refers to pros-
pects of pastoral innocence but rather invokes
the functioning matrix of connective tissue that
organizes not only objects and spaces but also
the dynamic processes and events that move
through them. This is landscape as active
surface, structuring the conditions for new
relationships and interactions among the things
it supports (Wall 1999:233).
In reading landscapes through the prism of historical
and ethnographic time, the evolutionary dialogue of
people and place is critical to the preservation of na-
tional park lands. Although naive and antiquarian, Catlin's
argument for a nation's park to presen/e the traditional
ecology of Indian and buffalo recognized the double
helix of nature and culture as integral to American heri-
tage. Documenting ethnographic landscapes is a daunt-
ing adventure that challenges long-standing categori-
cal divisions between natural and cultural values, the
linearity of historic progression, and, ultimately, the
authorship of cultural stories embedded in place. It rep-
resents a decoding of historical sensibilities as much
as a recapitulation of management philosophies, and
allows those on the margins to participate in a po-
lyphony of voices retelling the stories of landscapes.
Landscapes, indeed, are our legacy.
Notes
1
.
Three recently completed NPS projects, the
Cultural Landscape Inventories (CLIs) for Dyea His-
toric Townsite and Chilkoot Trail, and the Ethno-
graphic Overview and Assessment, are the first to
specifically address the historical Native presence
in the history of the park's lands.
2. The naming of the "Taiya" River reflects Tlingit
origins: "taiya" is a derivative of dayei—JWngit for "pack-
ing place." See "Dyea Historic Townsite CLI," ethno-
graphic information section (NPS 2001).
3. The allotment known as the "Nan-Sook"
Claim was just north of the Healy and Wilson claim.
Early Skagway native J. Bernard Moore recalled that
he hired Nan Sook to help build the Moore resi-
dence in Skagway, and that the Tlingit had come
over from Dyea with Healy (Brady 1997:87).
4. The distinction between "Huna" and
"Hoonah" is significant. "Huna" is the Tlingit people's
name for themselves; Hoonah is the central settle-
ment site of the Huna people. In 1 995, NPS and the
Hoonah Indian Association signed a Memorandum
of Understanding aimed at promoting better rela-
tions between the two parties. In recognition of this
important connection, the park has initiated and col-
laborated on culturally significant resource studies
and activities that address Huna place-names in Gla-
cier Bay, traditional harvesting of gull eggs, seals,
berry habitats, and other traditional uses. In addi-
tion, a 1997 master-planning effort by NPS included
Huna recommendations for construction of a cul-
tural center along the beach trail in the Bartlett Cove
area. Another collaborative project along Bartlett
Cove trails resulted in two tree carvings of clan
crests—octopus and eagle—on living trees within
the NPS administrative area.
5. NHPA authorized the National Register; Sec-
tions 1 06 and 1 1 of the NHPA specifically apply to
the protection of recognized National Register prop-
erties and to requiring compliance review of under-
takings that may impact historic resources. The law
also requires mitigation of damages and impacts to
these properties in the event of adverse effects of
undertakings.
6. This may have been the village, Catheeni—
340 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ ALASKAN PARKS
see the Tlingit sealing camp photo taken by George
T. Emmons in 1 889 (Fig. 1 07).
7. Ken Austin described the Huna "ha aanf
boundaries as "from the mountains, all around Gla-
cier Bay, except for the entrance, all encircled by
mountains." Clan territories are associated with the
three main clans: Chookeneidi, Ta'kdeintaan, and
Wooshkeetan (Ken Austin's interview, 2001).
8. Glacier Bay's waters were closed to Tlingit
seal hunters in 1 974.
9. Winnie Smith recalled, "[A]nd we used to
get— it's called 'sax' -we used to get it from up the
bay, and it comes from hemlocks. ... my grand-
mother used to start a place from the bottom, and
they made of sticks, and we'd just go like this, and
the whole bark would just fall off the tree. And then
she'd sit there, and she'd have her knife, it's like
this, and she used to take the insides off and dry it
and put it in seal oil, and it's good, it's sweet, and we
used to eat it." Interview, July 24, 2001
.
10. Harry Ship Dick, (Shudake), to U.S. Land
Office, Anchorage, Alaska, lA 04489, November 26,
1924. CLBA Park Archives, Native Allotments.
1 1 . The collection and mapping of Tlingit place-
names has been an ongoing collaborative project since
1993 (with Hoonah Indian Association and the Alaska
Department of Fish and Game). Other project members
have included the Southeast Native Subsistence Com-
mission, and significantly, the National Park Service.
NPS cultural resources staff at the park continue to
focus on the creation of a "talking map," an ArcView
based model of Glacier Bay replete with Tlingit place-
names with hot links to Native pronunciation, as well
as video and oral histories of the sites.
12. Since Dundas Bay and Bartlett Cove are
now eligible for the National Register listing as TCPs
as of 2004, their recognition as historically signifi-
cant cultural resources will allow park management
to address potential impacts and adverse effects of
undertakings that may affect their integrity. In es-
sence, this will institute a more formal process of
cultural resource protection because of the mandates
of Sections 1 06 and 110 of the NHPA.
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TONIA WOODS NORTON 341
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NATALIA V. FEDOROVA'
The protection and use of individual objects
cannot be effective outside tine historical and
natural space surrounding them (Shul'gin
1994:4).
The Yamal Peninsula, the northern extremity of the
Western Siberian plain, is an exceptional region from
many perspectives: geographical, cultural-historical, and
economic. Located some 2,500 kilometers (1 ,550 miles)
and two time zones east of Moscow and the center of
European Russia, the peninsula is the northernmost sec-
tion of one of the most dynamic regions of the Rus-
sian North, the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area (okmg),
with its booming oil-and-gas industry."^ The fact that
this crossroads area is the home of the indigenous
Nenets people, with their vibrant culture of traditional
nomadic reindeer herding, makes the peninsula truly
distinctive among all other areas of the Russian Arctic.
Therefore, preservation of Native culture and economy
as well as of its lasting heritage should occupy a cen-
tral position in policymaking for "sustainable economic
development" in the region.
The Yamal Peninsula, about 750 kilometers (466
miles) long, is a strip of flat tundra extending from south
to north. Situated on the border of Europe and Asia,
Yamal is essentially the last outpost of Europe in Sibe-
ria. To the west, the peninsula opens onto the Bolshe-
zemelskaya Tundra, a broad swath along which the no-
madic Reindeer Nenets migrate from east to west and
west to east. This critical linkage connects the expanses
of Northeastern Europe and Northwestern Siberia, just
as the zone of great steppes much farther south unites
Europe and Inner Asia. To the east, Yamal is linked with
the sparsely populated areas of the Central Russian
Arctic—the Cydan and Taimyr peninsulas and the coasts
of the Laptev and East Siberian Seas. Farther eastward
and east of the mouth of the Kolyma River, begins a
culturally different world, a coastal area of sea mam-
mal-hunting cultures that share historical-cultural links
with the Eskimo cultures of North America.
The lack of large rivers flowing longitudinally has
made an indelible imprint on the processes of human
settlement and on the domestic and economic adapta-
tion of the indigenous population. The peninsula is a
cultural nucleus, a core area for the nomadic culture of
the Siberian Nenets indigenous people. It is a unitary,
historical-ethnographic landscape, with a unique, pro-
found history and a subsistence economy that is alive
today, based on the year-round, nomadic travel of rein-
deer-herders with their herds of reindeer, from the arc-
tic tree-line to the barren polar tundra (Fig. 1 08). Such a
type of subsistence economy has been in existence in
Yamal for hundreds of years. However, there is a marked
difference between the economy of ancient times and
that of today. During the first millennium and the be-
ginning of the second, Native lifestyle was based on
nomadic travel following herds of wild reindeer [or
caribou], with a small number of domestic reindeer for
transportation (Fedorova 2000, 2000a). Today, Native
herders move year-round; and they have much larger
herds of domestic reindeer, whereas little hunting is
343
practiced because of the almost total extermination of
wild reindeer.
With its continued, unbroken practice of traditional,
nomadic reindeer herding, the Yamal Peninsula—and
the Yamal District as its administrative unit—are truly
special among all other areas of the Russian Arctic. In a
cultural sense, the Yamal Peninsula is the most "vis-
ible" component of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area
[sometimes refered to simply as okrug below] and also
its best-known symbol among the public at large.
Problem Statement
Important, fundamental questions can and should be
asked about the living, indigenous culture of Yamal:
questions about its prospects of survival and sustain-
ability in the modern world and questions about how
well its heritage is being preserved under the modern
administrative system and in connection with economic
development of the Russian North.
The basic questions addressed in this paper can be
summarized as follows:
—Does an effective system exist for protecting his-
torical-cultural heritage in the Yamal-Nenets Autono-
mous Area as a whole and on the Yamal Peninsula
in particular?
—If there is such a system, does it incorporate in
any way the concept of "historical-cultural (ethno-
graphic) landscape" in its operations"?
—If there is an effective system that incorporates
such a concept, then how is this concept reflected
in legislative documents and the daily practice of
agencies that protect cultural heritage?
Contemporary Demographic Status of the
Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area
The Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area covers 750,300
square kilometers (290,000 square miles), with a popu-
lation of 500,500 people (here and hereinafter, figures
are from Yamal 2000:13, 63-91, 92). The average
population density in the okrug is 0.7 person per square
kilometer (by comparison, there are 8.6 persons per
square kilometer in the Russian Federation as a whole).
The okrug includes seven cities, eight industrial towns,
and 103 rural communities. The administrative capital
is the city of Salekhard.
Since the collapse of the centrally controlled So-
viet economy in the early 1990s, the basic economic
activities of the indigenous population—reindeer breed-
ing, fishing, the processing of reindeer and fish prod-
ucts, and so on—have begun to develop as commer-
cial market enterprises. Gas and petroleum explora-
tion, which arrived in the region in the 1960s and
1970s, is the engine that drives regional economic
development. However, at the same time, this industry
creates many problems for preserving the living cul-
tures of local indigenous people. There are serious
questions about this rich culture's survival in an eco-
nomic matrix that is increasingly dominated by indus-
trial development.
The oil-and-gas industry has brought about pivotal
changes in the okrug, not only in social and economic
status, but also in demographic composition. Barely
sixty years ago, according to data from the All-Union
Census of 1 939, the okrug population was 45,734, in-
cluding 15,348 nomadic reindeer herders (33.56 per-
cent of the total population). In 1959, on the eve of
oil-and-gas development, the population increased to
65,000 persons, ofwhom 28,000 were indigenous resi-
dents. By the year 2000, the total population of the
okrug had increased by nearly 800 percent, to 506,800
persons.
Of today's okrug residents, Russians constitute nearly
62.8 percent; Ukrainians, 5.8 percent; and Tatars, 5.8
percent, whereas the portion represented by indigenous
people (Nenets, Khanty, Komi, and others) dropped to
8 percent. The urban population of the okrug is now
41 9,600 and predominately non-Native. Of the current
rural population of 87,181, only a little more than
one-third are indigenous residents. Among these in-
digenous rural residents, 1 3,285 are still leading a no-
madic way of life. The majority of those people are
living on the Yamal Peninsula that now makes the Yamal
District (Raion), one of seven administrative districts of
the okrug. The Yamal District Administration and all
344 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ YAMAL
108/ Nenets herders visiting the Yarte site archaeology camp in Central Yamal.
basic services for the district (including a small district
museum) are located in the district capital, the town of
Yar-Sale (population 3,800).
There can be no doubt that the okrug population
has changed significantly in the last four decades—
because of Russian and other newcomers. These new
settlers came to the North primarily to earn higher wages
and other benefits. Most of them did not see their own
or their children's futures as connected in any way with
this land. The settlers often used the term "mainland,"
or simply "the land," when referring to Russian territory
outside Yamal and outside Siberia in general. After liv-
ing in (what is now) the Yamal-Nenets Okrug for many
years and having made its cities and villages their own,
many of these people still feel like winter workers at
isolated polar stations, who live with the knowledge
that they will be replaced at any time and return to "the
Big Land."
During the most recent decade (after 1 991 ), another
significant population of new arrivals appeared—immi-
grants from former republics of the USSR and areas of
military and interethnic conflict within the boundaries
of Russia. Compared with the previous influx of immi-
grants, these people initially had even less cultural and
emotional connection with the land of Yamal and its
earlier cultural history. Issues concerning preservation
of local heritage, much less protection of the natural
and cultural landscape, were the last things that con-
cerned this pragmatic, economically oriented newcomer
population.
However, as the various groups of settlers gradu-
ally were cut off from their places of origin, many were
compelled to stay and settle in the area. Professional
careers and family homes were built over several de-
cades. Children were born to the new settlers, and are
already adults for whom this territory has become a
"native" land. Hence, the recognition of certain local
"roots" gradually became important not only to the in-
digenous people, but also to all categories of new-
comers. This remarkable shift in attitude toward local
NATALIA v. FEDOROVA 345
cultural heritage has begun to be exhibited distinctly
in public discourse and in people's consciousness, par-
ticularly during the 1990s. The shift is also reflected
today in local media coverage of various historical-
cultural topics and heritage issues, and, to a certain
extent, in the legislative activity of the Yamal-Nenets
Okrug government and local authorities.
Cultural Heritage Preservation in Yamal:
Legislative Base and Actual Situation
Whatever legislative base exists today for protection
of local historical-cultural heritage in the Yamal-Nenets
Okrug has essentially been developing during the last
ten years—that is, since the okrug became a compo-
nent of the new Russian Federation in 1992. Until that
time, national heritage legislation had been in effect
throughout the okrug, as across the entire territory of
the former Soviet Union. The 1 978 All-Union Law, "On
Protection of Monuments of History and Culture," was
the cornerstone of that legislation.
It was in 1 993, however, that the first piece of rel-
evant regional legislation was enacted—^the "Regula-
tion for Protection of Monuments of History and Cul-
ture." This law was adopted on May 22, 1 993, by De-
cree No. 1 1 7 of the Head of the Okrug Administration.
In that decree, responsibility for the "protection of monu-
ments of history and culture in territories under its ju-
risdiction" was assigned to town and district administra-
tions (municipal communities). Essentially, the decree
only recommended that local administrations add heri-
tage preservation specialists to the staffs of district and
okrug departments of culture. As the regulation is
worded, this task is not mandatory.
With a series of later bureaucratic reorganizations,
the situation worsened: for example, district and okrug
departments of culture were reorganized as "cultural
administrations," and finally, as "committees on culture,
youth policy, and sports," further diluting the adminis-
trations' legal obligation to employ preservation spe-
cialists. For these and other reasons, to this day [as of
2003], only two of seven Yamal-Nenets Okrug districts,
346
Priuralsk (Cis-Ural) and Krasnoselkup, have some type
of heritage preservation specialists on their administra-
tive staffs. It should be noted, however, that the main
reason for this lack of necessary specialists is not so
much the "non-mandatory" wording of the 1 993 decree
as the lack of appropriately qualified specialists in the
area.
In 1 996, another piece of regional legislation was
introduced—the "Regulation for the Execution of His-
torical-Cultural Evaluation in the Yamal-Nenets Autono-
mous Area." A similar piece of legislation, enacted ear-
lier in the neighboring Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area,
was used as a basis for the new regulation. The new
regulation has not yet been put into effect (as of 2003)
because it has not been approved by the Okrug De-
partment of Minerals and Natural Resources. In the ab-
sence of such a regulation, historical-cultural evalua-
tion (survey) of areas approved for industrial construc-
tion or other economic development is likely to be
the exception rather than the rule. In today's practice,
the execution of such surveys depends mainly on the
attitudes of individual employees of local administra-
tions or, rather, on the perseverance of archaeologists
and other cultural specialists, who usually receive in-
formation on the proposed activity in passing.
On October 1 6, 1 998, Okrug Law No. 40, "About the
Protection of Monuments of History, Culture, and Ar-
chitecture in Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area," was
enacted. As a result, the new Yamal-Nenets Okrug In-
spectorate for the "Protection and Use of Monuments
of History and Culture" was established in the capital
city of Salekhard. The inspectorate currently possesses
a generalized, but not finalized, list of the okrug's monu-
ments of historical-cultural heritage. For the time be-
ing, this "list" is a card file, but it is being developed
gradually as a computer database.
The database includes the following:
—Archaeological monuments, namely, sites, burial
grounds, ancient ritual sites, and so on; 269 are
registered in the database [as of 2002]
—Local historical monuments, such as "The Ceo-
REGIONAL APPROACHES/ YAMAL
graphical Center of the Russian State," established
by means of a mathematical survey by Dimitry I.
Mendeleev in 1 906 and designated as a memorial
site (with a special plaque) in 1985. Another ex-
ample is the preserved remains of many abandoned
forced labor camps of the early Soviet era {the so-
called GULAG], such as the famous "Construction
Site No. 501 ," a huge labor camp of the 1 940s and
1950s, which is located along the abandoned rail-
road that was built by the thousands of GULAG pris-
oners
—Municipal and architectural monuments, includ-
ing monuments dedicated to victory in World War
II; buildings constructed in the 1 930s; commemora-
tive signs and billboards; and Russian Orthodox
churches and other temples
—Natural and cultural monuments, that is, sites and
areas having universal value as "joint creations of
nature and man from the perspective of history
and ethnology," including local centers for Native
crafts. Russian Federation legislation includes this
category of heritage monuments under "historical
monuments."
Legislation about protecting historical monuments of
the Russian Federation and the corresponding version
adopted in the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area also
includes such concepts as "ensemble of monuments of
history and culture" and "objects of urban development."
However, neither of these pieces of legislation includes
a concept of "monuments of ethnic culture" or "histori-
cal-ethnographic landscape." Meanwhile, in the Yamal-
Nenets Okrug and other regions across the Russian
North, these particular categories of local heritage are
of special importance.
The status and preservation of monuments of eth-
nic culture and historical-ethnographic landscapes are
critical issues that should be incorporated in any local
policy (and politics) concerning indigenous residents
of the area. While ancient archaeological monuments,
as a rule, are already perceived as "no one's," the Na-
tive people regard sites of living ethnic culture, such
as, abandoned village sites, modern camps, graveyards,
active ritual, and memorial sites as "theirs." The con-
nection of living sites with the present-day landscape
is obvious to them.
The Yamal-Nenets Okrug now has a substantial
package of legislative documents that theoretically al-
low fully viable work concerning the preservation and
use of local historical and cultural heritage. Is it, there-
fore, possible to conclude that everything in this con-
text is satisfactory, that the monuments of historical-
cultural value included in the okrug administration's
preservation database are well protected, and that ac-
tive work is being conducted for identifying new sites
and entering them in the database? Unfortunately, noth-
ing of the kind has occurred.
The problem is not that there is no (or not enough)
legal basis for adequate protection of historical-cul-
tural monuments, but that the existing system is simply
not working. Of course, there are many reasons for this
failure, including the lack of funds and trained staff for
agencies of heritage protection, at every level. More
detrimental, however, is the low level of awareness
among the general population and in local administra-
tions about the value of the historical-cultural monu-
ments that they are obligated to protect.
As an illustration, I will cite the unfortunately typi-
cal story of the ancient site of Ust-Poluy at the capital
city of Salekhard. The Ust-Poluy site dates back to the
first century BC and represents the remains of what we
believe was once an ancient, intertribal ritual center.
The site is internationally renowned because of its
unique archaeological artifacts, among which there is a
large quantity of precious art objects, including pieces
made of bronze and gold. The site has been publi-
cized in numerous articles, books, and catalogs, begin-
ning with pioneer publications by two Russian archae-
ologists, Valerii N. Chernetsov and Wanda I. Moszinska.
These authors—through their long-term excavations,
numerous writings, and academic presentations—have
made the site widely known to Russian and foreign
professional audience alike (i.e., Chernetsov and
Moszinska 1 974).
In the early 1990s, when our archaeological team
from the Ekaterinburg-based Institute of History and
Archaeology of the Russian Academy of Sciences (Urals
NATALIA v. FEDOROVA 347
Branch) began new series of excavations at Ust-Poluy,
according to the then-federal heritage records, there
were only two historical monuments of importance in
the entire Yamal-Nenets Okrug. One was the abandoned
town of Mangazeya, the remains of a seventeenth-cen-
tury Russian fortress and a symbol of the early colonial
era in Siberia. The other was the above-mentioned Ust-
Poluy archaeological site. Because the site area is within
modern city boundaries, it is formally under the juris-
diction of the City of Salekhard Cultural Administra-
tion. Accordingly, municipal agencies should bear the
responsibility for the condition of the monument and
for its protection. However, to my great surprise, the
Cultural Administration personnel had neither any
knowledge of this monument's precise location, nor
any concept of the manner in which the site should be
protected.
Because of many years of total ignorance and ne-
glect, the monument once excavated by Chernetsov
and Moszinska, and their team, is now seriously dam-
aged by dirt roads and various small construction
projects. In gullies surrounding the monument site, lo-
cal residents have created garbage dumps. In addition,
for a long while, the riches of the site have been at-
tracting amateur "archaeologists" or, actually, site-dig-
gers. These intruders have contributed considerably to
the site's destruction and the plunder of archaeologi-
cal valuables. In summary, the monument, already des-
ignated for the highest level of federal preservation
and located literally in sight of cultural authorities for
Yamal-Nenets Okrug, has not been protected by any-
one in any way. Whereas the Ust-Poluy site is the most
renown archaeological monument of the Yamal-Nenets
Okrug, the one listed in every historical textbook and
local guidebook, is it worthwhile to even mention the
status of protecting and documenting heritage monu-
ments in many remote rural communities—much less
on the open tundra?
Again, it should be emphasized that this situation is
not attributable to an absence of necessary legislation.
The chief factors behind such failures are the weakness
of local preservation agencies and the non-compliance
at all levels—from official bodies to private enterprise—
of federal and regional legislation for presentation of
historical-cultural heritage and its individual monuments.
Many managers and landowners simply are not aware
of their responsibilities in this area. An effective mea-
sure to overcome such non-observance or ignorance
would be participation by both okrug and municipal
heritage-preservation agencies when permits for any
kind of economic activity are issued. All areas that
require construction permits, from a large oil-and-gas
pipeline to a new cowshed, should go through manda-
tory historical-cultural evaluation. During the evalua-
tions, professional archaeologists should survey the
given areas, identif/ing any significant historical-cul-
tural sites that should be protected.
Unfortunately, in all the above-mentioned legisla-
tive acts, issues of identification, registration, protec-
tion, and possible use of historical-cultural monuments
are resolved exclusively through an approach that uses
"specific" monuments, that is, "individual and highly
localized objects" ( Shul'gin 1994). Nowhere are these
monuments being evaluated in conjunction with the
surrounding landscape (Fig. 1 09). Accordingly, nowhere
is such surrounding landscape being protected legisla-
tively, and nowhere is it being evaluated for its special
or cultural value.
For the last ten years, regular archaeological evalu-
ations have been conducted at new construction sites
in only one district of the Yamal-Nenets Okrug—the
Pur District in the southernmost part of the region.
Purneftegaz, a regional oil-and-gas company, is financ-
ing this work. As a result, in the Pur District alone, sixty-
eight new archaeological monuments and ethnic cul-
tural monuments have been discovered. An understand-
ing is gradually developing among the local oil-and-
gas industry, the local administration, and the general
population about the importance of considering an-
cient and traditional Native sites as historical-cultural
(ethnographic) landscapes.
Purneftegaz is not the only large, local company
348 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ YAMAL
/ 09/ Nenets domestic reindeer graze at an ancient site, Vary-Khadyta-2.
that allocates funds for conducting archaeological
evaluations. From the late 1980s through the early
1990s, a Tobolsk Teachers' College archaeological-
ethnographic team (led by Dr. Andrei V. Golovnev) re-
ceived funding from the Lengiprotrans enterprise.
Lengiprotrans was a large government enterprise
charged with producing a feasibility report for the con-
struction of the Ob-Bovanenkovo Railway. Another
example was the joint Russian-American heritage pro-
gram called "The Living Yamal." Under this three-year
program (1 994-1 996), significant work was carried out
in documentation of historical and cultural heritage on
the Yamal Peninsula. The program was financed by an
American oil company, AMOCO-Eurasia, and carried out
with assistance from the local Russian gas company,
Nadymgazprom (Fitzhugh 2000; Krupnik and
Narinskaya 1998).
In fact, my experience of many years confirms that
it is often easier for archaeologists to work with large
companies for several reasons:
—The mass media now covers their ventures con-
stantly, and this coverage is frequently critical. The
media attention includes coverage from the per-
spective of preservation of the environment and/
or historical-cultural heritage.
—Legislative control and the pressure of public
opinion are much more effective in ensuring proper
heritage awareness for larger projects by "big busi-
ness."
—In today's Russia, large oil-and-gas companies
have the ability to finance historical-cultural evalu-
ation of the areas allocated for industrial construc-
tion and/or mineral development.
In contrast to prosperous industrial companies, mu-
nicipal agencies such as city and district administra-
tions commonly have no funds to sponsor historical-
cultural work. For example, for the past three years,
the Priuralsk District Administration has been trying to
launch a program for identifying and registering ar-
chaeological monuments in watersheds of the Longot-
Yegan and Shchuchya (Pike) Rivers. In 1 999, and again
in 2000, this work was shut down because of lack of
NATALIA v. FEDOROVA 349
funding. For the same reason, a similar survey begun in
1994 in the Shuryshkar District of the Yamal-Nenets
Okrug has not been completed. This list of hobbled
projects, unfortunately, continues.
Monuments of Ethnic Culture
"Monuments of living culture" are a special category of
historical-cultural heritage monuments. These monu-
ments include ritual places (shrines, sacrificial sites, sites
of ceremonial practice, and so on); funerary complexes
(such as, cemeteries, separate tombs, and khalmery--
aboveground burial places; Fig. 110); settlements, in-
cluding nomadic reindeer-herder camps; sites related
to various subsistence activities; and ethnographic land-
scapes that have special value for the local popula-
tion. As they continue functioning, these imprints of
human presence on the landscape have a specific, dis-
tinguishing attribute—they can be moved or partially
destroyed, intentionally or unintentionally, in the course
of daily activities or by ignorant intruders.
The study, documentation, and possible protection
of these monuments of living culture are complicated
precisely by their aliveness—their active use by con-
temporary local residents, who frequently do not wish
to share information about them. Ritual sites can be
taboo for several categories of people [see Khar-yuchi,
this volume]. Surveys and even visits by outsider re-
searchers frequently cause negative reactions among
local indigenous residents. In addition, in the current
practice of Russian archaeology, these traces of living
culture(s) are "too young" to be studied by archaeolo-
gists; and Russian ethnographers almost never engage
in the mapping and detailed documentation of such
sites, like Native graveyards and other burial places
that are absolutely necessary for any protective mea-
sures to be taken.
Resources of Local Agencies for Heritage
Registration and Protection in Yamal
The main agency of the okrug administration in charge
of registering and protecting monuments of history and
culture is called the "Okrug Inspectorate for Protection
and Use of Monuments of History and Culture." This
agency is a branch of the okrug's Department of Cul-
ture, Youth Policy, and Sports and is located in Salekhard.
The inspectorate's long name reflects the essence of
this establishment fully enough: the agency is, for the
present, still a non-independent link in a long, compli-
cated chain of administrative command and bureau-
cratic paperwork. Therefore, the agency simply has nei-
ther the power nor the opportunity to enact any inde-
pendent policy, particularly if a dispute arises that in-
volves the powerful construction or oil-and-gas com-
panies.
Nevertheless, in comparison with even the recent
past, some positive shifts are evident. Just a few years
ago, in 1 999, there was only one employee working
on all these issues for the documentation and protec-
tion of historical-cultural monuments in a territory of
about 750,000 square kilometers [almost half the area
of the state of Alaska]. The Okrug Inspectorate staff
now has six permanent employees—the Chief of the
Inspectorate; two specialists in registration and protec-
tion of monuments of architecture, history, and culture;
two archaeological monument specialists; and one
document technician/archivist (as of 2002). However,
the staffing situation is much worse at the district level,
with historical protection specialists on administration
staffs in only two of seven districts.
It is clear that these severely limited personnel re-
sources are totally inadequate for carrying out viable,
comprehensive work in registering and protecting
monuments. The problem is complicated further by
conditions specific to the Yamal-Nenets Okrug, prima-
rily, by the huge size of areas in which there simply are
no roads, the difficulty of communicating with various
distant arctic regions, and the small number of perma-
nent settlements. These obstacles, together with the
major industrial development of areas far removed from
populated locations, mandate the development of spe-
cific, innovative approaches to the protection of heri-
tage and historical-cultural landscapes.
350 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ YAMAL
1 10/ Khalmers, traditional Nenets burial sites lil<e this one, are always located on top of hills or on drier sand-
covered uplands.
In 2001 , under orders of the Committee on Coordi-
nation of Scientific Research of the Yamal-Nenets Okrug
Administration, a new initiative titled "Program for the
Identification, Study, and Use of the Historical-Cultural
Heritage of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area" was
outlined. The executor was the Institute of History and
Archaeology of the Urals Branch of the Russian Acad-
emy of Science in Ekaterinburg, with two archaeolo-
gists, Drs. Konstantin G. Karacharov and Natalia V.
Fedorova, acting as primary investigators for the pro-
gram (Fedorova 2000a). In the program's outline, all
current legislative documents in heritage preservation,
at both federal and okrug levels, were reviewed; and
the status of heritage protection in the area was ana-
lyzed. A set of measures to improve protection of Yamal-
Nenets Okrug monuments and historical-cultural heri-
tage sites was presented.
A program PI, Dr. Konstantin Karacharov, introduced
the program in August 2001 at the 1 1th International
Congress of Innovative Technologies for the Oil-and-
Gas Industry, Energy, and Communications (CITOGIC) in
Salekhard. For the first time, a special workshop on
issues related to indigenous people was included on
the Congress agenda. Dr. Karacharov spoke about the
Yamal heritage program during the roundtable discus-
sion, which was titled "The Culture and Lifestyle of
Peoples of the North Under the Conditions of Oil-and-
Gas Development." Incidentally, at the last plenary ses-
sion of the Congress, when the discussions in all the
Congress workshops were summarized, that particular
workshop was simply overlooked. Its chair, anthropolo-
gist Dr. Andrei Golovnev, was not even given the op-
portunity to present his very thoughtful summary of
the panel deliberations.
However, despite the various setbacks, the program
leaders very much hope that, when new normative docu-
ments are enacted to implement our recommendations,
the public attitude toward historical-cultural heritage
NATALIA V. FEDOROVA 351
will change and Yamal-Nenets Okrug heritage preser-
vation agencies will be able to work more effectively.
Therefore, we have proposed several new types of
activity for the identification and inventory of histori-
cal-cultural sites.
Significant roles in these activities would be as-
signed to local indigenous people. Such activity could
include, for example, correspondence work such as
gathering information about monuments of archaeol-
ogy and ethnic culture in the places where correspon-
dents live and filling out questionnaires about the monu-
ments, marking their locations on a map, and describ-
ing their external appearance and condition. In the
program's prospectus, a similar questionnaire for
describing ritual sites was proposed. To my knowl-
edge, that questionnaire was already being used in sum-
mer 2001 by participants of a group engaged in docu-
mentation of Native sacred sites in the Taz District of
the okrug.
Status of Heritage Preservation Efforts
in Yamal Today
The status of many historical-cultural monuments on
the Yamal Peninsula is quite familiar to the author, as I
have worked as a field archaeologist in this area since
1994. During that time, I have had the opportunity to
engage not only in field surveys for identif/ing new
monuments of archaeology and ethnic culture, but also
in many stationary site excavations. Over several years,
our field archaeology teams interacted closely with the
local Nenets people; often their summer tents were
within accessible range of our site camp.
In this long-term study of the ancient cultures of
Yamal, and in daily contact with the living culture of
today's Nenets herders, the recognition blossomed that
northern surroundings are a truly organic unit. In other
words, the natural and human environment in the Arc-
tic is unified: the river, tundra, lakes, birds and fishes,
and dwarf tundra birches; the remains of the ancient
monuments that we uncovered; and the modern Nenets,
who often use the same sites as their distant ancestors,
are unified. I came to acknowledge that no archaeo-
logical monuments exist solely on their own merits (no
simple task for a site archaeologist). They are all parts
of a unified historical-ethnographic landscape, in which
it is impossible to comprehend either ancient or mod-
ern cultural development without living on the land for
a time.
In August 2001 , our group surveyed the downstream
area along the Venga-Yakha River near the town of
Yar-Sale in the southernmost area of the Yamal Penin-
sula. The survey was that rare case when the actual
idea of identification of local heritage sites for the pur-
pose of protection had come from district authorities,
from the Committee on Affairs of Youth, Culture, and
Sports (analogous to the Yamal-Nenets Okrug depart-
ment in charge of heritage preservation mentioned
above). It was no surprise that this rare department head
was the professional museum worker and trained ar-
chaeologist Konstantin Oshchepkov. He is an old friend
and like-minded person who takes everything concern-
ing local heritage closely to heart: monuments of ar-
chaeology, ethnic culture, or history, and other matters.
He is virtually the only Yamal administration execu-
tive who tries to put industrial expansion on the Yamal
Peninsula under some sort of control, at least by the
historical-cultural evaluation of the areas approved for
new construction and oil-and-gas development. ^
In the course of two weeks we found more than ten
ancient settlements—more accurately, complexes of
old settlements— in an area about three kilometers on
the left bank of the Venga-Yakha River. All the monu-
ments had a similar feature: they were located on a
high portion of a bedrock bench and thus were situ-
ated on natural, sandy knolls formed as a result of freez-
ing processes. We managed to identify at least three
types of dwellings, clearly localized according to sea-
son. Some of them were summerhouses built on high,
breezy sites oriented toward the river (their remains
look like shallow, rounded pits). Others were winter
houses constructed on the lee side of the heights, with
well-defined traces of corridor-like outlets. The rest were
352 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ YAMAL
/ / // The Tiutey-Sale 1 (Walrus Cape; Russian: Morz
ence ofan "Eskimo type" sea-mammal hunting culture
traces of portable tent dwellings, constructed on el-
evated platforms that are quite similar to modern rein-
deer herders' tents.
The dating of the settlements was done through
artifacts collected during the excavation, mainly frag-
ments of ceramic and stone tools. The largest portion
of the finds is associated with the Bronze Age, the
particular time when the shore of the Venga-Yakha River
was populated most densely. The Venga-Yakha River
has a large fish population; in addition, herds of wild
reindeer (caribou) used to pass through the valley on
their seasonal migration. For these reasons, these sites
provided an area superbly suited to the complex hunt-
ing-and-fishing economy so typical of the area's Bronze
Age population.
The settlements we found are so well suited to the
surrounding environment that together they represent
a tightly knit complex, a unique natural-archaeological
landscape, which should be evaluated as such.
Today, on the Yamal Peninsula, more than 1 00 ar-
'vyi) site, long considered critical evidence for the exist-
1 the Yamal Peninsula (see Fitzhugh 2000).
chaeological monuments of various times are known.
The most ancient site, Yuribey 1 , dates back to the
Mesolithic Age, or about 9,000 years ago. Many sites
from the Neolithic and Bronze ages are known; but by
far the greatest number is associated with the Iron Age,
that is, from the third century BC to the fourteenth cen-
tury AD. Like the sites along the Venga-Yakha River
that we discovered during the 2001 season, all the sites
are inscribed in the environmental landscape and
merged with it, and cannot be studied and preserved
without it (Fig. 111).
Sites of living ethnic culture are part of the special
category of heritage monuments. Like historical-cul-
tural monuments, there is no doubt about the connec-
tion of these monuments with the landscape. Stated
more correctly, through their very existence, they are
fully connected with a certain type of landscape. For
example, sacred sites were frequently connected with
certain natural features, cemeteries were created on high,
outlying locations (see Fig. 1 10), and so on. However,
NATALIA v. FEDOROVA 353
it has been only in recent years that sites left by the
present-day Nenets population or its ancestors began
to be registered and designated for preservation.
In summer 2001, a group composed of Calina P.
Kharyuchi, Michael N. Okotetto, and Leonid A. Lar con-
ducted major work in identif/ing and describing mod-
ern sacred places in the Taz District [Kharyuchi, this
volume]. Some Native graveyards of the eighteenth
through the beginning of the twentieth century were
identified and documented by our field parties. In 2001
,
a detailed study of one historical Native cemetery, first
surveyed in 1909, was published after many years of
delay (Murashko and Krenke 2001). I believe that the
publication of the latter volume will promote the fur-
ther study and better protection of many similar sites.
At present, Native cemeteries are in an extremely mis-
erable condition; in addition to destruction due to un-
controlled oil-and-gas exploration, they are now threat-
ened by numerous collectors of antiquities and grave-
diggers (Fedorova 2000a: 1 1 ). There are plentiful bronze
ornaments at many historical cemeteries, and glass and
metal cookware and utensils lie on the surface, quite
accessible to such collectors.
When an ethnic-cultural landscape that contains a
valuable historical monument is destroyed or is trans-
formed by modern construction, the monument's very
existence becomes senseless, and its value to the lo-
cal indigenous people vanishes. We witnessed one such
situation in 2001 (as in many previous years). Our group
had found a Native cemetery of the early nineteenth
century within the boundaries of the modern village of
Salemal. No one in the community reportedly knew
anything about the cemetery, and even the human bones
that teenagers had dug up periodically had not aroused
in the populace a desire to come to terms with the
situation. This situation was, surprisingly, occurring in
an area where the memory of ancestral cemeteries has
been kept for several centuries. Apparently, the reason
the cemetery appeared forgotten was the destruction—
in this case, for modern construction—of the ethno-
graphic landscape that contained it.
It is clear that there is little sense in framing Yamal
heritage preservation policy in the context of pro-
tecting individual cultural monuments, because they
have always been inscribed in their surrounding en-
vironments. Thus, an integrative approach governed
by the concept of historical-cultural (ethnographic)
landscape will ensure not only better protection of
the monuments for the future, but also their study in
a real context.
New Trends and Prospects
This short overview demonstrates that, in recent years,
some changes have occurred regarding heritage pro-
tection in Yamal. Some newer trends that are furthering
the protection of local monuments of historical-cul-
tural heritage are also worth mentioning.
—First, the establishment of the Research Center
for Humanitarian Studies on Indigenous Peoples of
the North in Salekhard, with its all-Native staff, has
made a significant difference. The center was cre-
ated about 1 years ago, and the documentation
and study of local sacred sites of the Yamal indig-
enous population is featured very highly on its
agenda ( Kharyuchi, this volume - ed.).
—Second, in recent years, the initiative for heritage
evaluation of areas that are to undergo economic
development, particularly oil-and-gas development,
is coming more often from the departments of in-
digenous peoples at the okrug and district level,
instead of from business ventures or other agen-
cies. For example, the above-mentioned survey of
the Longot-Yegan River area, where exploration work
for gold extraction has been under way, was initi-
ated by the Priuralsk District Administration, or by
its Department of Indigenous Peoples, to be more
precise. The staff members in many departments of
indigenous peoples are Native. These employees
understand perfectly well the value of the ethno-
graphic components of cultural heritage and the
importance of protecting relatively "young" cultural
monuments, that is, living sites and actively used
sacred places.
— Third, there has been a noticeable trend for
business organizations and gas companies to ap-
proach scientific institutions (such as academic
institutes and universities) with a request to con-
duct a historical-cultural evaluation of areas al-
354 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ YAMAL
located for development.
These trends are encouraging, but the scale of progress
is still insufficient.
Summary
The concept of historical-cultural landscape is inte-
gral to the entirety of the environment and the many
occupational imprints left by ancient and modern
human groups on the Yamal Peninsula. Ideally, this
integrative concept should become a cornerstone
in policymaking for local agencies that regulate pro-
tection and use of cultural-historical heritage. To date,
however, the work of these agencies has been ori-
ented toward the concept of separate, individual his-
torical monuments and sites that need documenta-
tion and protection. Unfortunately, no effective
agency or system for protection of local historical-
cultural heritage yet serves the Yamal-Nenets Au-
tonomous Area as a whole or the Yamal Peninsula
in particular. Neither designation for heritage pres-
ervation nor even the term "historical-cultural land-
scape" yet figures in the legislative acts and prac-
tices of local government agencies. However, some
favorable new trends with regard to protection of
cultural heritage have appeared in recent years— in
both Russia as a whole and the Yamal-Nenets Okrug—
which I have tried to summarize in this article. It is
especially important to emphasize the increasingly
active participation of the local Native people in
this process. All of these new trends offer hope for
possible shifts toward a better situation in the near
future.
Acknowledgments
This article was written with assistance from Grant No.
01-01 -0041 2a from the Russian National Scientific Fund.
The author is grateful to Igor Krupnik for many valu-
able editorial comments and to Natalia Narinskaya and
Konstantin Oshchepkov for information on policies and
resources of local agencies that are active in heritage
preservation in Yamal.
Notes
1 . Translated by Georgene Sink; edited by
Igor Krupnik.
2. See more on the current economic and ad-
ministrative status of Yamal in Galina Kharyuchi's
paper, this volume—ed.
References
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NATALIA v. FEDOROVA 355
^ami (^ulturai Rentage in jNjorwatj
P>etween Local }<Cnowlec!ge and the fower of the ^tate
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER
Sami (Saami) history in northern and middle Fenno-
Scandinavia extends far back in time. As with all deep
prehistory, many aspects of early Sami history are un-
known. In Norway, the strong and rather systematic
Norwegianization of the Sami from the end of the eigh-
teenth century to approximately 1 980, plus the lack of
written documentation from the Sami themselves, makes
the recent Sami past largely unknown, obscured or hid-
den. All Sami cultural sites and monuments older
than 100 years have been protected by law since
1 978, and since 1 994 the responsibility for Sami cul-
tural heritage management has been in the hands of
the Sami Parliament.
In this article, we will attempt to portray how the
management of Sami cultural heritage has stressed the
importance of living, local knowledge both as a long-
term objective and as a strategy to further the cause of
preservation, and how this management relates to the
power structures in the Norwegian government sys-
tem. An institutionalized indigenous self-management
of cultural heritage is quite exceptional. We will give
an account of how Sami cultural heritage management
is organized and how it works, using some examples
of the Sami cultural landscape and the efforts to docu-
ment them. Even though Sami cultural heritage man-
agement in Norway is institutionally rather exceptional,
there is still a reason to evaluate critically whether such
an institutionalization has given the Sami the authority
to work with their cultural heritage to the extent that
such an organization suggests.
Organization of Sami Cultural Heritage
Management in Norway
In 1 990 the management of Norwegian cultural heri-
tage was reorganized into a more decentralized and
clearer political administrative organization. The re-
gional administration charged with cultural heritage
management was moved away from the four regional
museums in Tromso, Trondheim, Bergen and Oslo into
a cultural department within each of the 1 9 county
administrations. The Directorate for Cultural Heritage
(Riksantikvaren) in Oslo became the central professional
institution with responsibility for creating a coherent
national policy and coordinating collaborative tasks.
Simultaneously, Sami cultural heritage management was
partially separated from national cultural heritage man-
agement. However, it was another four years, until
1 994, before a separate administration for Sami cul-
tural heritage became operational, with authority and
responsibilities equivalent to the county heritage man-
agement administrations. The reorganization came as
a natural consequence of the Norwegian Parliament
passing amendment §1 10a to the Norwegian Consti-
tution, as well as the law that established the Sami
Parliament and other Sami rights {Sameloven - the Sami
Act) in 1 987. The Norwegian Constitution now requires
the state to provide the conditions and rights that
allow the Sami to preserve and develop their language,
culture, and social life.
After the ratification of the constitutional amend-
ment and the Sami Act, the Sami Parliament was estab-
356 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
lished in 1989 as a body elected by the Sami for the
Sami. In 1 994 Sami cultural heritage management was
organized with a council nominated by the Sami Par-
liament. The Samisk kulturminnerad{Sam\ Cultural Heri-
tage Council) was politically and administratively sub-
ject to the Sami Parliament and professionally subject
to the Norwegian Ministry of the Environment and the
Directorate for Cultural Heritage. The administration of
Sami cultural heritage was further decentralized by the
Sami Cultural Heritage Council, which established re-
gional offices in Snaasa (Snasa), Ajluokta (Drag in
Tysfjord), and Romssa (Tromso), as well as a regional
office and a coordinating main administration in
Vuonnabahta (Varangerbotn). In January 2001 , the ad-
ministrative authority for Sami cultural sites was trans-
ferred from the Sami Cultural Heritage Council to the
Sami Parliament itself. The administrative authority
granted by the Cultural Heritage Act is so far the only
law management function the Sami Parliament has in
Norway.
The importance of aSami-run cultural heritage man-
agement sector has grown in concert with increasing
political and cultural consciousness in the Sami people.
During the 1970s and 1980s, the Norwegian State
planned and accomplished several big development
projects in the Sami territories, including a hydroelec-
tric plant in the watershed of the Alta-Kautokeino River
in Finnmark. This area encroachment issue, which had
consequences for the maintenance and development
of Sami culture, language, and life style, demonstrated
to the Sami the importance of the right of co-determi-
nation. In 1973, the first job position for Sami cultural
heritage was established at the Tromso Museum, now
part of the University of Tromso, as a direct conse-
quence of the planned water power expansion in north-
ern Norway. The 1978 Norwegian Cultural Heritage
Act gave preservation status to Sami cultural sites more
than 1 00 years old for the first time, and in 1 992 the
law was revised to include cultural landscapes, a cen-
tral idea in Sami cultural heritage. The Cultural Heri-
tage Act states specifically that all Sami cultural monu-
ments and sites older than 1 00 years are automati-
cally protected by law, including those sites that are
linked to historical events, either by belief or tradition.
In contrast, although the cultural landscapes are not
automatically protected by law, they are considered a
part of the cultural heritage and identity. The Sami
Parliament provisionally designates a cultural site or
monument as Sami, but if other participants in the
regional cultural heritage apparatus disagree, the
Directorate for Cultural Heritage makes a final deci-
sion (Holme 2001:142).
Practical Management
The Sami Parliament's cultural heritage management
department is the authority for all Sami cultural monu-
ments and sites that are included in the Cultural Heri-
tage Act, and the Parliament gives statements concern-
ing all proposed projects that imply land seizure in the
Sami settlement area. Today nine executive officers
have the responsibility to give written feedback re-
garding protected Sami cultural monuments and sites,
valuable Sami landscapes subject to plans for area en-
croachment, the maintenance of sites and landscapes,
and the use of these sites and landscapes for research
or public purposes. The department receives approxi-
mately 1 800 inquiries per year. Earlier survey and site
registration projects in Norway did not direct attention
to Sami cultural sites or the types of cultural sites and
monuments that are most naturally interpreted within a
Sami context. There is no complete summary of Sami
cultural sites and monuments, and in large areas with
both early and contemporary Sami settlements the sys-
tematic documentation of Sami cultural heritage and
their associated environmental settings is still imper-
fect. Fieldwork involving inspection, registration and
interviews of local informants in connection with con-
crete development projects, is therefore a big and im-
portant part of cultural heritage management. To pro-
vide an impression of the fieldwork, it can be men-
tioned that the 2000 field season registered 343 pro-
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 357
tected, but previously unknown, Sami cultural sites and
monuments spread out over 1 73 locations (Sametinget,
Samisk kulturminnerad 2000).
Several circumstances make it difficult to document
Sami cultural sites, the evidence of earlier Sami pres-
ence and manner of living. The Sami possessed little
or no written documentation of their daily life and cul-
ture prior to 1900. During World War II, when Norway
was occupied by Nazi Germany (1 940-45) and, particu-
larly during the last year of German occupation in the
North (1944), virtually all buildings in the majority of
the Sami settlement areas were burned down and the
population was removed coercively. After 1945 the
northern areas, like the rest of northern Europe, experi-
enced fast and extensive technological and material
growth. That growth resulted in basic changes in the
people's everyday life and activity and also caused a
great deal of traditional knowledge about landscape
use, behavior toward nature, and manufacture of handi-
crafts to be gradually lost. To the Sami Parliament, liv-
ing tradition and human memory is therefore an equally
critical source for understanding history and prehistory
as the physical cultural monuments and sites. Older
people who are connected with local places can share
concrete and often extremely detailed narratives about,
and interpretations of, physical structures and wider
cultural landscapes. This approach can be accused of
reproducing the much held view that Sami culture was
static, unable to develop (Olsen 1 986), but the lack of a
so-called "scientific basis" cannot negate the testimo-
nies about their own past that one encounters in Sami
communities. Local Sami understanding gives good and
relevant additional information about cultural sites,
monuments, and landscapes, because activities, events,
beliefs, visions, and traditions are written into the physi-
cal remains (Skandfer 2001 ). This approach is therefore
important as a contrast and corrective to what we as
cultural heritage managers often assume, without local
understanding: we read activities outofthe cultural sites
and monuments based on a more general knowledge.
Local understanding has also often greater relevance
and value for modern people living in the local context
than interpretations from outside.
During the last several years, the Sami Parliament
has experienced a possible shift in this attitude towards
local vs. public/scientific knowledge of cultural heri-
tage. Local communities ask to have their cultural sites
registered, including sacred places, and thereby made
public or available for public use or research. We are
beginning to see the contours of increasing local inter-
est in generalizing knowledge on cultural heritage and
an acceptance of the Sami Parliament's effort to man-
age Sami cultural heritage. It is a great challenge to
find working forms for managing knowledge of Sami
cultural heritage that are considered legitimate within
both Sami society and the larger, national administra-
tive apparatus.
In addition to its mandated administrative author-
ity, the Sami Parliament's cultural heritage management
department implements special projects, such as the
protection of Sami buildings and the documentation of
eastern Sami history in Norway, Russia, and Finland.
Sami Cultural Landscapes and Local
Understanding
Sami cultural heritage is a broad concept because, natu-
rally enough, the categories that fall under that con-
cept span large distances in both time and place. Cul-
tural sites can be regarded as parts of Sami cultural
heritage when they are known either from written his-
torical or living Sami tradition to have been explicitly
used within a past Sami cultural context. Sami tradition
or sites can also be regarded as Sami cultural remains
when orally transmitted local Sami knowledge more
implicitly relates them to the Sami cultural sphere. Cul-
tural heritage can be physical manifestation of Sami
activities, such as resource procurement or religious
practice; where tradition and knowledge of past cus-
toms is lost, only the cultural sites themselves testif/
to an earlier Sami presence. Certain types of cultural
sites can also be regarded as related to Sami prehis-
358 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
1 1 2/ Remains ofa traditional goa.hu (Sami turflnouse) and legally protected Sami farm buildings are parts of the
same cultural landscape. Lille Molvik, Berlevaag municipality, coastal Finnmark.
tory insofar as they are physical manifestations of the
processes, which led to the establishment of the Sami
cultural character as known historically (Samisk
kulturminneplan 1 998-2001 : 1 ). The concept of cultural
environment stresses the idea of sites that can be part
of spatial, temporal, and cultural units. A cultural land-
scape is a large geographic or topographic unit that
can include several cultural environments.
How the landscape is used depends particularly on
how the landscape is understood, that is, on people's
knowledge about the land and the associations they
feel with it. Sami culture springs from a lifestyle that is
closely connected to their use of the land, and there is
a tight relationship between subsistence and religious
beliefs. The Sami cultural landscape is a Sami under-
standing of the land (Bjoru 1994:32; Gaukstad 1994:
38) articulated in the interplay between practical expe-
rience and historical consciousness. In accordance with
Tim Ingold (1 987) these cultural landscapes could be
termed "taskscapes". The Sami cultural landscape in-
cludes many types of landscapes, from the oldest hunt-
ing, fishing, and catching (whales, seals, etc.) landscapes
to the different reindeer exploitation landscapes rang-
ing from the small-scale reindeer herding of the 1 500s
to the extensive reindeer herding of the 1900s, and
further to the fishing-hunting-farming landscapes along
the sea coast and major rivers. Sami land use includes
coastal and inland areas, mountain plateaus, forests, and
river valleys. These have provided the basis for diver-
gent forms of adaptation to the local environment. Just
as there are different Sami ways of living there are also
different ways of understanding and relating to the land-
scape. Despite the differences, there are nevertheless
similarities in storytelling, in landscape-form and place-
name traditions, as well as in transmitted oral knowl-
edge about the environment. This makes it possible to
talk about a distinctive Sami form of land-use (Gaski
2000:18).
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 359
The Sami language has a rich and detailed termi-
nology for describing landscape changes and terres-
trial forms. The language thereby becomes a topo-
graphic tool, through which large territories can be vi-
sually described with just a few words. A place name
can quickly and precisely convey, whether the place is
steep, passable, forested, windswept, or sheltered along
wide territorial areas. In this way, for example, reindeer
migration routes between diverse landscape areas can
be visualized (Mathisen 1 997). The Sami place-names
can tell how certain landscape space or landscape ele-
ments were used or understood because of the distinc-
tive weather conditions that the animals often met there;
where people have lived before; where they fished or
hunted; where water crossings are; where reindeer
stopped at different times of the year; and where the
dead are buried (JJernsletten 1 994:234). In all parts of
the Sami area the local population emphasizes that the
"Sami way" of traveling in open terrain is not to leave
any clear traces on the land. Another general attitude,
especially among the elders, is that any buildings should
preferably be constructed in such a way that they re-
semble nature and can go back to it after being used
(Fig.112). Therefore, it is often not the cultural sites
themselves that are evaluated as the most important
element in a local context, but the stories about the
happenings and activities connected to the landscape
in which the cultural sites are located.
A certain landscape can be directly related to tradi-
tional Sami subsistence, such as reindeer herding, hunt-
ing, fishing, trapping, cultivation, or tending domestic
animals, such that cultural sites will be identified and
related to these subsistence activities (Schanche 1 995).
These can encompass different types of turf hut (goahti)
and house foundations, houses, tent rings, settlement
areas, storage depressions in stone-scree, and construc-
tions used to catch, mark, or milk reindeer (Fig.l 1 3).
The landscape itself can also contain elements that
have had value and meaning in the Sami way of life
without any identifiable human impact being visible in
the terrain. These elements can be pastures or paths
connected to reindeer migration, sedge grass bogs or
alder woods that represent important domains of natu-
ral resources tied to daily life, or fishing site marks on
the shore that permit the re-finding of the fishing
grounds used previously.
Holy mountains, stones, forests, and lakes are ex-
amples of landscape elements understood to a great
extent in a spiritual and mythical sense. The pre-Chris-
tian Sami religion was a hunter-gatherer religion marked
by ideas of nature wrapped in spiritualism (Hultkrantz
1 965). The landscape offered natural resources one could
harvest; but the landscape and its resources also al-
lowed contact with a spiritual dimension. Sami believed
that one should bring sacrifices to sacred stones {sieidiei^
to receive good outcomes in hunting or fishing expe-
ditions, and that one should honor holy mountains be-
cause they are nests (homes) for holy beings. They
also believed that graves should be likewise respected
and treated with caution. The dead were even more a
part of the landscape than the living, inscribed in it
through physical presence and cultural tradition. In
former times it was customary to formulate wishes to
the reindeer pastures and to ask places in the terrain
for permission to set up a tent and stay overnight (Oskal
1995:145). Local narratives about helpful ghosts and
what happens to someone who does not behave prop-
erly towards places in the landscape are very popular
throughout the whole Sami area. These stories consti-
tute a form of collective memory and knowledge about
the proper mindset concerning a local environment
(Nergaard 1997:72). Many of the stories, legends, and
attitudes toward the landscape that had their origin in
Sami pre-Christian religion are still valid in Sami local
societies today, including those concerning cultural
heritage.
Sami cultural heritage management is one way to
relate to and preserve the human traces in the land-
scape. It allows the local Sami population to have the
opportunity to see their territories in light of a long
time perspective, and it tries to appreciate the tradition
and the meaning that is added to these traces locally.
360 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
/ 1 3/Remains ofa traditional Sami goaht\ ('turf Inut') for goats. Devddesvuoppmi, Inner Troms.
In the management of Sami cultural heritage, the value
of the cultural environment also depends on cultural
ascription and point of view (Samisk kulturminneplan
1998-2001:1). Sami cultural heritage management
stresses local knowledge because cultural heritage is a
central resource and reference point in the struggle for
a cultural survival and acknowledgment. Local stories
and local knowledge are often the only narratives the
Sami can tell about themselves. This form of heritage
management allows for different and sometimes op-
posing understandings of sites and landscapes. The in-
clusive attitude towards local knowledge and under-
standing can be seen as an expression of an ethical
commitment towards living communities in the man-
agement of culture heritage (Skandfer 2002).
In local Sami communities, knowledge of cultural
sites and cultural environments is very important to
one's identity and self-understanding. Being a bearer
of tradition, history, and cultural retention, and also of
the landscape's economic, social, and religious mean-
ing has a value of its own. It encompasses knowledge
of how Sami in past times related to and utilized their
surroundings, and, no less important, the knowledge
and understanding of how they can and should relate
to the surroundings today. Tales of events in the land-
scape have traditionally been the means by which lo-
cal Sami communities have shared knowledge and cul-
tural ideas between generations. This socializes the
younger generation into the landscape so that they
learn to travel in it and use it, conducting themselves
well, in order to take part in the previous generation's
adventures, as they become the beneficiaries and us-
ers of that knowledge (Gaski 2000; J. Jernsletten 2000;
N.Jernsletten 1 994; Nergaard 1 997).
The landscape is a cultural construction, man-made
and seen through a human perspective. The landscape
therefore becomes not only a physical presence, but
also the meaning that diverse cultural groups place on
the landscape. Local knowledge and local attitude are
essential for how the landscape is understood and val-
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 361
ued. The small local stories that perhaps only give
meaning to those who know the landscape intimately
can be of decisive importance to the landscape's worth
and meaning. This includes knowledge about the former
locations of good snare places for trapping grouse, or
places where the spring water is so clear that to wash
one's eyes in it improves one's vision. The association
of cultural environments with various locales is like-
wise applicable when various culture groups use the
same landscape in different historic periods. In locales
where the Sami are a minority, stories can be tales of
landscapes now lost to others.
In this regard, one can mention the Sami Parliament's
survey registration of Sami cultural sites in 1 997 re-
lated to the creation and expansion of national parks
in the Trondelag district, the more southern part of the
Sami settlement area. A district pattern occurred: cul-
tural landscapes including Sami dwelling sites, rein-
deer milk storage pits, and spring water sources were
registered, but the pasture sites for reindeer normally
associated with such localities—were missing. Instead,
in these landscapes summer mountain pastures were
connected to nearby Norwegian farms. Not coinciden-
tally, pastures for reindeer gathering and milking are
preserved only at places where no Norwegian summer
mountain pastures are listed on the registry. When bor-
der commissioner Major Schnitler traveled through
Tydal in 1 742, he observed what many of today's infor-
mants can tell, namely, that the fertile and nutrition-rich
Sami pasture sites have been confiscated by the Nor-
wegian farmers for dairy production (Fjellheim 1 998:44).
The Reindeer Landscape: A Sami Cultural
Landscape
We want to provide a general overview of the reindeer
herding landscape and its attached cultural sites as an
example of one particular type of Sami cultural land-
scape. A reindeer herding landscape is marked both
by human activities and by the grazing habits of the
reindeer. The reindeer will seek the pastures they know
(Paine 1994:44) and the animals thereby represent a
stable element in the landscape. By watching the
reindeer's habits, the Sami herdsman learns about the
dynamics between the reindeer herd and the landscape.
This creates a continuum over the generations in the
relationship between humans, animals, and landscape
(Henriksen 1 986:68 inj.jernsletten 2000:81 ).
During the winter time, the reindeer herds in most
parts of the Sami herding area choose to stay inland
where they graze relatively close to each other. The
winter dwelling places of the reindeer-herding families
lie in a sheltered place in the terrain, often in a small
valley. In order to avoid the frost mist that accompa-
nies the freezes in late fall and possible slush ice dur-
ing the winter, the dwelling places were located slightly
distant from big rivers or lakes. The whole society lived
together in the winter dwelling places: children, women,
men, young and old. The buildings were often sturdier
constructions than those used during other seasons.
The traditional winter building of the reindeer-herding
Samis is a goahti or gamme, which was either made of
a bent birch wood frame clad with birch bark and thick
turf, or of timber. Even very recent 0oa/7t/ foundations
can be nearly invisible on the surface today; they are
faint, round or oval banks of turf with a stone-set hearth
in the middle. In the eastern Sami area on the border
between present-day Norway, Finland, and Russia, it is
documented ethnographically that the Sami communi-
ties had to change their winter dwelling places every
5-1 years in order to secure access to firewood.
All members of the society stayed at the winter
dwelling places over a longer period every year, allow-
ing the government and the church to have more ex-
tensive contact with the Sami population. Churches and
local sheriff stations were built, and the dwelling places
gradually developed a more village character. A few of
the old dwelling places that started to be used year
round were Karasjok and Kautokeino in Norway, and
the populous so-called "samebyef (Sami villages) in
Sweden: among them Karesuando, Jokkmokk,
Arvidsjaur and Arjeplog.
In early spring (March/April) the reindeer started to
362 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
move; in the northern Sami areas, usually toward the
coast, and the Sam! herders followed. The migrations
took place along the natural trails of the reindeer over
ridges and along watersheds. The community then split
up into smaller units, but all family members under-
took the trek. The migration took place with the rein-
deer pulling sleds while the ice still lay on rivers and
lakes. On the way the reindeer herd was driven and
tended, and the dwelling places were only along the
long route toward the coast and in the calving grounds.
In the snow-covered winter landscape, when it was dif-
ficult to find stones to frame a fireplace, they could
either use wood sticks, which we know were also used
in winter dwellings in inland Sweden, or sometimes
they even brought stones to the area with them in the
sleds. Those living places of a very short duration are
almost impossible to find today.
The families established a spring camp for some
weeks on the calving grounds before they moved on.
The calving had to take place in warm and sheltered
surroundings, areas where cold spring nights were not a
threat to the newborn calves. Therefore, the spring dwell-
ing areas are found in the forest, but near the treeline
and preferably slightly toward the bare mountain top
where the snow could still carry the reindeer hooves,
as well as sleds and skis. The dwelling areas could be
located without immediate access to running water, since
snow could be used in early spring. For the spring dwell-
ing, the Sami built stone-set fireplaces and used wooden
frames to make a goahti, or they erected a lavvo, the
Sami tent, and drew a felt canvas over it. In certain
places the winter family belongings were stored until
the next fall, while the summer equipment was taken
into use. In such places food storage holes can be
found in moraines or stone scree that became snow-
free early and stayed frost-free in the spring. Here they
could find meat, cheese, and soured milk that had been
stored in the fall. The spring and fall places lay close to
each other, since supplies and equipment had to be
stored and retrieved on the way to and from summer
sites. Some herds and Sami herdsmen still had quite a
/ 14/ Frame of a recent Sami summer herding tent,
lawo in 0verbygd, Inner Troms.
distance to cover before arriving to the summer dwell-
ing area, while others had already traversed most of
the distance and only had to go a short way.
The summer dwelling sites were used into the late
fall. The lawo (summer tents - Fig.l 14) were set up
again near running water or good fishing places and
with easy access to reindeer pastures that lay in the
high mountains or on islands off the sea coast, where
the reindeer were less bothered by insects. Several
stone-set fireplaces are often found in one of these
dwelling places. Recent excavations of such fireplaces
in Mid-Troms, central in the Sami settlement area of
Norway, showed that many dwelling places had been
used over several hundred years (Sommerseth 2001,
2004). The datings show that the steady landscape
use has preserved the local landscape understanding
and knowledge through many generations. Another
sign of an old summer dwelling site is fertile, perennial
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 363
meadows, often with few old trees in the middle, near
the former fireplace. These are reindeer milking pas-
tures. The does were tied to the trees during the milk-
ing process, but otherwise they went free with their
calves in the enclosure. At the summer sites, several
activities also took place that did not leave direct physi-
cal traces: marking the calves with the owner's marks,
fishing, and collecting sage grass, alder bark, and
berries.
During the fall, Sami moved to the winter dwelling
places. In October, the breeding-month, the herd was
left in peace during rutting. The animals could not be
moved then. The late fall was also the slaughtering
season, so guiding and slaughter fences were set up in
the open terrain. The last trek to the winter dwelling
places took place with all the sleds tied together in a
row after the snow had covered the ground.
Many aspects of specific knowledge are preserved
and kept alive in the local Sami communities, such as
when the reindeer herd could move through a certain
landscape; how the ownership marking took place; where
the watering holes and washing places were located;
which pastures were of good quality in different times
of the summer, depending on local weather patterns;
how meat, milk, leather, or bark were processed, stored,
and used; and how the dwellings were constructed.
Sami cultural heritage management realizes the need
to obtain and preserve this local knowledge, and uti-
lizes much of its resources for that part of its work. But
it is necessary to be aware that written descriptions and
map drawings of activities and events also have influ-
ence on local knowledge and its transmission.
The Management of Sami Cultural Heri-
tage and Local Knowledge
In arguing for a Sami cultural heritage management the
meaning of identity management has been stressed.
Cultural heritage gives the Sami identity an historic
perspective, which is important both for cultural legiti-
macy and cohesion (Sametingsplanen 1991:10). The
relation between the people of today and the cultural
traces of the past is understood as an emotional di-
mension having to do with knowledge and cultural
self-maintenance. The Sami Parliament, therefore, con-
siders the management of Sami cultural heritage as a
tool to strengthen the ties between the people and
their cultural characteristics (Schanche 1994). Empha-
sizing the identity forming a meaning of cultural heri-
tage—implies that the Sami Parliament, in its cultural
heritage management role must be in constant com-
munication with local communities that have the knowl-
edge of cultural sites and of their identity-forming mean-
ing (Fig.l 1 5). Local knowledge of use, stories, and con-
cepts of landscape makes the individual aware that there
are others who do not have this knowledge or who do
not use the landscape in the same way. Knowledge
and the shared cultural entitlement granted through use
and understandings of the landscape provide both a
common empirical worldview and a means to discover
differences between people. Identity is shaped through
one's own understanding of the landscape and by bal-
ancing other, often contradictory understandings of the
landscape (Caski 2000: 1 8-9).
In arguing for self-management of Sami cultural
heritage, local knowledge has perhaps been vaulted to
the top because Sami local knowledge stands in a di-
rect opposition to the Norwegian cultural heritage man-
agement system. The preservation of Sami cultural heri-
tage depends more on claiming local legitimacy than
does the preservation of the Norwegian cultural heri-
tage remains. The ambiguous geographic borders of
the Sami territory mean that the Sami often have to
expend energy to define what is "Sami." Such a de-
mand is seldom or never placed on Norwegian cultural
heritage. The national historic narrative frame upon
which prehistory is produced, seems to render a Sami
prehistory impossible (Hesjedal 2001 : 291). Recogniz-
ing a Sami prehistory is therefore extremely difficult,
because this implies an initial deconstruction of the
national Norwegian prehistory, constructed and recon-
structed also within the frame of the Norwegian gov-
ernmental system. As a counterweight against the Nor-
364 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAmILAND
/ 7 5/ Bj0rnesteinen ("The Bear stone") in Ceavccegeadgi/Mortensnes, Unjargga/Nesseby municipality. Many local
Sami stones are connected to this stone.
wegian institutional monopoly on knowledge, local
knowledge of the landscape argues strongly for an
exclusive Sami cultural competence (Kalstad 1991:8).
Placing an importance on local knowledge can there-
fore also be seen as indirectly subverting the majority's
pre-defined dichotomies, where the majority represents
scientific knowledge and the minority represents tra-
ditional and local knowledge (Schanche 1 993).
The context in which cultural sites are placed is
therefore crucial to acquiring an understanding and ac-
ceptance that the cultural sites are associated W\X.h the
Sami prehistory and history. As an added benefit, there
is a balance between cultural sites and local commu-
nities. Local Sami communities and their knowledge
are important to establish a site's cultural connection.
At the same time, cultural sites offer a direct physical
manifestation of the Sami prehistoric and historic pres-
ence in the area, and with that they become the basis
for forming Sami culture and society.
Mauken-Blatind: Sami Reindeer Herding
History in a Norwegian Farming Area
Mauken and Blatind are two mountains on the border
between Sweden and Norway in an area called Inner
Troms. This area was first colonized by Scandinavian
farmers from southern Norway at the end of the eigh-
teenth century and the dominant local history is a pio-
neer story about clearing the fields and establishing
farm settlements. Today's population is extremely
aware of its particular south Norwegian culture; this
expresses itself, among other things, through dialect,
a different way of building, and strong musical tradi-
tions. However, written sources show that a Sami pres-
ence in this area goes back at least several hundred
years. Sami reindeer-herders who live in Sweden dur-
ing the winter still use mountain regions within the
Norwegian national borders as summer pastures; but
in the 1920s Norwegian national authorities closed
these pastures in Mauken and Blatind. Since the 1 950s
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 365
the area has been used for military training fields, but
because of its qualities as a reindeer pasture area, in
the 1 960s two Norwegian Sami reindeer herding fami-
lies established themselves on an annual basis around
Mauken and Blatind. The long Sami history has been
ignored in the presentations and understandings of
the area's past.
Between 1998 and 2001, the Ministry of Defense
planned to expand and connect the artillery ranges
around Mauken and Blatind, so the Sami Parliament
undertook examinations of Sami cultural sites within
the planned field (Skandfer 1 998; Sommerseth 1 999-
2001 , 2001 ). One cultural site survey had already taken
place in 1989 and 1990, with the conclusion that the
planned military activities involved great wear and tear
on, harm to, and in the worst case, destruction of the
legally protected cultural sites, and that the enlarge-
ment and connection of the artillery ranges would likely
bring further threat to a long list of hitherto unregis-
tered Sami cultural sites. It was concluded that from a
cultural heritage preservation point of view, it was im-
possible to accept the plans. Nevertheless, the plans
were approved by the Norwegian Parliament in 1996,
and in the winter of 1 998 the Ministry of Defense started
the project. In spring 1998 the Sami Parliament insti-
tuted an operation to fulfill its judicial administrative
obligation toward cultural heritage management by
gathering new information through registration work,
place-name investigations, and reviews of written sources
that address Sami tradition in the area, creating a great
deal of new data that needed to be processed. In spring
1999 a project worker was employed to administrate
the great amount of new information. The work was
completed in the fall of 2001 , with a summary report
finding that 214 registered structures were spread out
over 1 33 sites (Sommerseth 2001 ). Most of the regis-
tered sites can be tied directly to the tradition of Sami
reindeer herding, but some findings date back to the
Stone Age hunting and fishing economy. Other cul-
tural sites are historic remains dating from after the
establishment of Sami farm settlements. The registered
sites and excavated archaeological materials now form
part of the empirical database for Ingrid Sommerseth's
ongoing Ph.D. project for the University of Tromso on
the transition from hunting wild reindeer to reindeer
pastoralism and herding (Sommerseth 2004).
Most of the registered structures were stone-set fire-
places that once were located in the middle of the
lavvo (Sami tent), some of which have been excavated
with interesting results (Fig.l 1 6). Several charcoal hori-
zons show that the same fireplace was used several
years in a row, and that fireplaces at the same site can
vary in age by several hundred years; the oldest exca-
vated in the area went back to the fifteenth century
(Sveen 2000 in Sommerseth 2001). Information about
the dating and seasonal use period implies that at least
two separate herd migration routes were established in
this area by the fifteenth century, making the Sami rein-
deer herding tradition in InnerTroms stretch as far back
in time, as others have documented, in what are today
the more central parts of the Sami settlement area. The
results also support seventeenth and eighteenth cen-
tury written records that described many Sami activi-
ties around the Mauken-Blatind area. The investiga-
tions also show that there is a certain correlation be-
tween the Sami reindeer herding settlement sites and
the older hunting and fishing seasonal camps, as in so
many other places in the Sami area. This suggests that
there is a close connection between the local land-
scape knowledge of the reindeer-herding Sami com-
munities and the older hunting and fishing understand-
ing and use of the landscape. With the help of local
informants—among others, older Swedish Sami rein-
deer herders and those who travel with the reindeer
today—one can see spring, summer, and fall habitation
areas that seem to spring out of the landscape. Seen in
the light of how knowledge and understanding is
passed on from generation to generation as a way to
teach people how to behave toward both the land-
scape and the community, it can be claimed that an
extended, probably, several-thousand-year-old record
of habitation and utilization in Sami reindeer herding
366 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
areas can be relevant to the local Sami self-understand-
ing. It is equally reasonable to claim that the present-
day local Sami self-understanding and knowledge
is relevant to the general understanding of such
ancient cultural sites.
The mandated research of the Sami Parliament
brought to light a neglected and virtually forgotten
Sami past in Inner Troms. The Sami population that had
used the area around Mauken-Blatind following migra-
tion routes established long before the 1923 closure
of the national border between Norway and Sweden
became excluded from its history simply because the
border was shut to a population technically residing in
Sweden. The current nearby immigrant Norwegian popu-
lation knew neither about the Sami place-names nor
about the sites that bear witness to previous Sami pres-
ence. However, the deep historic roots and the close
cultural correlation between the modern reindeer
economy and the long tradition it is part of provide the
basis for appraisal and recognition of Sami presence
and Sami rights. The Sami Parliament's work caused
the Ministry of Defense to adjust some of its plans so
that selected Sami cultural sites can be preserved for
the future. As a result, the Sami Parliament's work can
perhaps contribute to both the local awareness of the
long Sami history in the area (which in the course of
the last 200 years was surrounded by a Norwegian farm-
ing landscape) and to the increase of knowledge in
Sami societies about their own (pre)history in an area
to which they now have little or no access.
The Management of the Cultural Self-Concept
The Sami Parliament's weighting of local knowledge in
its management of cultural sites is the good part of the
story. In its management, local knowledge is respected.
Through everyday efforts, one realizes that part of the
management of knowledge is not just giving, but—
probably more importantly—receiving. The manage-
ment of cultural sites is an exercise in making con-
scious and justified choices. The cultural sites' local
meaning, presence, and the continued use of areas
have vital importance to the choices that have to be
made. The focus on local knowledge in the preserva-
tion of Sami cultural heritage provides management
practice with a sense of social proximity and immedi-
ate meaning. In the management of Sami cultural heri-
tage, the Sami Parliament to a large degree is ensuring
that the local Sami communities have the opportunity
/ / 6/ Fireplace at a Sami reindeer herding camp exca-
vated in 2002 as a part of tine ongoing PAi.D project
by Ingrid Sommersetlis, at Devddesjdvri, InnerTroms.
Tine camp was probably used during the fall time, and
dates back to AD 1400-1445.
to tell and learn to recognize their own history, to form
their own identity, and thereby master greater ability
to select among various options in the formation of
their own lives and culture (Fellesdal 1 999). In this way,
the preservation of Sami cultural heritage will contrib-
ute to increased equality for cultural maintenance and
development. This simultaneously minimizes signals of
inferiority and cultural domination, and works to equal-
ize distribution of culture and history as common ben-
efits. The Sami Parliament cannot on its own declare
which is the "true" Sami identity or what individuals'
understanding of their own culture should be. The Sami
Parliament's role is to contribute so that the Sami people
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 367
can view themselves in light of both the past and
present, and so that change and reinterpretation of
one's identity and self-awareness is an ongoing pro-
cess in which cultural sites and heritage are themselves
important reference points (Fig.l 1 7).
Prioritizing local knowledge in the effort to pre-
serve Sami cultural heritage has been a very important
goal because it is primarily in the local communities
that cultural sites possess and give meaning. But plac-
ing a priority on local knowledge can simultaneously
be seen as a strategy in the struggle for cultural sur-
vival and self-awareness, steered by the limitations that
the power structures offer to the Sami population.
The Norwegian Government System and
the Sami Voice
The system of government tells us about how power is
organized, divided, and channeled in a state. Roughly
said, the Norwegian system is built upon the state,
county, and municipal levels. Formal power in Norway
is organized and divided among these three hierarchi-
cally defined levels. When it comes to cultural heri-
tage the Ministry of the Environment and the Director-
ate of Cultural Heritage represent the state as the cen-
tral steering and controlling institutions; the counties
represent the regional management and executive
level; and the municipalities represent the local prepa-
ratory and fulfillment level. All public management is
tied to a formal political organ and political power, and
cultural heritage management is no exception.
Politics has been called the authoritative distribu-
tion of values (Easton 1953:127-32). Cultural heritage
and cultural sites are thus values and benefits adminis-
tered and distributed. Heritage management is as much
about protecting and managing values as it is about
the physical past represented by heritage artifacts,
sites, and places (Smith 1994). Cultural heritage man-
agement therefore meets different cultural heritage
values, represented by different interest groups and
local communities, and it also exercises political power.
How the power is systematized, structured, and insti-
tutionalized influences strongly which values reach their
goal and what decisions are made.
In this simplified outline of the formal division of
power in the Norwegian system, we have not men-
tioned the Sami Parliament. The Sami Parliament is the
popularly elected body by and for the Sami people in
Norway. It chooses for itself what issues to concern
itself with, but it has a certain limited authority to dis-
tribute economic funds for culture, industry, language,
and education. In addition, the Sami Parliament has
been delegated the authority for managing the Cultural
Heritage Act insofar as it relates to Sami cultural sites.
The establishment of the Sami Parliament has to be
understood as an attempt to raise the Sami voice in the
Norwegian government system. The Sami Parliament's
place in the Norwegian government system is, how-
ever, not easy to describe, and there have been few
attempts to do so.
From a corporate perspective, the Sami Parliament
can be understood as an expression of political de-
sign. One description of a corporative system—a sys-
tem where representation of interests goes via uniformed
organizations that are specialized in their defined ar-
eas, established and recognized by the state, and granted
monopoly right to represent their own field by observ-
ing certain rules concerning election and the way de-
mands are introduced^is strikingly similar to a de-
scription of the Sami Parliament's role towards the cen-
tral authority. Corporatism is in its nature equivocal, in
the sense that it is hard to decide whether the organi-
zation conquers the government or if the government
has conquered the organization. In the desire and ne-
cessity to secure the politics concerning the Sami
people, the state authorities guarantee a Sami struc-
tural influence. The Sami Parliament becomes an insti-
tution that shapes effective coordination of organiza-
tions to advance and consolidate Sami politics, includ-
ing Sami cultural heritage politics. The establishment
of the Sami Parliament could in many ways be under-
stood as a way to secure better governance capacity
368 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
/ / 7/ Pre-Christian Sami grave at Caparas/Klubben, Unjarga/Nesseby municipality represents a continual grave
tradition between ca. 2000 BC and AD 1 600. Due to different building material and place in the landscape, these
stone-built graves can take a variety of forms.
over the Sami people, and in this context the state
authorities strive to reach a structuralized control of
the potential, which is in the Sami cultural heritage for
the Sami people to achieve power in the present.
Cultural heritage management cannot be discussed
as if it is detached from the political system and from
the value-struggle and value-distribution that take place
in this governmental system. Management is therefore
called politics with different means. Cultural heritage
management is one part of the cultural and environ-
mental politics, and one part of the fight and debate
around history and identity, where heritage managers'
interests are one of many interests and far from those
of an innocent and neutral bystander (Smith 1 994). To
place the heritage management in a political organ
opens the possibility for competing heritage values to
be expressed. Granting the Sami Parliament manage-
ment authority over Sami cultural heritage could be
understood as an acknowledgment of the Sami people's
right to be empowered for more equal participation in
the value distribution of the cultural heritage. The es-
tablishment of the Sami Parliament is probably an at-
tempt to empower the Sami people in their work for
cultural maintenance and development. The Sami Par-
liament has also achieved a degree of power when it
comes to cultural heritage management, in the sense
that power does not only involve realizing its inter-
ests, but also forming its own opinions and preferences
(F0llesdal 1999).
As mentioned, the equivocal role of the Sami Par-
liament in the Norwegian governmental system cre-
ates a tension in the state's relationship with the Sami
Parliament. This has consequences for the weight and
status of Sami cultural history when it comes to ac-
knowledgment and resources. The Sami Parliament is
an independent, democratically elected body, but in
cultural heritage management the Sami Parliament is
relegated to the status of a subordinate county ad-
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 369
ministration. In practice, the Sami Parliament's political
and professional opinions and decisions can be re-
viewed by the Ministry of the Environment and the
Directorate for Cultural Heritage. One example of the
fact that the Ministry of the Environment treats the
Sami Parliament as a subordinate administrative organ
is in the rules specified in the Cultural Heritage Act. The
Directorate for Cultural Heritage has the delegated
authority to exempt Sami sites—as well as other cul-
tural sites—from the protection automatically granted
in the Cultural Heritage Act so planned encroachments
in the landscapes can be done. Such a dispensation is
given after a recommendation from the Sami Parlia-
ment and the county governments regarding its areas
of responsibility. The Sami Parliament is not given in
principle or in practice a role beyond that granted to
county governments in such matters. The Sami Parlia-
ment as a representative organ for an indigenous
people—with the international obligations pressed
thereby onto the state— carries little (or no) weight in
the performance of practical administration.
The Sami Parliament's cultural heritage management
has an equivocal role in the governmental system. On
the one hand, the regulations of the Cultural Heritage
Act clearly state that the Sami Parliament is delegated
an authority which can be reviewed by the Ministry of
the Environment and the Directorate of Cultural Heri-
tage. On the other hand, the establishment of the Sami
Parliament with its own cultural heritage management
is an expression of a desire to recognize the Sami as a
people and to give them the right to fully manage their
own cultural heritage. This is a dilemma. Therefore, the
Sami Parliament has expressed an explicit desire to
develop an equal partnership with the government,
with consultations and necessary compromises, even
in the cultural heritage management field. This right of
consultations carried out in good faith with the objec-
tive of achieving agreement or consent is now under
development. The government and the Sami Parliament
are now discussing procedures for this.
The emphasis on the Sami voice in the Norwegian
governmental system is a difficult story for Sami cul-
tural heritage management. Even if the Sami Parliament
is empowered in the management of cultural heritage,
it has to function within the limits of the Norwegian
governmental system. The Sami Parliament's economic
resources are directed completely by the Storting (Nor-
wegian State Parliament) and so far the Sami Parlia-
ment has many fewer resources to disperse for the pres-
ervation of Sami cultural heritage than the Norwegian
cultural heritage system, even for the same geographi-
cal areas. (This is despite the fact that between these
two northernmost populations, Sami history in the North
is certainly both longer and more comprehensive than
Norwegian history). The Sami Parliament must operate
within a framework established by law and by regula-
tions, over which the Sami Parliament has little influ-
ence. Even in the field of cultural heritage protection,
where the Sami Parliament is given considerable power
compared to most other fields, it has to conduct itself
and undergo a one-sided adjustment toward the already
established Norwegian governmental system, a gov-
ernmental system with a clear Norwegian cultural char-
acter. The Sami people have been given a voice through
the Sami Parliament; but it is still the Norwegian natu-
ralized governmental system, which is decisive in cat-
egorizing what is valuable and nationally meaningful
cultural heritage (Andreassen 2001 ).
It is a fact that the politics of Norwegian cultural
heritage is divided into three levels, where the national
level is most important, the regional level is somewhat
important, and the local level is the least important.
From these categories come the priorities and the dis-
tribution of resources. A convention with such a hierar-
chy of values is in itself a reason enough for discussion.
In this connection we are satisfied, however, with call-
ing attention to the telling coincidence between these
value categories and the main levels in the Norwegian
governmental system. The coincidence is hardly acci-
dental. There are no fixed procedural rules for catego-
rizing values. But there is a reason to assume that those
who decide to which category a cultural site or envi-
370 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
ronment belongs base their decision on the level of
government from which the initiative or the request
arrives. This, again, is related to the cultural character of
the governmental system. One wonders, under which
category does the Sami cultural heritage find its home?
As mentioned above, the emphasis on local Sami
knowledge in the Sami cultural heritage management
is both an important goal and a chosen strategy. There
is a reason to believe that this is the chosen strategy
because it has been the only possibility for granting
the Sami cultural heritage a certain recognized value.
Nevertheless, the Sami cultural sites receive legitimacy
primarily at the local level; at other levels, there re-
mains an instituted demand for "proof before the ac-
ceptance of a cultural site's connection to the Sami
culture. The strategy can accordingly be understood, in
a certain way and to some extent, as having been cho-
sen for the Sami Parliament. The effect of the Sami
Parliament s emphasis on local knowledge in its heri-
tage management could to some degree have been
detrimental, since Sami cultural heritage has become
unimportant, or at least less important.
Rock Art: Sami and Non-Sami Visions of the
Landscape
One type of cultural heritage that has received great
attention, and great devotion of personnel and eco-
nomic resources from the government is rock art. Most
of the rock art has been assumed to be so ancient that
it is not considered to belong to any particular ethnic
group. The result is that rock art is understood to be of
no relevance for Sami culture, even though in many
cases the Sami are the only ethnic group known to
have lived in specific areas in pre-history. Over the last
few years, new rock art has been registered in Sami
use and settlement areas.
Rock paintings were found in Cuppopgieddi in the
Porsanger municipality during the summer of 2001.
Cuppogieddi is a local Sami community. The Sami Par-
liament took the responsibility for announcing the find
and for its documentation and security, including, of
course, actively involving the local Sami population.
The Sami Parliament also interpreted the rock paint-
ings in a Sami cultural-historic framework. Despite this,
the Directorate for Cultural Heritage signaled early on
that the rock art could hardly be considered a Sami
cultural site or as having anything to do with the Sami
ethnicity. It remains to be seen if the directorate con-
siders rock paintings to be so important that they must
be administered by "neutral" county governments rather
than by the Sami Parliament.
In Bola in the Steinkjer municipality during the sum-
mer 2001 , a rock carving of a person apparently on skis
was found. Prior to this, other can/ings were registered
in the same place, including one that showed a large
reindeer, called the B0la reindeer. Both skiing and rein-
deer herding and hunting can be associated with the
Sami people over an extensive period of time, but
these rock carvings are probably so ancient that one
hardly can consider them as reflecting a Sami or, for
that matter, Norwegian, ethnicity. The Sami Parliament
was never notified or informed about the new find of
the skier, nor about the decisions and actions taken in
regard to the Bola reindeer. The effect of this manage-
ment blackout has been that the Sami people have
been unable to see themselves in an emotionally
meaningful relationship to these cultural sites, mak-
ing it impossible to link the Bola reindeer to the
Sami culture and people in the area. To a large ex-
tent, the identity and independence of the Sami liv-
ing in this area can be tied to a picture of a reindeer
cut in a rock just by the simple fact that the motif is
a reindeer. The only known people to depend upon
the reindeer in both prehistory and today in that area
are the Sami.
It will be intriguing to find out to what extent the
Directorate for Cultural Heritage will follow up the rock
art find in Cuppopgieddi, beyond the declaration that it
is of the "national importance." Likewise, one can specu-
late as to whether the Bola reindeer would have re-
ceived the central and national attention that it did if
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 371
the Sami Parliament had been the coordinating man-
agement authority with a weighty local value dimen-
sion. Perhaps one should not draw negative conclu-
sions from conjectures. Sometimes, however, unknown
motivations and ideas influence and give meaning to
hidden factors, of which the actors themselves are un-
aware, but which nevertheless impregnate their attitudes
and actions (Haaland 2001). The Norwegian govern-
mental system's cultural character is a hidden factor the
Sami Parliament is confronted with in its cultural heri-
tage management; this can be especially seen in the
management of rock art in the Sami area. It may appear
that the Directorate of Cultural Heritage regards rock
art to be of universal value, where discontinuity and
cultural universality are emphasized at the expense of
cultural continuity and historical identity. The founda-
tion for a Sami version of prehistory is not placed side
by side with the almost cemented, objectified, and natu-
ralized Norwegian narrative about prehistory, which
frames understanding to such an extent that it is prob-
ably almost impossible to deconstruct (Hesjedal
2001:291). This narrow-minded "objective" emphasis
in the interpretation of prehistory has the effect of fur-
ther overshadowing Sami history.
Conclusion: Sami Past - Sami Power
In this article we tried to discuss the organization, tasks,
and inner-workings of Sami cultural heritage manage-
ment in Norway. By presenting an example of a type of
the Sami cultural landscape and the documentation work
on that landscape, we wanted to show the practical
challenges we face in the management of Sami cul-
tural heritage.
Our survey illustrates that the preservation of cul-
tural sites depends on local knowledge and that the
preservation of Sami cultural heritage has been largely
approached in this manner. At the same time, we tried
to underscore that the Sami Parliament's emphasis on
local knowledge has also been an intentional strategy
to support the legitimacy of Sami cultural heritage, a
choice largely dictated by the possibilities provided
within the power structure of the Norwegian govern-
ment system.
Placing priority on local knowledge in Sami cul-
tural heritage management has clearly been advanta-
geous, but it also has certain weaknesses. This is be-
cause it is difficult for Sami cultural history to become
more than "local values," with the limited attention and
restricted resources for research, management, muse-
ums, and cultural centers that this implies.
The Sami Parliament in Norway has been given a
voice in the struggle over cultural values and in this
distribution of values the cultural heritage management
is a central part. That voice must, however, be heard
within the established Norwegian government system
and its structures. We suggest that this gives the Sami
themselves a definite say in the formation of their own
past and identity; but this can only happen by sitting at
the table that the state has set and not through an equal
dialogue at a communal table. The Sami past is only
given the opportunity to be formed as a peripheral and
local past, which would be safe for the Norwegian state.
The issues in Sami prehistory that the state, represented
by the Directorate for Cultural Heritage, feels are im-
portant have been usurped as universal and
decontextualized, such that the local Sami associa-
tion becomes barely relevant or even irrelevant. In
those cases, the Sami are being alienated from their
own history (Fig.l 1 8), and that history becomes neu-
tralized as a tool in a serious battle for culture and
resources.
In the cultural heritage management oversight in
Norway, the Sami Parliament has a difficult role to play.
It must simultaneously be engaged in a dialogue with
the local Sami communities, and pursue and struggle
for the understanding of and respect for Sami prehis-
tory and identity against the state authority. The Sami
Parliament can be a go-between for local knowledge
and state power, with local Sami knowledge being a
true asset for the Sami Parliament, but not for the state.
The local Sami knowledge allows no impetus for the
372 REGIONAL APPROACHES/ SAMILAND
/ 1 8/ Pre-Christian Sdmi grave (prior to AD 1600) in Veidnes, Unjarga/Nesseby municipality.
development of a modern, inclusive Sami community,
which is truly fundamental for the formation of a cohe-
sive Sami society in an established nation-state.
Although the power to preserve Sami cultural heri-
tage is to a large degree unilaterally bound and deter-
mined by the power of the state, one should not neces-
sarily underestimate the ability to improve the system's
infrastructure and operations from the inside. For in-
stance, the cultural landscape concept that was included
in the Cultural Heritage Act in 1 992 is partly the result
of Sami professional and research branches' work on
this theme.
The Sami Parliament's steady, growing emphasis
on Sami prehistory will in time be able to challenge
the research apparatus to take Sami history as a start-
ing point in its work. The fact that there is already an
independent Sami cultural heritage management sys-
tem creates, therefore, an internal dynamics that chal-
lenges the non-Sami cultural heritage management as
well. A government 'white paper' will be published
at the end of 2004, concerning the politics of cul-
tural heritage management in Norway. There is a
basis to say, with some anticipation, that the choice
will be most likely to give the preservation of Sami
cultural heritage a stronger Sami-nation voice, hope-
fully at the expense of today's strictly hierarchically
organized government system.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Elisabeth Ward and Iris Hahn. Elisabeth Ward
made a preliminary translation of a first draft submit-
ted in Norwegian, and revised the preliminary transla-
tion of a second draft, based on the work of Iris Hahn;
both Elisabeth and Iris then worked at the Arctic Stud-
ies Center, National Museum of Natural History,
Smithsonian Institution. Thanks to Bryan Hood, Insti-
TORVALD FALCH AND MARIANNE SKANDFER 373
tute of Archaeology, University of Tromso, who of-
fered valuable editorial comments to the final English
version of this paper. Finaly, thanks to Audhild
Schanche, Director of the Nordic Sami Institute in
Kautokeino, who recommended that the authors be
invited as contributors to this international collection
of papers.
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COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES

Joining the j^ots:
IVlanag^ine the [_,ancl~ and Seascapes of jndiVenous /\ustraiia
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE
Much recent archaeological literature has highlighted
a growing concern with the fracture between cur-
rent cultural heritage management practice and the
concerns of Indigenous' peoples. Chief amongst
these criticisms is the undue emphasis placed on
sites as the dominant units of cultural heritage man-
agement and the inflexibility of this approach in the
face of the more abstract knowledge systems be-
longing to Indigenous peoples. These knowledge
systems of the Indigenous Australians view contem-
porary Indigenous landscapes as physical manifes-
tations of the actions of ancestors during a creation
era known as the Dreaming. These landscapes are
full of meaning, inherently powerful and potentially
dangerous. Many of the places in these landscapes
that are important to Indigenous peoples in Austra-
lia cannot be identified by traditional archaeological
methods. Grounded in a Western, literary way of view-
ing the world, archaeology as a discipline has tradi-
tionally sought discontinuity and boundedness. As a
result, archaeological classification systems have
tended to rely on the identification of firm and fixed
boundaries, both in time and space, overlooking the
possibility of drawing on the more complex and nu-
anced systems of Indigenous peoples. This occurs not
only at the level of site identification, but also in the
ways in which archaeologists approach cultural heri-
tage management issues.
One solution that has been advocated is to shift
the emphasis away from the site and toward cultural
landscapes as the units of study (Ross 1 996). The idea
is that this will allow the interconnections between
sites to be given as much attention as the physical
remnants themselves. This concept has gained currency
over the last five years amongst many archaeological
consultants and other cultural heritage professionals
in Australia; but the rhetoric tends to break down in
practice, most noticeably in urban and rural areas that
are not under the direct control of Indigenous peoples.
Our intention in this paper is to explore why this may
be. We interpret contact between Indigenous and non-
indigenous peoples in Australia as the meeting of West-
ern and Indigenous systems of knowledge. We argue
that conflict is inherent in this contact, as these ways
of knowing are grounded in and driven by, fundamen-
tally different and possibly irreconcilable, concepts of
time and space. Conflicting approaches to the treat-
ment of land, heritage, and documentation arise from
this, as well as very different perspectives on preserva-
tion, with concomitant implications in terms of the
documentation, preservation and management of eth-
nographic/cultural landscapes.
These differences are being played out within a
changing legislative framework. During the 1 970s, in-
creased community concern with protecting cultural
and environmental resources resulted in a plethora of
state and federal cultural heritage and environmen-
tal legislation. The Australian cultural heritage leg-
islation prompted the initial recording and assess-
ment of cultural heritage sites (but not landscapes)
379
throughout the country.
Indigenous attempts to gain control over their lands
manifested in the case of Mabo v. Queensland, in which
Eddie Mabo and others from the Murray Islands, in
Queensland's waters, argued successfully that native
title to their lands had never been sold, transferred or
extinguished. The Mabo decision resulted in the "Na-
tive Title Act 1 993—An Act about native title in rela-
tion to land or waters and for related purposes." This
act recognizes a form of native title, which, in those
cases where it has not been extinguished, reflects the
entitlement of the Indigenous Australians to their tradi-
tional lands, in accordance with their laws or customs.
This act overturned the notion of terra nullius (land with
no people), as the legal basis for appropriation of Ab-
original Australia. At the time of making the Mabo de-
cision, the High Court of Australia applied the principles
in question to the country as a whole with the clear
implication that native title may have survived in other
parts of Australia. Since then, Indigenous Australians
have made hundreds of applications for native title to
their traditional lands. Approved determinations of
native title by the High Court, Federal Court, and/or a
recognized body are contained in the National Native
Title Register (NNTR), a register maintained by the Na-
tional Native Title Tribunal. This tribunal maintains a
number of registers and databases that hold accurate
and comprehensive records of native title applications,
determinations and Indigenous land use agreements
(ILUAs) made under the Native Title Act. For example,
the Mabo decision is recorded as a native title deter-
mination on the National Native Title Register.
Western and Indigenous Ways of Knowing
This paper keys into an emerging debate among Aus-
tralian archaeologists and cultural heritage managers
about the most appropriate ways to identif/ and man-
age the living heritage of Indigenous Australians, the
land and seascapes of Australia. This is a direct out-
growth of recent cooperative research with Aborigi-
nal people and has resulted in concerted attempts to
develop a more culturally sensitive approach to cul-
tural heritage management (Fullagar and Head 1999;
Greer 1 996; Ross 1 996).
The most common criticism of contemporary cul-
tural heritage management practice in Australia, as else-
where, is that it fails to take into account Indigenous
peoples' needs (Isaacson 2003). In its strict scientific
approach to classif/ing, assessing and documenting
sites, cultural heritage management tends to over-
emphasize the material aspects of culture:
Until recently, the concept of "heritage," as
an archaeological or scientific construction,
has been almost universally applied. In this
construction, "heritage" may be defined as
elements from the past, most particularly
archaeological sites or places where there is visible
evidence of that past. Within this, heritage
preservation is aimed at preserving or conserv-
ing these elements which are the 'fabric' of the
past. (Greer 1996:103, emphasis added)
This results, inevitably, in an undue emphasis on spe-
cific sites or locales which, by definition, must be spa-
tially bounded in order to distinguish those areas that
possess physical evidence from those that do not. In
Australian practice, this is as much a bureaucratic deci-
sion as it is a Western scientific one. With a focus on
discrete sites, management, too, can be easily bounded
and decisions about recording and salvage, or destruc-
tion, can be tightly defined using archaeological argu-
ments (Ross 1996:1 1).
In Australia, the concept of the "site" became en-
shrined in cultural heritage management practice as a
direct result of the development of state and federal
cultural heritage legislation in the 1 970s, which was
the first concerted attempt by government to record
and protect cultural heritage. Cultural heritage man-
agement is at heart a relative process and in order to
be effective requires some foundational pool of infor-
mation from which to draw comparisons. The admin-
istration of the heritage legislation thus required the
establishment of registers of the cultural resources
existing within each of the eight states and territories
of Australia.
380 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
The enormous amount of descriptive archaeologi-
cal survey work that accompanied this push has often
been characterized as the "dots on maps" approach:
compiling lists of sites into a database with little or no
exploration of the possible relationships between sites
or areas (Clarke and Hamm 1 996:82). Statewide cul-
tural heritage registers created during the 1970s and
1980s were intended to provide a measurable index
of cultural value—hence the common use of the term
"resource" to describe the material components of
culture. This very notion of conceiving of culture as
a resource, however, is a reflection of the underly-
ing chasm separating Western and Indigenous ways
of knowing.
The Western worldview is often characterized as
based on essentialized and dichotomized hierarchies,
such as male/female; sacred/secular; culture/nature;
self/other. This way of viewing the world seeks and
finds discontinuity and boundedness (Wobst and Smith,
in press). Expressed in the development of scientific
instruments, from globes, telescopes and microscopes,
to watches, compasses and clocks, this was part of a
mindset that viewed the world as being precisely
managed by mathematical principles. Under such pro-
cesses, space is thought of as less an arena for so-
cial relations and more as a neutral, physical com-
modity. From a Western viewpoint, control over space
ceases to be a matter of custom and becomes a mat-
ter of formalized, abstracted knowledge Oohnson
1993:347).
Our intent here is to emphasize the widely held
notion that the cultural segmentation of space
and time—which allowed them to be viewed in
measurable, interchangeable segments— is part of
a particular way of looking at the world, rather
than a natural phenomenon (cf. Handsman and
Leone 1 989:33; Johnson 1996; Thomas 1993:21).
In this way, new notions of space and time be-
came closely linked to the capitalist experience
of assessing value through monetary relationships
and exchanges of equivalence.
Like all Western preserves, archaeology and cul-
tural heritage management are firmly grounded in such
modes of viewing the world. Assessing the significance
of "cultural resources" is more a process of assessing
exchanges of equivalence: for example, comparing the
relative value of sites in a region by determining what
constitutes, or does not constitute, a "representative
sample." Such financial/economic terms, however, are
inadequate ways to represent the complexity of Ab-
original notions of heritage.
Indigenous constructions of knowledge, on the
other hand, arise from the fluidity and flexibility of oral
traditions. They recognize a plethora of social and cul-
tural distinctions and are based on the premise that
knowledge is owned and that access to knowledge
will be determined upon each person's specific posi-
tion within society. The most significant difference in
the ways in which Indigenous and non-Indigenous
peoples construct knowledge is that Indigenous
knowledge is not "open" in the sense that all people
have an equal right to acquiring that knowledge. In
Indigenous Australian systems, for example, knowledge
is rarely definitive and often is restricted. Grounded in
oral traditions, knowledge has many levels and is open
to alternative interpretations according to the par-
ticular situation. It is a source of power and is curated
by people with the appropriate qualifications and
personalities. Often, only a few people will know
the knowledge that is most crucial to the spiritual
regeneration of the group. In terms of managing the
land, this means it is essential that developers and
cultural heritage managers obtain their information
about sacred or important sites from the correct
people, the people who hold the appropriate knowl-
edge of those sites.
Conflict in these approaches to constructing
knowledge is at the basis of many recent contro-
versies over the management of land and seascapes
in Indigenous Australia. These differences emerge in
clashes between oral and literary traditions, as well as
in how Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples con-
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 381
ceive of time and space.
Concepts ofSpace
Western concepts of space also arise from the capital-
ist disposition to separate, bound and control. Grounded
in a habit of classification, archaeologists deal with
space at a number of different scales, from individual
finds to regional territories or continent wide transects.
Invariably, like time, they conceive of space in terms of
discrete and bounded entities. One of the fundamen-
tal ways in which archaeologists control space is
through defining boundaries. One effect of this is to
position Indigenous peoples within defined territories,
facilitating administration by bureaucracies and a close
counterpart to the process of colonialism (L. Smith
1999:53; Wobst and Smith 2003).
In contrast, Australian Indigenous peoples conceive
of space in terms of the inter-relationships that exist
between places and peoples, as laid down during the
Dreaming era. Indigenous places always exist in rela-
tion to other Indigenous places. In terms of land man-
agement, this means that each individual site has to
be managed as a small facet of a wider cultural land-
scape. What happens at one site will necessarily im-
pact other sites within a web of inter-relationships that
can span the entire country and extend into territorial
waters. Morphy (1998:108) argues that:
The whole of creation, all of human life, is
mapped on the landscape, to which ances-
tral beings are inextricably connected.
Almost anything that exists has its place in
the Dreamtime, whether it is an animal . . .
an object ... a ritual practice ... or even an
illness. And everything that has a place in the
Dreamtime is likely to have a place associ-
ated with it on earth.
This is not to say that Indigenous Australians do not
have a traditional conception of bounded areas. They
do, but the way in which they do this is paradoxically
through creating linkages, like interlaced fingers or the
checkered patterns on a chessboard. Sharp, linear
boundaries do occur in some places, usually where
quite clear geographical delineations, such as rivers.
allow them to be readily defined. An example of this is
along the Mann River in central Arnhem Land, which
acts as a boundary between the lands of Jawoyn and
Ngalkpon peoples. Overall, though. Indigenous land
boundaries are diffuse, and Indigenous conceptions of
territory are focused on the core areas that are indis-
putably owned by particular groups, rather than on
the lines that delineate the territories between them
(Hiatt 1987).
In many parts of Australia, the management of In-
digenous lands is structured by a web of complex and
sophisticated social inter-relationships. In Arnhem Land,
for example, "owners," called gidjan and "custodians,"
called junggayi have a primary custodial relationship
to the other group. All people have birthrights that
place them in an ownership relationship to particular
tracts of land and in a custodial relationship to neigh-
boring tracts of land. This system of reciprocal rights
and responsibilities is all pervasive, since all people are
owners for some tracts of land and for particular cer-
emonies and custodians for others. At a general level,
the society is divided into two moieties, Dhuwa and
Yirritja. Yirritja people will be the workers in ceremo-
nies, such as Gunapippi, that are owned by Dhuwa
people and Dhuwa people will be the workers in cer-
emonies, such as the Jabuduruwa, that are owned by
Yirritja people. This reciprocal responsibility ensures that
ceremonies and land are cared for properly even if
people of the preferred "skin" group are not available.
Ultimately, all Dhuwa people are custodians for all Yirritja
land and all Yirritja people are custodians for all Dhuwa
land (C. Smith 1 999).
The Western conception of defining space in terms
of boundaries is apparent in the failure until recently to
grapple with Indigenous notions of sea rights within
the existing system of cultural heritage management
in Australia. Grounded in a Western tradition of classifi-
cation, the physical boundary between land and sea
has always been treated as a self-evident territorial
boundary. From a Western perspective, the point at
which the land joins the sea is clearly the place where
382 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
Indigenous country must end. This view has been chal-
lenged by Indigenous conceptions of territory and of
land management and these views have been publi-
cized through the Internet (http://www.nlc.org.au/
nlcweb/land_and_sea_rights). The traditional country
of coastal Indigenous groups in Australia often ex-
tended out to sea. Dreaming trails can include under-
water sites, extending Indigenous territory well beyond
the shore. Indigenous peoples in coastal areas claim
comparable rights over areas of the sea that are con-
tiguous to their lands and see this as a logical exten-
sion of land rights:
Some eighty percent of the Northern
Territory coastline is Aboriginal-owned
land. Coastal or "Saltwater" Aboriginal
people in the Top End of the Northern
Territory have a strong attachment to "sea
country." Connection to land does not stop
at the water's edge. The land and sea are
one, providing sustenance. There are sacred
sites and dreaming tracks in and under the
sea, just as there are on the land (Northern
Lands Council 2001).
The principal test case involving native title rights to
3,300 square kilometers (1,275 square miles) of sea
was pursued by the traditional owners of Croker Is-
land, which is located off the coast of Arnhem Land,
Northern Territory. The original determination by Jus-
tice Howard OIney of the Federal Court in 1998 de-
cided that native title sea rights did exist, but that
they were non-exclusive and non-commercial. He rea-
soned that the Native Title Act 1993 itself allowed rec-
ognition of native title offshore by explicitly extending
the operation of the Act to coastal seas and any wa-
ters over which Australia asserts sovereign rights. How-
ever, common law recognition of a public right to fish
and to navigation prevented an acceptance of a na-
tive title right to exclusive possession, occupation, use
and enjoyment of the same areas. On appeal, native
titleholders have argued for exclusive possession, while
the Commonwealth of Australia has argued that na-
tive title cannot exist beyond the low water mark. In
1999 two out of three judges of the full Australian
Federal Court rejected both claims and approved Jus-
tice OIney's original decision (http://www.atsic.gov.au).
This result was disputed by the people of Croker Is-
land; and in October 2001 the High Court of Australia
affirmed that native title rights extended out to sea,
but refused to give Indigenous Australians the right to
veto offshore fishing, tourism and mining activities
(Haslem and Toohey 2001 :8).
The way in which this dispute was played out high-
lights some congruence between Indigenous and non-
Indigenous notions of space. Both the Croker Island
people and the Australian government had a notion of
territory extending beyond the shoreline. In terms of
land management, the difference is that the Australian
government had not thought in terms of Indigenous
peoples having a notion of territorial waters. From
an archaeological perspective, this seems a perfectly
logical contention, given the long-term land use
patterns of the Australian continent and the sub-
merging of large tracts of Indigenous lands by the
early Holocene rising of the seas. The interesting
point here is that these underwater sites remain in-
corporated into contemporary Indigenous land
management strategies, around 8,000 years after
they were originally submerged.
Oral vs. Literary Traditions
In contrast to Western systems of knowledge, which
are grounded in the written word. Indigenous knowl-
edge systems are based primarily on oral traditions
and were communicated through dance, story, art, song
and everyday practice. Such knowledge—of the past,
of the land and its resources and of other groups of
people—was the major device used by Indigenous
peoples to occupy the continent and successfully
manage the range of Australian environments. Oral tra-
ditions are more fluid and subtle than written systems
of communication. Oral forms of communication place
power directly in the hands of senior people, who are
the respected holders and interpreters of Indigenous
law. In many parts of Australia, Indigenous religious
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 383
and cultural knowledge is separated into "women's
business" and "men's business" (Hamilton 1981; Bell
]993). Under this system, the rights to knowledge
must be earned; and information is revealed to people
gradually, at particular stages in their lives and as they
prove themselves worthy of being entrusted with this
information and its attendant responsibilities. There is
not a simple gendered division of knowledge, as the
right to hold such cultural wisdom is dependent on
each individual's personal qualities and particular posi-
tion in Indigenous Australian society. Affiliation to land,
specialist knowledge, age, initiated status and so forth
are all dimensions that come into play when the trans-
fer of knowledge is being decided.
Moreover, there is great variation across Indigenous
Australia in the manner in which Indigenous knowl-
edge is culturally organized (Fig. 120). In the Western
Desert, for example, gender-based distinctions are a
conspicuous feature of cultural organization (Bell 1 993),
while in Arnhem Land such distinctions are much less
obvious to an outsider's eye (Hamilton 1981; Smith
1 994).
The most significant difference in the ways in which
Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians construct
knowledge is that Indigenous knowledge is not "open"
in the sense that all people potentially have an equal
right to acquiring that knowledge. In Indigenous sys-
tems, knowledge rarely is definitive and often is re-
stricted. Grounded in oral traditions, knowledge has
many levels and is open to alternative interpretations
according to the particular situation. It is a source of
power and is curated by people with the appropriate
qualifications and personalities. Responsibility for car-
ing for this knowledge is not something like that ev-
eryone could theoretically aspire to, as in Western sys-
tems of knowledge. In terms of managing the land,
this means it is essential that developers and cul-
tural heritage managers obtain their information
about sacred or important sites from the correct
people, the people who hold the appropriate knowl-
edge of those sites.
Hierarchical Knowledge: A Case Story of the
Hindmarsh Island Bridge
A clash between oral and written traditions lay at the
heart of recent controversy over the building of a bridge
to Hindmarsh Island, near Adelaide in South Australia.
Ngarrindjeri women from the area, because the bridge's
construction would disturb an important site related
to restricted women's business, objected to this de-
velopment. Other Ngarrindjeri women, however, chal-
lenged the objection, asserting that they were unaware
of this "women's business." The Federal Labor govern-
ment in 1 994 stopped the bridge after an inquiry found
it would offend Aborigines because of secret women's
business. Subsequently, a Royal Commission was
called and anthropologists appeared, supporting both
sides of the debate. In 1995, the South Australian
Hindmarsh Bridge Royal Commission concluded that
secret women's business associated with the island
was impossible. According to the commission's state-
ment, the Ngarrindjeri women and others who had
made these assertions had fabricated their beliefs for
the purpose of obtaining a declaration under the Heri-
tage Protection Act to prevent the construction of the
bridge (Stevens 1 995). This finding was based on a
determination that no secret women's business could
have existed in Ngarrindjeri culture before the con-
troversy regarding the building of the bridge. In Au-
gust 2001, the Federal Court of Australia denied an
application by Wendy and Thomas Chapman, the de-
velopers of the Hindmarsh Island Marina, for compen-
sation from the Commonwealth, the relevant minis-
ter and academics, on the grounds that they had
been financially disadvantaged by the delay in build-
ing the bridge.
It is our view that the determination of the Hind-
marsh Bridge Royal Commission was faulty and that
this emerged from a clash between Indigenous and
non-Indigenous worldviews. This discord is evident in
two principal respects: the manner in which the com-
mission privileged evidence from oral and literary
384 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
/ 20/ Indigenous Women 's Dreaming Site, near Barunga, Nortlnern Territory, Australia.
sources and the inability of the commission to prop-
erly grasp the manner in which Indigenous cultural
knowledge is formed and disseminated.
Embedded in a Western tradition of dichotomized
hierarchies, the commission consistently gave greater
credence to historical and ethnographic sources by
white people than to Indigenous oral histories. As
Nicholls (1996:62) writes, these ways of ranking oral
and literary traditions appear so natural that the eth-
nocentrism on which they are based has become
masked. Grosz points out that;
Dichotomous thinking necessarily
hierarchises and ranks the two polarised
terms so that one becomes the privileged
term and the other its suppressed, negative
counterpart. The subordinated term is merely
the negation or denial, the absence or
privation of the primary term, its fall from
grace; the primary term defines itself by
expelling its other and in this process
establishes its own boundaries and borders
to create an identity for itself (Grosz 1994:3,
cited in Nicholls 1996:63).
It is not utterly surprising that the Hindmarsh Island
Royal Commission gave greater credence to literary
rather than oral sources. In Western modes of thought
the former are characterized as detached, objective
and reliable, while the latter are viewed as emotional,
subjective, and changeable. This leaves oral evidence
open to challenge when sites are identified that are
likely to obstruct development, unless there is inde-
pendently generated written substantiation of the in-
formation presented in oral evidence. As Bell (1 998:34)
states, "no texts, no sites" was the mantra of the Royal
Commission. From this perspective. Indigenous knowl-
edge only achieves legitimization in the transforma-
tion of oral evidence into written texts.
Seeing the world from the Western perspective of
relatively open access to knowledge, the commission
was unable to come to grips with Indigenous ways of
segmenting knowledge and, more importantly, with
variation in how such knowledge could be distributed.
In trying to understand the idea of culturally segmented
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 385
knowledge, the commission grasped upon the notion
of a simple, exclusive gender division. From this per-
spective, evidence that not all Ngarrindjeri women were
aware of the significance of the Hindmarsh Island area
in terms of women's business was taken as evidence
that this women's business did not exist. The commis-
sion did not entertain the view that gender-specific
knowledge could be segmented at many levels, cre-
ating a fine and intangible cultural web. It failed to
recognize that this knowledge was probably always
restricted to a select group of women. Deane Fergie,
the anthropologist who documented Ngarrindjeri
women's secret-sacred knowledge in a report to the
Aboriginal Legal Rights Movement, also attributed the
Royal Commission's findings to a clash in worldviews:
Importantly, the Commission seemed inca-
pable of anything but the most literal
interpretation of evidence. There is no
recognition by the Commission of the
existence of idioms for conveying meaning . . .
what came to light and was tested was
largely assumption and inference. This is the
inferential tautology and the fatal flaw of the
Commission's findings (Fergie 1 996: 1 7).
The commission's findings drew heavily upon the evi-
dence of two white males, an historian, Phillip Jones,
and an anthropologist, Phillip Clarke, who argued that
there was no gender-based separation of knowledge
within Ngarrindjeri culture. Jones and Clarke arrived at
this conclusion on the basis of their analyses of a range
of historic and ethnographic sources, rather than a more
comprehensive anthropological method of field-based
research aimed at assessing the claim of restricted
women's business through fieldwork with Aboriginal
people. Clarke contrasted the reliability of the sources
he used in developing a historical account of Ngar-
rindjeri culture with the "new formulation" presented
by the proponent Ngarrindjeri women, obtained, in his
view, from a concentration of material from a range of
oral sources (cited in Hemming 1996:32). It is notable
that while both formulations of knowledge derive from
an analysis of several sources, the reliability of histori-
cal and ethnographic sources was consistently privi-
leged over that of oral sources. Hemming criticizes
this aspect of Clarke's testimony to the Royal Com-
mission, arguing that:
This passage highlights the clash occurring in
this Commission between Indigenous, oral
accounts of history and the Western empiri-
cist tradition dominating the legal system
and both Clarke and Jones' style of anthro-
pology and history. Clarke's approach to the
discovery of "truth" through the assembling of
scientific facts, leads him to what can only be
characterised as a "traditionalist" understanding
of Aboriginal culture (Hemming 1996:33).
A flaw in Clarke's and Jones' methods that Hemming
identified is their failure to conduct fieldwork aimed at
testing the notion of restricted women's business or
to discuss these issues with the Ngarrindjeri people
concerned. Jones defended his position, asserting that
ethnography often involves the practitioner in "just a
desk-based, library-based, archive-based exercise"
(Lucas 1 996:43). This method of conducting ethnog-
raphy, however, not only privileges the views of white
colonists over those of Indigenous peoples, but also
fails to recognize that these early colonists may not
have had access to all forms of information in Indig-
enous societies and, indeed, that some important forms
of knowledge—especially women's business—may
have been actively hidden by Indigenous peoples. The
majority of early ethnographers were European men
who, understandably enough, tended to work mainly
with Aboriginal men. Often, these ethnographers con-
sciously avoided inquiring into the "preserves of the
other sex" (Elkin 1 939:xx). Their failure to discover in-
formation about women's business has been the basis
for many misconceptions about women's roles in In-
digenous Australian societies (Bird 1 991 ; Smith 1 993).
From this viewpoint, the Hindmarsh Island debacle can
be interpreted as a failure to seek Indigenous alterna-
tives to Western assumptions about how Indigenous
knowledge is constructed and disseminated.
Concepts of Time
As part of the Western penchant to separate, bound
and classify. Western concepts of time are linear, with
386 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
the past being quite separate from the present. In fact,
people in the West go so far as to order their lives
down to the unit of seconds, hours, and years. The
special expertise of archaeologists is that they can
track people's behavior through time; and the further
back in time archaeologists are able to delve, the more
satisfaction they derive. This way of looking at time
relates to how archaeologists view the significance of
sites. For most archaeologists, a Pleistocene site is self-
evidently more important than a late Holocene or con-
tact site. Moreover, this manifestation of Western con-
trol over the very distant past serves to distance the
subject of analysis from the investigators of the
present, keying into the complementary Western no-
tion of the objectivity of science.
Indigenous peoples, on the other hand, view time
in a more holistic manner, in which the past is thought
of as impacting actively upon the present. Among In-
digenous Australians, time is intricately tied to the no-
tion of a Dreaming that exists in and somehow di-
rects, the present. Morphy (1998:68) describes the
Dreaming as existing independently of linear time and
the temporal sequence of historical events:
Indeed, the Dreaming is as much a dimension of
reality as a period of time. It gains its sense of
time because it was there in the beginning,
underlies the present and is a determinant of
the future; it is time in the sense that once there
was only Dreamtime. But the Dreamtime has
never ceased to exist and from the viewpoint
of the present ... is as much a feature of the
future as it is of the past.
For Indigenous Australians, the past is never past. They
have no concept of a distant past that does not im-
pact upon people in the present. The spirits of rela-
tives who have died inhabit contemporary landscapes
and their assumed wishes have to be taken into ac-
count. Working together, ancestral beings and dead
relations monitor and regulate not only the limits of
territory but also the appropriate ways in which coun-
try can be used. Indigenous peoples relate to burial
sites and occupation sites in a way that is dictated by
their traditions associated with death, burials and
campsites associated with the "old people." Steve
Hemming discusses this matter in terms of the
Ngarrindjeri people of southern Australia:
Burial sites provide contemporary
Ngarrindjeri people with a physical and
spiritual connection with their ancestors and
their "country." For Ngarrindjeri people the
spirits of the ancestors are still present at
these sites and they believe that they can
have an impact on contemporary people and
events. If disturbed they can be very danger-
ous (Hemming 2000:62).
The intricate interconnections between the Dream-time
and the present, between the ancestors and living
people, have far reaching implications for what Indig-
enous peoples consider to be a "site." For Indigenous
Australians, the land is the creation of the ancestral
beings who, in their journeys across it, produced the
various features of the landscape and left behind them
songs and story cycles, sacred objects and practices
that commemorate their creative acts (Morphy
1993:232). The physical places associated with these
acts continue to represent important aspects of tradi-
tional life and continue to be vital reference points for
delineating group territory and governing people's
movements within it. This means that Indigenous
peoples may give relatively similar significance to
recent sites and to sites of great antiquity. Equally,
a site does not need to contain physical traces (i.e.,
artifacts) for it to be considered significant by Indig-
enous peoples.
Responding to Indigenous ways of constructing
landscape, when the Australian government established
the National Aboriginal Sites Authorities Committee
(NASAC), it was structured so that it distinguishes be-
tween two types of "Aboriginal sites" in Australia as
follows:
(1) Archaeological sites, i.e., places that fall within
the standard definition of archaeological sites,
whose significance is defined "on the basis of sci-
entific enquiry and general cultural and historical
values;" and
(2) "sites that are the tangible embodiment of the
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 387
121/ Luma Lumo, a female ancestral being who traveled throughout northern Australia and whose image exists
in rock art throughout the region, material proofof her existence.
388 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
sacred and secular traditions of the Aboriginal
peoples of Australia." The latter may include the
former, of course; but the Aboriginal custodians
only may determine the relative significance of these
latter sites.
One implication of this is that what some may re-
gard as "ancient" or "old" archaeological sites with no
real connections to living Indigenous peoples, are ac-
tually places that have very particular cultural mean-
ings for those people. Barbara Bender (1993:14) has
expressed this conflict as the difference between land-
scapes of memory (where the landscape is given value
by its place in history, typical of the Western notion of
time as a linear sequence) and landscapes as memory
(where creation myths are superimposed upon the land
in the present, thereby turning a temporal sequence
into a spatial grid). Western notions of objectivity of-
ten relegate this conflict to the arena of contemporary
politics, a particular "primitivist" construction of Ab-
original culture as a people without politics (Sutton
and Rigsby 1982). Therefore, contemporary urban
or rural Aborigines are often represented by contrast
as a people with politics but without culture (Hem-
ming 2000:59).
An analysis of this situation leads to the recogni-
tion of a key limitation in the current cultural heritage
management process in Australia. Traditional European
notions of "sites" as pristine entities firmly bounded in
time completely lack the fluidity of Aboriginal notions
of heritage places as something to be used and
changed, in the present. From an Indigenous viewpoint,
sites are kept alive by being used, which keys into the
ancestral power that is inherent in each locale.
Such differences in the way in which Indigenous
and non-Indigenous peoples conceive of time can be
inherent in conflicts over cultural heritage management
strategies, most notably in the debate over the re-
painting of ancient rock art in Western Australia's
Kimberley region. This project involved senior custodi-
ans and young Aboriginal people in the repainting of
several major rock art galleries as part of an Indig-
enous cultural continuity and revitalization project. The
project elicited protests from non-indigenous station
owners and others, who saw the repainting of these
images as a desecration of national cultural heritage
(Walsh 1 992). The overwhelming response from Aus-
tralian archaeologists who had conducted extensive
fieldwork with Aboriginal groups, however, was to
affirm the rights of Indigenous Australians to control
their cultural heritage (Mowlarjarii et al. 1 988; Vinni-
combe 1992; Walsh, 1992; Ward 1992).
While the issues surrounding this debate are par-
ticularly complex, the point we will focus on here is
the clash between Indigenous and Western concep-
tions of time and the implications for cultural heritage
management. The Western view of time privileges the
original authenticity of an artifact and a past that is
ideally kept pristine. The conservation of images in
Western culture focuses on restoring the original im-
age, as in restorations of the Sistine Chapel. This can
be contrasted with the Indigenous view that conser-
vation is ensured through a use that keeps the power
inherent in the object alive (Fig.121). This view incor-
porates change in a dynamic process of on-going cul-
tural experience. David Mowaljarii, the Ngarinyin elder
who supervised the Kimberley repainting project, high-
lights this: "We must draw. Repainting is allowed; we
must keep it going; it must glow; must not be put out"
(Mowaljarii, cited in Ward 1992:32).
Spaces and Places
Many of the places that are important to Indigenous
Australians appear simply as "natural" to non-indigenous
peoples. Lacking visible artifacts, the reasons behind
their importance are not readily apparent. The success-
ful management of these places has posed a chal-
lenge to conventional cultural heritage management
strategies. Archaeological management recommenda-
tions are consistently based on a distinction between
space and place, or nature from culture, a separation
that is not a part of Indigenous constructions of the
land. From an Indigenous viewpoint, the Australian
continent is traversed by Dreaming tracks or songlines,
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 389
which link the spaces between the successions of place-
based events that occurred during the creation era.
The individual locales that are encoded in stories are
linked to other places within the region (Lewis and
Rose 1988).
This is demonstrated in the Western Desert style
painting (Fig. 1 22) depicting individual sites (shown as
roundels in the painting) in terms of the activities of an
ancestor that took place during the Dreaming. Sites
are linked not only in terms of other sites, shown through
the barred lines joining sites, but also through the
ancestor's travels in non-designated areas, the latter
of which is indicated through the rock wallaby's tracks.
This painting shows a worldview that emphasizes in-
terconnections and is not congruent with the notion
of places as individual locales that are separated from
the surrounding landscape.
This notion of being part of an interconnected world
also exists in Arnhem Land art (Fig. 1 23). Here, the lines
at the joints of the figures are described by the artist,
Paddy Babu, as "power lines," threads that have an
invisible link to other parts of the culture. While the
significance of these lines is restricted knowledge, not
open to sharing with academic researchers, their exist-
ence demonstrates a worldview that emphasizes link-
ages, rather than boundaries, even when the manifes-
tation appears to be segmentation.
From this perspective, Australia can be seen as a
landscape covered by a cobweb of fine linkages-
strong, resilient, powerful, and not always perceptible
to an untutored eye. The integrity of each individual
place is thus linked to all other places, both visible and
invisible, by the topogenic narratives of the Dreaming.
McWilliam discusses this matter in terms of the current
criteria being used to assess compensation to Aborigi-
nal communities for damage to places of cultural or
mythological significance:
The spatial and material connection between
sites is merely inferred and created by the
narrative or song. In such cases, successful
/ 22/ Wakulyarri Tjukurrpa (Rock Wallaby), acrylic on canvas painting by Lyn Nungarrayi Sims and WendyNunganayi
Brown.
390 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
/ 23/ Untitled acrylics on canvas painting by Barunga artist Paddy Babu, 1 992.
compensation for damage or obstruction to
such significant un named spaces may be
difficult to achieve. In other instances, the
linkage between sites may well correspond
to a distinctive feature in the landscape. For
example, in the Victoria Rivers District, a 60 km
limestone ridge represents the shed skin of the
walujapi black-nosed python Dreaming, as it
moves along its mythological path. As far as
I am aware, this tract of land is not named as
a specific site, yet clearly damage or destruc-
tion to the limestone ridge would certainly
be challenged by Aboriginal custodians
(McWilliam 1998:9).
Wilderness Areas
The fundamental difference in Western and Indig-
enous worldviews also underpins the conflict be-
tween archaeological and Indigenous approaches
to the management of wilderness areas— in Austra-
lia, as elsewhere. Non-indigenous peoples tend to
characterize "wilderness" as being exempt from
manipulation by humans. Such areas are perceived
to be pristine, unaltered and, above all, natural (Head
1 990; Ross 1 996; 1 2). From an Indigenous viewpoint,
however, wilderness areas are as much cultural as
any other part of the Australian landscape. Ances-
tors travelling during the creation era created these
areas, they are owned by particular Indigenous
groups and they are attributed with social identity
in the same way as other tracts of land. From an
Indigenous Australian perspective, both wilderness
and non-wilderness areas are artifacts of Indigenous
cultural and religious beliefs.
The Western separation of culture from nature was
one of the mainstays of colonial arguments for the
appropriation of Aboriginal lands in Australia. The view
that the land was effectively unowned was accepted
because the Aboriginal system of land ownership was
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 391
not understood and because, to Europeans, the natu-
ral resources of the land did not seem to be effectively
exploited or managed by Aboriginal people. The over-
turning of the notion of terra nullius by the Mabo deci-
sion, however, necessitates a re-thinking of the idea of
wilderness, since the legal basis for the occupation of
Australia now accepts that the whole of Australia, in-
cluding wilderness areas, was occupied and managed
by Indigenous peoples before white colonization (Ross
1996:12). Archaeological evidence in fact shows that
Indigenous peoples occupied the full range of Austra-
lian environments by around 20,000BP (Mulvaney and
Kamminga 1 999). During that time Indigenous peoples
developed a wide range of land management tech-
niques, including the use of fire to maintain grasslands
Oones 1969; Hallam 1979), the building of weirs and
fish traps on rivers and streams (Allen 1 979; Godwin
1 988) and the construction offish traps in lakes, rivers
and estuaries (Lane and Fullagar 1980; Godwin 1988).
Archaeological evidence that the entire Australian
landscape is a cultural artifact is not compatible with
the views of some environmentalists who retain the
stereotype of Aborigines as "children of nature," living
in equilibrium with the land (Toyne and Johnson 1 991
;
Stevens 1994; Ross 1996:12). The potential for con-
flict becomes activated when archaeologists challenge
this stereotype, pointing to substantial evidence for
Indigenous manipulation of the land in both the recent
and the distant past. As Ross (1996:12) points out,
this occurred during the debate over the building of a
dam on the Franklin River in Tasmania, when the envi-
ronmentalists' argument for the area's being a pristine
wilderness was seriously challenged by archaeologi-
cal evidence that Aboriginal people had lived in the
area before there were rainforests (Head 1 990). The
area was saved, partly based on archaeological re-
search that demonstrated Pleistocene antiquity for In-
digenous occupation of the region and the interna-
tional significance of this for human colonization
(Mulvaney and Kamminga 1999:184, 189); but the
source of discord remains.
The conflict has implications for the management
of wilderness areas. While archaeologists recognize that
all of Australia was occupied by Indigenous peoples,
they are still influenced by a Western mindset that
equates wilderness with nature, rather than with cul-
ture. This means that wilderness areas do not receive
the same kind of archaeological attention as areas
that have substantive material evidence of Indigenous
occupation. Around the world, archaeologists tend to
avoid places where there is little evidence of human
occupation and to seek other, more obviously fruitful,
landscapes to analyze. Both the absence and the pres-
ence of artifacts, however, are the result of specific
social strategies. Both speak about contexts, in which
(via artifacts or via their absence) particular social strat-
egies were pursued as part of society's reproducing
itself. An Indigenous approach to archaeological analy-
sis could well redress this archaeological bias. Such an
approach may find space for the analysis of wilder-
ness areas and buffer zones as well as that of massive
material finds and may integrate folklore and oral
histories into data collection (Wobst and Smith
2003). There is no doubt that this will produce more
insightful and holistic interpretations of both past
and present societies.
This is easier said than done, however, particularly
in rural and urban areas, which are not under the direct
control of Indigenous peoples. It is in these areas that
development is often most intense. Being directly predi-
cated on the notion of space-as-commodity, however,
such development requires the focus of attention on
small parcels of land and often the framing of mitiga-
tion strategies to deal with individual sites.
Changes are occurring at a legislative level.
Queensland's Integrated Planning Act, 1 997 requires a
coordinated approach to land use, development, and
infrastructure planning. Once fully implemented, this
Act will bring together sixty separate state approval
processes from thirty statutes through the Integrated
Development Assessment System. The approval pro-
cesses gathered under the Act will eventually include
392 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
those mandated by the Cultural Record (Landscapes
Queensland and Queensland Estate) Act, 1 987 and the
Queensland Heritage Act, 1992. The process is de-
signed so those triggers to agencies with the relevant
jurisdiction occur early in the planning process, allow-
ing better management of community concerns and
streamlining the development process. Each shire is
required to conduct an inventory of known valuable
features, which may include significant Aboriginal
and non-Aboriginal sites and/or areas of cultural
heritage sensitivity. This inventory will form the frame-
work for planning triggers, although there is no pro-
vision in the Act as to how such features are to be
dealt with.
Under Queensland's Integrated Planning Act of
1997, local governments in that state have to deal
with ways of identifying and managing the cultural
heritage of their shire/city. Simply establishing lists of
heritage places within the shire is viewed as inadequate
by the Environmental Protection Agency, the statutory
authority that administers cultural heritage legislation
in Queensland, which is encouraging a focus less on
specific site data and more on the shires as cultural
landscapes. This trend is occurring Australia-wide. Of
primary concern in this process is the establishment of
meaningful and effective planning codes to manage
this heritage. It is one thing to identif/ an area as a
cultural landscape, but quite another to define this in a
spatial sense that is meaningful under a town, or shire-
planning, scheme. Paradoxically, while the cultural land-
scape may have been the unit under study initially, all
such schemes operate under Western administrative
systems and therefore require sites to be spatially de-
fined in some way. This runs the risk of either reducing
the outcome, once again, to the seemingly inevitable
list of sites, or generalizing the entire process so that it
merely provides a forum for establishing protocols for
Indigenous consultation. While limited, this latter ap-
proach can seek to identif/ "areas of concern " or "ar-
eas of cultural sensitivity," which can still function as
planning triggers.
New Approaches to Interpreting Landscapes
One possible solution to this dilemma has been a land-
scape approach, such as that advocated by Clarke
and Hamm (1996:80), who argue for a planning pro-
cess that creates a space for the explicit recognition
and demonstration of community or social values be-
yond those given the imprimatur of expert testimony
by archaeologists, historians, architects, and the like.
Done properly, this is a lengthy process, the outcome
of which may be a reshaping of the project and a
renegotiation of land management strategies. Clarke
and Hamm imply that this more inclusive approach
will broaden the types of sites that will be con-
served, addressing the problems of disarticulated
land management strategies, in which individual
sites and clusters survive but their relationships to
the landscape are lost.
New ways of managing ancestral lands and wa-
ters are also emerging from a collaboration of Indig-
enous and archaeological approaches. These new ap-
proaches have begun to incorporate Indigenous ways
of constructing knowledge into the strategies and prac-
tices governing the management of land and seascapes.
One of these strategies is the Australia-wide develop-
ment of Indigenous Land Use Agreements (ILUAs), which
set out a framework for voluntary cooperation between
different interest groups regarding the access, use, and
development of land. A direct response to the post-
Mabo regulatory landscape, ILUAs are mechanisms for
Indigenous empowerment through establishing regional
alliances with pastoralists (ranchers in northern hemi-
sphere parlance), mining and conservation interests.
The Native Title Act of 1 993 allows for local and state
government and industry to negotiate land use agree-
ments at a local or regional level with native titlehold-
ers. Although the successful use of these agreements
requires negotiations based on good faith, once regis-
tered they allow for the consideration of Indigenous
culture and experience when making decisions about
future land management issues.
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 393
One of the first such agreements was negotiated
in Cape York Peninsula, the northern tip of Queensland.
Stemming from a comprehensive study into existing
land use and management of the region and the com-
pilation of a comprehensive inventory of its natural,
cultural, development and infrastructure assets, vari-
ous stakeholder groups (including the conservation.
Indigenous, commercial herding, mining, local govern-
ment and tourism sectors) signed an historic pact in-
tended to establish a consensual approach to land
management issues in Cape York. Despite the agree-
ment lacking any enforceable provisions and nei-
ther the Queensland nor federal governments being
party to it, the Cape York ILUA established a set of
guidelines for the future use and management of
Cape York, including continuing rights of access for
traditional owners to pastoral properties for tradi-
tional purposes and a commitment to developing
sustainable management regimes. Once registered,
however, an ILUA is legally binding on the people
who are party to the agreement and all native title
holders for that area.
The success of such land use agreements for in-
dustry partners is apparent in the response by Jim
Petrich, CEO of the Cape York Peninsula Develop-
ment Association:
What we started in Cape York can be used as
a template around regional and rural Austra-
lia. Indeed, it can be used in urban Australia
to give people some power back on the
ground to make decisions—and it is win/win
across the board (Petrich 2001).
One creative theoretical attempt at joining the dots is
Bill Boyd's, Maria Cotter's, Wave O'Connor's and Dana
Sattler's advocation of social construction theory as
"an analytical tool with which to tackle the complexi-
ties of multiple meanings inherent in social landscapes"
(Boyd et al.l 996:1 23). This is their attempt to take
into account the modern social landscape and the of-
ten conflicting claims of different groups (both Indig-
enous and non-indigenous) with interests in the same
landscape:
For each party a site is defined by some
constructed meaning and represents a point
within a particular landscape, that point
being but one node within a network of
linkages, pathways, edges, landmarks and
areas within the landscape. . . .The site is
rarely viewed by any party as an isolated
individual point; its landscape relationship is
constructed in terms of individuals' cognitive
maps, these representing the cumulative
effects of a wide range of social and cultural
influences. . . .Such construction is not
confined to the present and indeed forms the
basis for much of the archaeological interest
in cultural landscapes (Boyd et al. 1996:125).
Rather than getting bogged down in the minutiae of
verifying the truth of one claim over another, Boyd and
his co-authors advocate to shift the emphasis away
from assessing the validity of any one perspective and
toward the analysis of social issues. For them, in order
to manage the cultural heritage, it is enough to accept
that these competing claims exist, rather than to privi-
lege one over another:
For each party, the site represents a point
within a particular physical, social and
political landscape; neither the point nor the
landscapes are static. ... The emphasis... is
not on the validity of the meanings but with
the reality of their existence and the out-
come for cultural resource management in
general includes a greater understanding of
the processes of interaction between parties,
(ibid. :1 35-7)
While this approach has tackled the interpretation of
the modern cultural landscape, by drawing upon In-
digenous notions of an interconnected world, Fullagar
and Head (1 990) explore the possibility of making in-
terpretations of landscapes of the distant past more
multi-dimensional. Integrating both ethnographic and
archaeological evidence, the authors argue for the Pleis-
tocene antiquity of mapped landscapes in the Keep
River area of the Northern Territory. They use the mate-
rial manifestations of links between specific places in
the present in order to broaden the dimensionality of
analyses of archaeological excavations:
This cannot be attempted simply by trans-
posing stories reflecting present-day percep-
tions backwards in time. What we have
394 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
argued is that, by demonstrating linl<s
between these perceptions and
archaeologically visible materials, which, in
this case, consist of stone, ochre and starch
plants, we can begin the task of tracing
changes in attachment to landscape over
time (Fullagar and Head 1999:332-3).
The accommodation of Indigenous agendas into ar-
chaeological practice is reinforced by the structure of
the Australian government's National Competitive
Grants Programme (NCCP), the most recent manifesta-
tion of which was introduced in 2001 . The Australian
Research Council's (ARC) Linkage-Projects program, in
particular, is structured so that research is shaped by
more than the agendas of the academy. The aim of
this program is to "encourage and develop long-term
strategic research alliances between higher education
institutions and industry in order to apply advanced
knowledge to problems, or to provide opportunities
to obtain national economic or social benefits" (ARC
2001). For archaeologists, a major reservoir of indus-
try partners is Indigenous organizations. Moreover, ARC-
Linkage applications require that the applicant iden-
tify specific benefits that the research will produce for
the industry partner. This provision encourages archae-
ologists seeking funding from this source to shape their
projects so that they further the agendas of their in-
dustry partners. If the partner is an Indigenous organi-
zation, the project is shaped in accordance with the
agendas of Indigenous peoples.
A recent example of this is Bird and Frankel's (1 998)
analyses of archaeological site recordings that had
been conducted under the auspices of the Victorian
state government by the Victoria Archaeological Sur-
vey during the 1 970s and early 1 980s. There was a
need for a regional integration of the material, as most
of it was unpublished or published in a summary form
only. The project has implications for Indigenous heri-
tage management in the region, the quality of which
should be enhanced by the more detailed regional
analyses. Both the aims and outcomes of Bird and
Frankel's research indicate an accommodation of aca-
demic and Indigenous agendas:
The study of this material will allow a new
synthesis of regional prehistory, forming the
basis for the preparation of educational
material to meet the needs of local Aborigi-
nal communities, as well as for site manage-
ment of sites in the region. . . .A central
aspect of the project is the explicit recogni-
tion of the importance of Aboriginal commu-
nity interests in the material and its interpre-
tation. . . .Our work will therefore provide the
basis for a range of products developed
specifically to address the requirements of
local communities. Possible outcomes
include pamphlets, posters and display
materials on various aspects of Victorian
Aboriginal archaeology. (Bird and Frankel
1998:36-8)
While this particular project still uses Western ways of
classifying material, it is producing outcomes that are
of benefit to the local Indigenous community. It is a
small step to move beyond this consultative approach
that shapes research outcomes to include Indigenous
as well as archaeological products, to one of negotia-
tion, in which integrated programs of collaborative
research are shaped by Indigenous Australian as well
as Western ways of knowing.
"Indigenous Archaeology:" The New Approach to
Landscape Management/Preservation
Our intention in this chapter has been to explore the
ways in which Indigenous and Western ways of the
constructing the world have engendered current de-
bates about the management of Indigenous land and
seascapes in Australia. Recent areas of conflict can be
interpreted in terms of a clash of worldviews, particu-
larly in terms of capitalist and Indigenous approaches
to the construction of space, time and knowledge.
Recent cooperative research with Indigenous peoples,
however, has resulted in concerted attempts to de-
velop a more culturally sensitive approach to cultural
heritage management (Greer 1996; Fullagar and Head
1999; Ross 1996).
As practiced in Australia, Indigenous archaeology—
an archaeology informed by indigenous values and
agendas— is going through a period of rapid change.
Archaeologists are moving beyond research about
CLAIRE SMITH AND HEATHER BURKE 395
Indigenous peoples to focus on research that is con-
ducted with and for these peoples. In doing so, ar-
chaeologists are developing a greater knowledge
of and appreciation for, Indigenous values, experi-
ences and ways of knowing. Australian archaeolo-
gists recognize that Western methods are not the
only valid ways of managing land and seascapes.
Increasingly, they are willing to tackle the challenge
of developing new approaches that are culturally
appropriate to indigenous knowledge systems. This
trend is likely to continue as Indigenous peoples
pursue greater input into the day-to-day practice of
archaeology; as part of the ongoing recognition of
land and sea rights; and as the Australian govern-
ment continues to direct major support into col-
laborative funding programs. The trend will be aug-
mented by the increasing numbers of Indigenous
peoples who are training as professional archaeolo-
gists. This process is producing a new kind of syn-
ergism, with the potential for innovative and diverse
outcomes.
A different kind of archaeology is gradually emerg-
ing in Australia, with new approaches to the docu-
mentation and management of Indigenous cultural land-
scapes. With informed Indigenous ways of thinking,
the possibility arises of an opening up of new vistas of
land management strategies, encompassing areas of
research that previously have been neglected or dis-
criminated against by archaeologists. This Indigenous
archaeology is self-consciously aware of entrenched
Western mindsets and is willing to address the intel-
lectual challenges involved in engaging with the com-
plexities of Indigenous knowledge systems. Moving
beyond the fetters of Western modes of thought, this
archaeology is likely to show greater interest in ab-
sence, as well as presence, in oral as well as literary
forms of knowledge and in the interconnections of
space and place (Wobst and Smith, in press). It prom-
ises to be an intellectually exciting, and more socially
valuable, archaeology.
Conclusions
In summary, the flexibility of Indigenous notions of
space and time views the landscape as an intercon-
nected whole that is far more than just the sum of its
parts. Indigenous Australians tend to view sites at this
landscape level of abstraction, rather than in the spa-
tially bounded sense commonly understood by Euro-
peans, who habitually regard land as a commodity
and partition it into discrete parcels. From an Indig-
enous Australian viewpoint, detrimental effects to one
part of the cultural landscape affect all other parts of
it; individual sites cannot be separated from the cul-
tural context that gives them meaning.
Changes in the intensity of working relationships
between archaeologists and Indigenous Australians
have led to a recognition that lists of sites ('dots on
maps') are an inadequate way to represent the com-
plexity of Aboriginal notions of heritage. For Indigenous
Australians, these dots are always joined and any fo-
cus on one dot in isolation will give only a partial and
inadequate view. From a cultural heritage management
point of view, the challenge becomes not only to join
the dots, thus seeing the bigger picture, but also to
develop more inclusive and thoughtful planning
mechanisms that will make it possible for cultural land-
scapes to be regarded as a standard unit of cultural
heritage management practice.
Acknowledgments
We thank the Indigenous peoples with whom we have
worked and, in particular, Phyllis Wiynjorroc, the tradi-
tional owner for the Barunga-Wugularr region of the
Northern Territory, Australia, and her senior custodians,
Peter Manabaru and Jimmy Wesan. Also, we thank Igor
Krupnik for inviting us to write this paper and for pro-
viding detailed editorial guidance.
Notes
1. Following the increasingly common prac-
tice among Indigenous authors, we use the term
396 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ AUSTRALIA
"Indigenous peoples" in this paper. The capital "I"
here emphasizes the nationhood of individual groups
while use of the plural "peoples" internationalizes
Indigenous experiences, issues, and struggles (L.
Smith 1999:1 14-5).
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400
epilogue
Landscapes, [Perspectives, and Nations: What Does It Mcans
ELLEN LEE
When Igor Krupnik asked me to write this epilogue for
the international collection on northern ethnographic
landscapes, my first intention was to draw from the
various chapters to provide some kind of summary or
overview of the issues raised throughout the book.
Once I had read all the chapters, I realized what a daunt-
ing task this would be. When I considered the contri-
butions to this volume coming from nations as diverse
as Canada, Russia, Australia, and Iceland, several ques-
tions jumped out at me that I would like to address in
this concluding section. Three fundamental questions
relate to the entire topic of northern ethnographic land-
scapes. First: What are northern ethnographic land-
scapes? Second: What is it about northern ethnographic
landscapes that merits our attention and our energies?
Third: What can we learn from northern ethnographic
landscapes?
The Definition: What Are Northern Ethno-
graphic Landscapes?
The volume's Introduction discusses various terms used
in different countries for what are called here "northern
ethnographic landscapes." In order to understand
the concept in another way, I would break the title
into its three constituent parts—"northern," "ethno-
graphic," and "landscapes"—and examine each term
separately.
Why, in the first place, was it considered interest-
ing or useful to look at northern landscapes as a group,
as opposed to including landscapes from other regions?
While this is not directly expressed in the Introduction
or in the individual chapters, I would venture to sug-
gest that within the northern hemisphere, it is in the
more northerly areas of North America, Europe, and
Asia that indigenous people are present and where
industrial exploitation is relatively small (or moderate-
when compared to other regions). One may say that
the northern part of the northern hemisphere, as a gen-
eralized region, is mostly made up of relatively unde-
veloped land, in comparison to areas further south. As
a result, fewer northern indigenous people have been
displaced from their traditional lands, and more of them
have retained their traditional languages and ways of
life. While this is particularly true in the northern areas
of Canada and Alaska, even in those geographical re-
gions both languages and traditional ways of life have
changed dramatically as a result of European contact.
Nevertheless, northern communities are more likely than
others to have been able to maintain their links with
their traditional territories, and their cultural landscapes
are more clearly recognizable. All residents of the North,
whether indigenous or non-indigenous (including two
latter examples reviewed in this book, the Icelandic
"saga-travelers" and Norwegian fishermen), have a spe-
cial relationship with northern landscapes, and one that
merits our attention.
The second word, "ethnographic," has traditionally
been used to describe the study of communities or
groups that are culturally different from the modern
dominant culture. As a Canadian, I find the use of the
term "ethnographic" in this book intriguing; I am not
aware of it being commonly used in conjunction with
401
the word "landscape" in Canada. In this volume, an
ethnographic landscape is generally seen as one asso-
ciated with a group whose culture or history stands
apart from the modern dominant society. It includes
landscapes associated with or valued by indigenous
or Aboriginal communities, as well as earlier groups of
people who may not be considered indigenous to a
particular area, but whose cultures nevertheless differ
substantially from what is commonly called "Western
culture." The fact of cultural differences between those
associated with the landscape and those studying it
or attempting to manage those landscapes is one of
the major sources of question and debate on this topic.
Therefore, "ethnographic" here stands for differences,
for cultural distinctiveness, and peculiarities that are
so crucial in the field of heritage preservation and land-
scape management.
The term "landscape" is interesting to examine and
dissect, as well. A search of on-line dictionaries for the
definition of landscape revealed that while there is some
variation among the definitions, they generally include
some reference to scenery: an expanse of scenery, a
broad view, a single view, a large area of countryside,
a portion of land or territory, and so forth. More than
one source attributed the origins of the word to the
scenery depicted in Dutch landscape painting. The
essence of the definition of landscape and how its use
has developed is summed up in the Canadian Oxford
Dictionary (1998:801) as "natural or imaginary scen-
ery, as seen in a broad view." Landscape refers not
only to the physical nature of the land itself, but also
to how it is imagined or perceived.
So, putting these three words together, northern
ethnographic landscapes are areas or regions of land
in the northern part of the northern hemisphere. They
are associated with cultural groups that are chrono-
logically or culturally distinct from the modern domi-
nant cultural groups. Further, they are imagined, per-
ceived, remembered, or interpreted in a particular way
because of their physical nature and their relationship
with a particular cultural group or tradition. Those three
themes—the North, cultural distinctiveness, and spe-
cific visions or perceptions—all come together and
are addressed in one way or another in every chapter
of this book.
The Value: What About Northern Ethno-
graphic Landscapes Merits Our Atten-
tion?
In other words, why do we care about these land-
scapes? While the aspect of being in the North gives
all of these landscapes something in common in terms
of environmental elements and the relative lack of de-
velopment, the landscapes' presence in the North, in
and of itself, does not give rise to major challenges.
What is critical is that the study of northern ethno-
graphic landscapes opens up the ways to learn how
to preserve biodiversity and at the same time encour-
age the cultural survival of the people associated with
these landscapes. The study of traditional ecological
knowledge in these areas presents tremendous op-
portunities for understanding how cultural values and
behaviors affect and enhance the sustainability of eco-
logical zones, and vice versa. It is because of the
North, its peoples, and the ways we communicate
with them—politically, historically, and scientifically—
that we have the possibility of coming to understand
how cultural systems and natural systems are inte-
grated, and are, in fact, part of each other.
Understanding and Communication: What
Can We Learn from Northern Ethnographic
Landscapes?
The most problematic aspect of northern ethnographic
landscapes seems to be the cultural differences be-
tween the communities associated with the landscape
and the dominant (usually governing) cultural group-
in other words, the ethnographic aspect. These differ-
ences show up in all facets of identification, evalua-
tion, protection, management, and interpretation of
these landscapes. In fact, even listing these activities
separately reveals clear cultural differences. Aborigi-
402 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ EPILOGUE
nal groups who live in and are part of a landscape do
not think about "identification," "evaluation," "protec-
tion," "management," and "interpretation" of the land
they live in. Simply, they use other words and have
other feelings toward their lands. To look at landscapes
from the outside is the perspective of a dominant cul-
tural group and of the system of dealing with the land
it created.
The first, and in some ways the most basic, chal-
lenge is the factor of unequal power between the par-
ties involved with these landscapes. Because of in-
digenous peoples' lower political status and recogni-
tion, in many situations these groups have little or no
power to affect the disposition of their traditional land
and how it is used. And where they do have some
influence, they are invariably forced to work within the
parameters set by the dominant culture or government.
While the existence of a situation of unequal power is
now recognized by both parties in these cases, often
the implications of differing cultural approaches is in-
adequately understood by either side. The issue be-
comes one of failed cross-cultural communication. For
such relationships to be productive, there needs to be
recognition that there are ways of seeing the world
that are different from one's own, but just as valid.
The ways that governments manage the kinds of
landscapes referred to in this volume—by identifica-
tion, evaluation, protection, management, and inter-
pretation—are clearly developed by the dominant cul-
tural perspective. They are now a reality for indigenous
peoples as well, because of the political situation most
indigenous northern groups find themselves in. There-
fore, the most useful way to address these challenges
might be to examine each step with the goal of trying
to understand how it might be perceived by or might
affect the respective indigenous or traditional group.
The first step here is to identify a landscape in terms
of its interest to a particular group and/or government
(in our case, to a governmental agency in charge of
the land and/or heritage preservation). It is important
to recognize that even though it appears to be a
simple, straightforward step, identification itself can
be an intervention in an existing ethnographic land-
scape. Identification carries cultural baggage; the cat-
egories favored by government will invariably not rec-
ognize the unique richness of meaning a particular land-
scape holds for its indigenous residents (Lee 2000:4-
5). The "protected landscapes" concept used by lUCN
(World Conservation Union) has great potential to work
around this difficulty as it provides "opportunities to
directly engage local communities in stewardship"
(Mitchell and Buggey 2000: 40-1) and thus avoid re-
ducing the landscapes to biophysical models. Who
identifies a cultural landscape and what terminology
they use to categorize it could have a major impact
on later decisions.
With identification usually comes documentation.
Documentation protocols need to be tailored to meet
both the cultural needs of the resident population and
the institutional needs of the relevant government pro-
gram. It is crucial to ensure that the words used to
document and describe the landscape are carefully
defined, so that the words have commonly understood
meanings, particularly when there are language as well
as cultural differences. It is important to document
both the physical and the intangible characteristics of
the landscape. In some cases, the work needed to
document such a landscape may actually contradict
the intangible values inherent in the landscape. In such
instances, intangible values may not fit within stan-
dardized government programs and established docu-
mentation patterns. In reading through the different
stories presented in this volume, one gets the sense of
not only the complexity of ethnographic landscapes,
but also of the diverse possible dimensions that any
given landscape might have. For example, the pat-
terns of ethnographic landscapes may not necessarily
match our common view of geography. What one
thinks of as the normal horizontal and vertical dimen-
sions of a landscape take on new meaning when one
looks at a seascape (as in the case of fishermen's knowl-
edge) or at a traditional tribal landscape lived with and
ELLEN LEE 403
built around hundreds of place-names, old stories, travel
narratives, and ancestral paths. Time and seasonality
are important, although often undocumented, dimen-
sions of many landscapes. The boundaries of ethno-
graphic landscapes may also be problematic in many
cases. They may not be part of the traditional cultural
conception of the landscape, and may therefore be
artificially imposed for the purposes of some institu-
tional need. Croups often see all of their traditional
territory as important, even where it overlaps with the
territory of others, and are unwilling or unable to choose
smaller areas for the purposes of protection.
The challenges of documenting ethnographic land-
scapes also extend into the challenges of evaluation.
An ethnographic landscape refers to a group or col-
lective concept of land and place, so group values are
paramount in determining the landscape's importance
and meaning. However, not only do values placed on
landscapes differ between local, indigenous people
and the dominant culture, but they also vary between
the male and female perspectives and among the dif-
ferent generations within a community. While there
are group understandings of landscapes, each person
also carries an individual and unique cultural landscape
in his or her head and heart, based on personal experi-
ences. Thus it is important to be aware of the layering
of values and the potential for conflicting values, even
between members of the same cultural group.
In considering the values associated with land-
scapes, it is important to remember that in the scien-
tific approach, we tend to think of landscapes as con-
crete, physical things, with the values layered onto the
place. However, the origins of the word "landscape"
in Dutch landscape painting, suggest the original use
of the concept as an abstract representation of land,
that is, a way of thinking about the land. "The quintes-
sential nature of the use of the term cultural landscape
is that its definition and meaning are in the eye of the
beholder" (Lee 2000:3). So if we think of landscapes
as imaginary, or as creations of our experience, behav-
ior, and memories, evaluating them becomes more dif-
ficult, or at least more complex. When landscapes are
creations of memory, dreaming, or ritual, they require
us to reach further than our usual scientific recording
and evaluation techniques.
The challenge increases manifold when we are
dealing with more than one language. Place-names in
original languages are often the mnemonic devices
that help to continue to connect the stories and the
culture of the people to their land. Concepts are often
not easily (if at all) translatable from one language to
another, especially where cultures are radically differ-
ent. Many indigenous peoples have identified the two
most important mechanisms for sustaining their cul-
ture as language retention and a continuing relation-
ship to the land. The transmission of these values from
one generation to the next in the face of global, elec-
tronic communications is an enormous challenge fac-
ing indigenous people today.
Protection and Management
After government agencies and local people have suc-
ceeded in identifying, documenting, and evaluating an
ethnographic landscape, the next step is to find a way
to protect and sustain it. Assuming that the values
have been adequately defined to accurately reflect
the essence of the landscape, it should not be difficult
to identify management practices that can help to
ensure that the ethnographic landscape is sustainable.
However, in some cases, culturally inappropriate ac-
tivities may be necessary because of clashes with
modern economy. Covernment protection might be
necessary - for example, setting an area of land aside
to prevent inappropriate commercial exploitation. Even
though it may not be part of the traditional relation-
ship between the landscape and the people, there
may be a need to map and document places that
previously were never written down, or were culturally
protected because of their acknowledged power or
sensitivity. Unusual protective mechanisms may some-
times be required. In some cases, restoration of spiri-
tual value may be carried out through the conduct of
404 COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVES/ EPILOGUE
CATEGORY PROTECTED AREAS
(e.g. National Parks)
HISTORICAL SITES ETHNOGRAPHIC
LANDSCAPES
EVALUTAION
CRITERIA
Natural values Cultural or historic
values
Cultural and natural
values
SIZE OF
GEOGRAPHICAL
AREA
Large geographical
areas to protect
ecosystems,
watersheds
Small geographical
areas to protect
buildings building
complexes and
archaeological sites
Large geographical
areas to encompass
all values
TANGIBLE OR
INTANGIBLE VALUES
Primarily tangible
values (biophysical)
Primarily tangible
values (cultural
resources)
Both tangible and
intangible values
BALANCE OF
NATURAL AND
CULTURAL VALUES IN
AREA MANAGEMENT
Cultural or historical
values secondary
Natural values
secondary
Cultural and natural
values integrated
appropriate rituals. The accumulation, documenta-
tion, and appropriate transmission of traditional
knowledge can also be a mechanism for sustaining
a landscape. Participation of the associated local
people in the management regime should, there-
fore, help ensure that these activities are appropri-
ate and are properly monitored.
In most of the countries represented in this vol-
ume, finding a management regime for an ethnographic
landscape is difficult. This is because existing protected
area regimes tend to separate cultural and natural land-
scapes, with different foci and characteristics. Thus
we find that cultural landscapes often fall between the
cracks, not fitting very well into either type of pro-
tected area. Table 7 is modified from one published
elsewhere (English and Lee 2003:51); it demonstrates
the characteristics of the two types of regimes in com-
parison to the general nature of cultural (or in this case,
ethnographic) landscapes. This table illustrates that most
of the existing statutory mechanisms for natural pro-
tected areas and for historic sites do not adequately
address the important characteristics of ethnographic
landscapes; instead, these landscapes fall somewhere
in between. Currently, if a management regime is es-
tablished for an ethnographic landscape, it ends up
being created as a modified version of either a historic
site or a natural protected area.
While I have spoken of the interpretation of ethno-
graphic landscapes as a separate activity, in fact inter-
pretation, if done appropriately, should be part of pro-
tecting or sustaining such landscapes. Since commu-
nity elders see the transmission of knowledge and un-
derstanding of ethnographic landscapes as one of their
biggest challenges, it is only natural to look at the
potential to use these landscapes as classrooms and
teaching tools. In the end, sustaining human relation-
ships with landscapes is the way to sustain the land-
scapes themselves.
Conclusions
In analyzing northern ethnographic landscapes and try-
ing to get at their essential nature, I have tried to elicit
what we can learn from these fascinating examples of
cultural interaction. Ethnographic landscapes fall some-
ELLEN LEE 405
where between the cultural and the natural, between
tangible and intangible, between preservation and use,
and between local and national. It appears to me that
the examples in this volume give us the opportunity
to step outside of the box in terms of how we view
ourselves in the world we live in. Finding environmen-
tal and cultural sustainability means finding effective
ways of negotiating landscapes between dominant
and local or indigenous cultural groups. The necessity
to always keep the external (that is, dominant) and the
internal (that is, ethnographic) perspectives in mind is a
pervasive theme to this discussion. To follow through
with the theme of sustainability, we also have to ad-
dress the question: "What are the limits of acceptable
change? We will need to determine measures of health
or sustainability and establish programs to determine
the effects of our management practices." (English and
Lee 2003:53).
One of the clear messages I have taken from this
volume—and I hope will be also taken by landscape
managers, scholars, and protection agencies— is that
northern ethnographic landscapes, or cultural land-
scapes in general, are not static. They will continue to
evolve, both tangibly and intangibly, and we must do
our best to monitor and understand their evolution.
Our role in that evolution may be paraphrased from
the Hippocratic Oath: Do no harm.
Acknowledgements
This paper draws substantially on the insights offered
in the various papers in this volume, in addition to con-
versations with and the writings of Susan Buggey, Chris-
topher Hanks, Thomas D. Andrews, Lisa Prosper, and
AnthonyJ. English.
References
Canadian Oxford Dictionary
1 998 The Canadian Oxford Dictionary. Edited by
Katherine Barber. Oxford University Press Canada.
English, Anthony J. and Ellen Lee
2003 Managing the Intangible. In The Full Value
of Parks: From Economics to the Intangible, David
L. Harmon and Allen D. Putney, eds., pp. 43-55.
Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers,
Inc.
Lee, Ellen
2 000 Cultural Connections to the Land - a Cana-
dian Example. In Non-Material Values of Protected
Areas. Allen D. Putney, ed., pp. 3-12. Parks: The
InternationalJournal for Protected Area Managers
,
Special issue, 10(2). Gland, Switzerland: lUCN.
Mitchell, Nora and Susan Buggey
2000 Protected Landscapes and Cultural Land-
scapes: Taking Advantage of Diverse Approaches.
The Ceorge Wright Forum 1 7(1 ):35-46.
406 PAULA WILLEY
index
A
Aarseth, Bjorn, 81, 95
Abitibiwinni people (Canada), 27-28
Aboriginal Areas Protection Authority (Australia), 37
Aboriginal cultural landscape designation, 7S-77
Adams, Ansel, 1 84
Ahtna people (USA-Alaska), 46, 56, 58. See also
Athapaskan people. Place-names
Akingaghmiit (St. Lawrence Island, USA), 212, 219-220
Alaska, ethnographic landscapes in: documenting of, 323-
325; federal viewtoward ethnographic landscapes, 57-58;
in Glacier Bay National Park, 330-339; in Klondike Gold
Rush National Historic Park, 325-330; laws and policies on,
52-57; policy implications, 60-61
;
protecting landscapes in,
45-50; regulation on, 1 99; research on, 1 96-1 98; subsis-
tence in, 49, 5 5-56, 1 78-1 79; U.S. policies and, 50-52
Alaska, Native views toward landscape, 1 77-1 78; allocation,
198; developing shared view of landscape, 1 96- 1 99;
environmental knowledge, 1 88-1 89; example of illogic of
game regulations, 191-1 93; Native resistance, 1 89-1 93;
traveling landscapes, 58-60; Yup'ik human-"animal-person"
relationships, 187-188
Alaska, non-Native views of landscape, 183-187: all-
terrain vehicles and, 184-186; fisheries case study,
195-196; landscapes reduced to biological models,
193-195; technology as resource management tool,
186-187; 'wilderness' landscapes, 184-186, 233
Alaska Department of Fish and Game (ADFG), 55, 192-195
Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act (ANILCA),
48, 54, 55, 56, 178, 184-185, 186, 199, 324-325, 330
Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act (ANCSA), 54, 55, 231,
243, 244, 248, 324-325
Albright, Horace, 67
All-Russian Society for Protection of Nature (ARSPN; Russia),
123
Alta rock carvings (Norway), 96-97, 101
Alutiiq people (USA-Alaska), 59. See also Eskimo people
American Indian Religious Freedom Act (USA), 2, 52, 61
Ancient Monuments and Buildings Act (Norway), 82, 83
Antiquities Act, 67, 323
Apache people (USA), 1 79, 230
Applied Ethnography Program (NPS; USA), 50, 53, 58
Archaeological Resources Protection Act (ARPA), 52
Archaeological Sites Management Information System (ASMIS;
USA-Alaska), 58
Arctic Studies Center (ASC), 2-3
Arnberger, Robert, 55
Arvia'juaq National Historic Sites (Canada), 26, 36
Associative cultural landscape (Canada), 20, 21-22
Athabaskan, 231, 328, 329-330
Athapaskan people (USA, Canada): Ahtna 46, 56, 58;
Dena'ina, 46, 58, 180-183; Han, 182; Koyukon, 46, 49,
58; mobility of, 58; place-names of, 179-183;
storvtelling by, 48-49; Tanana, 46, 48, 49, 179-180
Austin, Ken, 339
Australia: Aboriginal landscapes as discrete/intercon-
nected areas, 32; Dreamtime/Dreaming concept in, 59,
379, 382, 387, 389-390; Indigenous archaeology in,
395-396; Indigenous land/landscape protection in, 2,
37, 38, 393; land use agreements, 393-395; managing
land/seascapes in, 379-380; monitoring Aboriginal
cultural landscapes in, 38; wilderness areas, 391-393
Australia: Western vs. Indigenous worldview, 380-382;
concepts of space, 382-383; concepts of time, 386-
387, 389; example of oral vs. literary [hierarchical]
knowledge, 384-386; spaces and places, 389-391
B
Babu, Paddy, 390
Baikalova, Anna, 145, 146
Balalaeva, Olga, 145, 147
Barnhardt, Ray, 1 80
Barr, Gideon/Kahlook Sr., 237-238, 242, 246, 247, 248
Barth, Fredrik, 98, 1 00
Bartlett Cove, Alaska, 330, 331
Basso, Keith, 1 50, 1 70, 230
Battlefields, 67, 71, 77, 116, 323
Bell, Diane, 385
Bender, Barbara, 389
Beringia International Park, 2
Beringia Nature-Ethnic Park (Russia), 115,118
Bering Land Bridge National Preserve (USA-Alaska), 1 1 8, 230,
247
Berry, Wendell, 71
Bethel, Alaska, fisheries case study, 1 95-1 96
Big Dish (Huna breadbasket), 334, 336, 337
Bird, Carolyn, 395
INDEX 407
Bjarnason, B., 262
Bjornsson, Bjorn C, 265
Blondin, George, 27
Boas, Franz, 230
Bogoslovskaya, Lyudmila S., 118, 119
Boiarskii, Peter V., 122, 167
Bollason, Arthur Bjorgvin, 266
Botanical monument, 164
Bourdieu, Pierre, 100
Boyd, Bill, 394
Breidfjord, Sigurd, 259
Brody, Hugh, 1 70, 230
Brown, William E., 232
Buggey, Susan, 75-76, 278
Burch, Ernest S. Jr., 59
Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA; USA): archive of Alaska
Native traditional knowledge, 54-55; ecosystem model
of, 58; research on Native place-names, 231; subsis-
tence management and, 55
Bureau of Land Management (BLM; USA), 55, 58, 61, 185
Callicott, J. Baird, 1 84
Canada: Aboriginal woddview in, 17-18, 19-20; cultural
landscape categories in, 20-22, 22-25; fisheries
management in, 26, 28-29, 34, 36; introduction to
Aboriginal landscapes in, 1 7-1 8; national historic site
designations, 22-25; national historic sites with Aboriginal
values, 28-30; protection for Aboriginal cultural landscapes
in, 34-39; recently designated Aboriginal cultural land-
scapes, 25-28. See fl/so Northwest Territories (NWT);
Nunavut; Parks Canada
Canadian Environmental Assessment Act (CEAA), 38
Cape York Peninsula, Australia, 393
Caribou, 194-198, 307-308. See also Kazan River Fall
Caribou Crossing National Historic Site
Caribou Inuit, 33
Catlin, George, 323
Center for Humanitarian Research on Indigenous Minority
Peoples of the North (CHR; Russia), 155, 168, 170
Chapman, Thomas, 384
Chernetsov, Valerii N., 347, 348
Cherokee, resettlement of, 32, 60
Chilkat/Chilkoot people (Canada), 328
Chilkoot Trail, Alaska, 60, 326-327, 328, 329
Chipewyan people (Canada), 313-314
Chookaneidi people (Canada), 334, 335, 338
Chukchi Autonomous Area (Russia), 110, 118
Cibecue Apache people (USA), 1 79
Clarke, Phillip, 386, 393
Collingwood, W.G., 262
Collins, Henr/ B., 205-207, 216-218
Commemorative Integrity Statement (CIS; Canada), 37-38
Convention on Biological Diversity, 84
Cooper, William, 333
Croker Island, Australia, 383
Cross, Bessie Barr, 248
Cruikshank, Julie, 230
Cultural Heritage Act (Norway), 84, 85-87, 93, 98, 357,
369, 373
Cultural Landscape Inventory (CLI; NPS; USA), 58, 325
Cultural Landscapes Program (CLP; NPS; USA), 1, 2, 3, 50,
51, 61-62, 67, 68-69, 70, 722
Cuppopgieddi, Norway, 372
D
Dascent, George, 260
Deisheetaan people (Canada), 325-326
Deline Traditional Fisher/, 26, 28-29, 34, 36
Denali National Park and Preserve (Alaska), 45-50, 54
Dene Cultural Institute, 318-319
Dene First Nation (Canada), 314; land claims and, 304,
311; participatory action research by, 24; worldview of,
19, 301, 303; Yellowknives, 312, 313. See also North-
west Territories; Sahtu Dene
Dene Mapping Project, 309
Density dependent model, 193
Department of Environmental and Cultural Heritage (Sami;
Nonway), 82, 85
Department of Resources Wildlife and Economic Develop-
ment (RWED; Canada), 308
Dhuwa people (Australia), 382
Diamond mining, in Northwest Territories, 306, 308, 310,
313, 314
Dictionary of Alaska Place Names (Orth), 180-183
Directorate for Cultural Heritage, Riksantikvaren (Nor-
way), 82, 85, 87, 88, 94-95, 356, 368, 371-372
Directorate for Nature Conservancy (Norway), 87
Documenting ethnographic landscapes: as cooperative
process, 9-10; in Alaska, 323-339; in Canada, 34-36.
See Alaska, ethnographic landscapes in
Dogrib people (Canada), 31 3; boundaries of landscape, 32;
education and, 31 2, 31 6, 31 9; worldview of, 1
9
Downer, Alan S., 32
Dundas Bay, Alaska, 330-331
Dyea, Alaska, 326-329
E.
Eastern Khanty. See Khanty people (Russia)
Eastern Sami, 102, 358, 362
Emmons, George, 335
Eriksson, Leif, 259
Eskimo people. SeeAlutiiq; Inuit; Inupiat; Yupik; Yup'ik
Eskimo Heritage Program (USA-Alaska), 241-242
Ethnicity: defining through archaeology, 98-1 01 ; instrumental,
99
Ethno-ecological area, 1 1 0, 1 23
Ethnographic landscape history, writing: Aboriginal cultural
landscape designation, 75-77; definition issues in, 71 -72;
effect of National Register on, 67-68, 69-71
,
72, 73, 76;
effect of NPS Cultural Landscapes Program on, 68-69;
traditional cultural properties designation and, 72-75
408 INDEX
Ethnographic landscape report (NPS; USA), 53
Ethnographic landscapes, defining, 4-5, 7-8, 72
Ethno-natural park (Russia), 1 65-1 66
European Convention on the Protection of the Archaeo-
logical Heritage, 84
The European Landscape Convention, 84-85, 87
Executive Order no. 1 3007 (NPS; USA), 1-2,52
Exxon Valdez Oil Spill (EVOS; USA-Alaska), 57, 189
Eythorsson, Einar, 283
r
Fall, James A., 231, 242
Famine, in Alaska, 207, 218-219
Federal Forestry Service (Russia), 114
Federal Subsistence Board (USA-Alaska), 57, 1 99
Federal Subsistence Management Program (USA-Alaska), 49,
55,56-57
Fienup-Riordan, Ann, 1 88
Filipenko, Alexandr, 146-147
Finnbogadottir, Vigdis, 258
Fisheries management: in Alaska, 56, 195-196; in Canada,
26, 28-29, 34, 36; in Russia, 164, 166
Fisherman knowledge, 280-288; catching fish, 281-284;
multiple seascapes, 286; sharing knowledge with other
fisherman, 286-287; time dimension and, 286; traveling to
fishing site, 284-286. See also Northern Norway seascape
Frankel, David, 395
Fullagar, Richard, 394-395
Fur trading, 45, 49, 304, 306, 307, 328
G
Cambell. See Sivuqaq/Cambell, changing ethnographic
landscape(s) of
Cambell, Vene, 208, 214
Came Management Units (USA-Alaska), 56
Ceist, Otto, 2 14-2 15, 2 17-2 18
Ceographic Information systems (CIS), 145, 186-187,314
Gerrard, Siri, 288
Gitsan people (Canada), 29
Glacier Bay National Monument (Alaska), 331
Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve (Alaska), 71, 77;
documenting Tlingit homelands at, 330-339
Global Positioning System (CPS), 1 45, 243, 280, 282, 284
Cold rush/prospecting, in Alaska, 46, 49. See a/so Klondike
Gold Rush National Historical Park
Goldschmidt, Walters., 336
Golovnev, Andrei V., 1 62, 349
Grant, Katherine, 334
Grasslands National Park (Canada), 30
Crosz, Elizabeth, 385
Ground Zero (USA), 233
Cuba, Ramachandra, 1 89-1 90
Gumand the Good (Bishop of Iceland), 256
Curibye, Ragnhild, 93
Cwich'in people (Canada; USA-Alaska), 27, 303; collaborative
research by, 314; education and, 31 2-31 3; European
disease and, 306-307; land claims and, 304, 306, 310-
31 1; language of, 307; worldview of, 19
Cwich'in Social and Cultural Institute (GSCI), 312-313,
314, 318-319
Gydan Federal Nature Reserve (Russia), 1 64
Gydan Nenets people (Russia). See Yamal-Nenets Autono-
mous Area, sacred sites mapping
Cydanskiy Federal Nature Reserve (Russia), 164
h
Haas, Theodore H., 336
Habitus, 100
Haetta, Odd Mathis, 95
Hagen, Anders, 95, 96
Haida people (USA-Alaska), 22, 23, 25, 29, 336
Haines, Alaska, 328
Hamm, Giles, 381, 393
Hammond, Austin, 326
Hanks, Christopher C, 26-27
Harvaqtuuq Historic Site, 37-38
Hatzic Rock (Canada), 25-26
Haze, Esther, 334
Head, Lesley, 394-395
Helm, June, 308
Hensel, Chase, 190, 195
Heritage Protection Act (Australia), 384
Hindmarsh Island Bridge (Australia), 384-386
Historical-cultural territon/ (Russia), 107-108
Historical-landscape complex (Russia), 1 1 3
Historical Resources Act (Canada), 39
Historic Places Initiative (Canada), 39
Historic Route (USA), 66, 60
Historic Sites Act of 1935 (USA), 67-68
Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada (HSMBC),
18, 22-25, 30-31
Hjemmeluft site (Norway), 101
Holme, Jorn, 93
Hughes, Charles, 204
Huna Tlingit people (USA-Alaska), 331, 332-333, 334-337
Hunting and gathering, 57, 245, 325
I
Iceland, 255. See a/so Saga landscape
Idea Trail (Canada), 19, 25, 32, 316
Ikpekmiut people (USA-Alaska), 236
India, 189-190
Indian Reorganization Act (IRA; USA), 222
Indigenous/Aboriginal view toward landscape, 3-5
Indigenous Land Use Agreement (ILUA), 380, 395-396
Ingold.Tim, 359
International Labour Organization (ILO), 83-84, 95, 1 00; ILO
Convention No. 1 69, 83-84, 95, 1 00
Inuit people (Canada, USA-Alaska, Greenland) 303, 31 3;
history from perspective of, 28; landscape protection and,
36; recently designated cultural landscapes of, 26; .
See also Caribou Inuit; Inupiat people; Inuvialuit people
INDEX 409
Inuit Land Use and Occupancy Project, 309
Inuksuit (Nunavut), 22
Inupiat people (Alaska), 59. See also Eskimo people
Inuvialuit people (Canada): education and, 315, 316; gas
industry and, 306, 309; land claims and, 304, 310;
worldview of, 301
Ipnauraq, Alaska, 234-235
1
Jackson, Albert, 336
Jackson, J.B., 73
Johnson, John, 32
Jones, Phillip, 386
Jones, Slan, 98-99, 100
Jorgensen, Joseph C, 189
Karacharov, Konstantin, 146, 351
Kari, James, 180-181, 231, 242, 268
Katie John decision, 49
Kawagley, Oscar A., 56
Kazan River Fall Caribou Crossing National Historic Site
(Canada), 26, 36, 37-38
Keewatin Regional Land Use Plan (Canada), 26, 36
Keithahn, Edward L, 242
Kejimkujik National Park (Canada), 24-25, 33
Kennecott Mill Town, Alaska, 53
Kenozersk National Park (Russia), 122
Khanty Cultural Conservation Program (Russia): context of,
1 31-1 34; history of, 1 34-142; projects under, 1 36-1 41 . See
fl/soYugan Khanty Biosphere reserve
Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Area (Russia), 113,118-1 22
Khanty people (Russia), 1 05, 1 1 5, 1 1 8, 1 20-122, 155,161,
1 67; worldview of, 1 32, 1 35-1 36
Khanty Traditional Land-Use Atlas Project, 1 37-1 39
Kharyuchi, Nikolai M., 171-172
Kharyuchi, Sergei N., 1 67
Khekhe khan soteya ritual site (Russia), 1 59-1 60
Kilbuck Caribou Herd Co-Management Regime, 1 98
Kimberley repainting project (Australia), 389
Kiyutelluk, Morris, 231
Kizhi Museum-Conservation Area (Russia), 116
Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park (USA-Alaska),
53, 60, 325-330
Kniffen, Fred, 230
Kobelev, Ivan, 231
Kogonchin, Igor, 145
Kogonchin, Vladimir, 134, 145, 146, 147
Konda Lakes Nature Parks (Russia), 119, 122
Koonooka, Christopher, 224
Kot myx (Khanty, 'earth house'), 1 36
Koutsky, Kathryn,231
Krupnik, Igor, 3, 1 1
Kuskokwim River, Alaska, 46, 1 77
Kvaenangen, Norway, 91-92
L
Lar, Leonid A., 1 55, 168, 172, 354
Laxness, Halldor, 258
Leopold, Aldo, 233
Likhachev, Dmitrii S., 106, 109
Lindoff, Jennie, 34
Little Copper Shield (Alaska), 335, 338
Lorenz, Einhart, 92
Lowenthal, David, 73
Lukaax.adi people (Canada), 329
Luke, Howard, 1 79, 1 80
M
Mabo V. Queensland (Australia), 380, 392
Mackenzie Valley Pipeline Inquiry (Canada), 309
Magnus, Bente, 95-96
Malecite people (Canada), 30
Marstrander, Lyder, 90
Mauken-Blatind area (Norway), 365-368
McDowell decision, 49
McWilliam, Andrew, 390-391
Memory landscape, 54, 230
Mentasta Caribou Herd (Alaska), 1 94-1 95, 1 98
Menzies, Archibald, 331, 337
Messoyakha "natural monument" (Russia), 164
Metis First Nation (Canada), 1 7, 24, 29, 30; history from
perspective of, 28; land claims and, 35, 36, 304;
worldview of, 20, 301 , 303
Metis Heritage Association of the Northwest Territories,
28
Mi'kmaq people (Canada), 24-25, 33
Ministry of the Environment (Norway), 81 -82, 86, 368
Mishler, Craig, 182-183
Mohs, Cordon, 25-26
Moore, J. Bernard, 340
Moore, Riley, 191,208
Morphy, Howard, 382, 387
Morrow, Phyllis, 1 90, 1 95
Mortensnes site (Norway), 96, 1 01 -1 02
Moszinska, Wanda I., 347, 348
Mt. McKinley National Park (Alaska), 45, 46-48. See also
Denali National Park and Preserve
Mount McKinley, Non-Native vs. Native view toward, 49
Mowachaht-Muchalaht First Nations (Canada), 28, 29-30
Mowaljarii, David, 389
Muir, John, 331-333
Murray Islands, Australia, 380
Museum-conservation areas (Russia), 109, 115-116
Myhre, Bj0rn, 95
N
Nash, Roderick, 325
National Aboriginal Sites Authorities Committee (NASAC;
Australia), 387, 389
410 INDEX
National Historical Preservation Act (NHPA), 51-52, 67,
331
National Historic Landmark (USA), 78, 326
National Historic Sites system (Canada), 23, 34
National Native Title Register (Australia), 380
National Park Advisory Board (USA), 65
National Park Service (NPS; USA): Applied Ethnography
Program, 50, 53, 58, 72, 73; classification of cultural
landscapes, 50; Cultural Landscape Inventory (CLI), 58, 325;
Cultural Landscapes Program, 1
,
3, 50, 51 , 61 -62, 67, 68-69,
70, 73, 322; definition of cultural landscape, 50, 68; early
cultural resource studies, 67; ethnographic landscapes use
of, 50; historic designed landscapes, 50; historic sites, 50;
historic vernacular landscapes, 50; landscape histories of,
69; lands owned by in Alaska, 1 85; on importance of
cultural landscapes, 68-69; selection of boundaries for
traditional cultural properties, 33; subsistence management
and, 55; Traditional Cultural Properties (TCP), 52, 60, 61 , 72-
75,331,334,339
National Register Bulletin 38,61
National Register of Historic Places (NRHP; USA), 42, 60,
66, 67-68, 73, 75, 327, 330, 331
National Science Foundation, 225, 231, 235, 249
Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act
(NAGRPA; USA), 1 , 52
Native Title Act (Australia), 380, 383, 393
Nature Conservancy Act (Norway), 84-85
Navajo Nation (USA), 32
Nenets people (Russia), 105,115. See fl/so Yamal-Nenets
Autonomous Area; Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area,
sacred sites mapping project
Newfoundland, 23, 265, 288
New Zealand, 2
Ngarrindjeri people (Australia), 384-386, 387, 389
Nicholls, Christine, 385
Ninaistakis (Chief Mountain), Canada, 37
Ningeulook, Davey, 242, 249
Ningeulook, Edgar/Nunageak, 231 , 236, 241 , 245
Ningeulook, Frieda, 242, 250
Ningeulook, Hattie, 230, 232
Njal, saga of, 260-263
Northern ethnographic landscapes: defining, 401-402;
value of, 402; Western vs. Indigenous view; of
identifying and managing, 402-404; of protection and
management, 404-405;
Northern Khanty people
,
132. See Khanty people (Russia)
Northern Native History initiative (Canada), 26
Northern Norway seascape: basic feature of, 278-280;
compared with landscape, 277; current status of coastal
fisheries in, 288-290; legal and general framework for, 290-
292; management approach to, 292-295; preservation of,
295; value of fisherman knowledge, 295
Northwest Territories (NWT; Canada): cultural landscapes in,
301
,
303; educating youth in, 31 1 -313; history of cultural
landscape research in, 309-3 1 0; maintaining cultural
landscapes in, 310-319; mitigating land use conflicts.
313-314; negotiating preservation, 310-311; overview
of, 305-309; pace and degree of change, 303-305;
partnership with museums, 315-316; protecting
cultural landscapes, 316-319; taking control of
research agenda, 31 4
Norway: Ancient Monuments and Buildings Act, 82, 83;
Church and Churchyard Act, 82; Cultural Heritage Act,
84, 85-87; cultural heritage management system
overview of, 84-85; historical overview of legislation,
82-84; international treaties, 83-84; Listed Building Act,
82; Nature Conservancy Act, 84, 86-87; Planning and
Building Act, 83, 84, 86; Planning and Zoning Act
,
292,
294; role of Sami Parliament in, 368-371, 372-373. See
also Norway, Sami cultural heritage in
Norway, Sami cultural heritage in: conclusions about,
371 -372; cultural management of Sami landscapes, 87-88;
definition of Sami monument under, 90-97; organization of
Sami cultural heritage management system, 356-357;
practical management of, 357-358; reindeer herding
landscape, 362-364; role of local knowledge in managing
cultural heritage, 358-362, 364-365, 368
Norwegian Conservation Act, 290-291
Norwegian Cultural Heritage Act and Sami remains, 88-97;
age of remains protected under, 88-89; definition of Sami,
90-91
,
98-1 01 ; main objectives, 89-90; protected Sami
cultural landscapes, 1 01 -1 02; overview of, 88
Norwegian Cultural Inheritance Act, 291 -292
Nova Scotia, Canada, 23, 24
Numto Lake Park (Russia), 1 1 9, 1 22
Nunavut, Canada, 1 7, 22; creation of, 301 ; Inuit perspective on
history, 28; land claims at, 304; landscape protection at, 36
Nyamboy natural monument (Russia), 1 64
O
O'Connor, Wave, 394
Oil and gas: in Canada, 35-36, 306, 31 9; in Russia, 1 1 8, 1 20,
1 33, 1 34, 1 37-1 38, 1 39, 1 53, 1 55-1 56, 1 64, 1 66, 1 67, 343,
344,348,351,352,354
Okotetto, Michael, 1 70, 354
Okpowruk, Charley, 234, 236, 239
Old Fort Franklin, Canada, 28-29
Olsen, Bj0rnar, 97
Oovi, Lloyd, 21
1
Oral history: in Australia, 383-384; knowledge of, 73; land
ownership rights and, 17, 27; Sami, 358, 359
Oseberg Viking ship, 82
Oshchepkov, Konstantin, 352
r
Paleontological natural monument, 164
Parks Canada: Aboriginal cultural landscape designation
of, 75-77; Aboriginal cultural landscape protection and,
34, 37, 38, 39; commemorative integrity approach by,
24-25, 33-34; definition of cultural landscapes, 22; role
in cultural landscape preservation, 18, 75
INDEX
Performance Management Data Systems (NPS), 57
Petrich, Jim, 394
Pimm, Stuart L, 193
Place-names: of Athapaskan people, 1 79-1 83; Bureau of
Indian Affairs research on, 231 ; conflict in Alaska, 57; Denali
National Park and Preserve study, 54; difficulty in translating,
404; in Gambell, 21 6; in Shishmaref, 236-239; of Dogrib
people, 31 5-316; of Nenets, 1 61 ; of Sami, 360; ofTlingit, 56,
234, 338-339; research on, 231 , 239
Pootoogooluk, Harvey, 246
Primorskii Krai (Russia), 1 1 0, 1 1 7-1 1 8
Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre (PWNHC), 3 1 5
Protected Area Strategy (PAS; Canada), 35, 39, 31
8
Pugughileghmiit, 211-212, 214, 218
Punsi Nature Park (Russia), 1 20, 121, 1 22
Q,
Qikiqtaarjuk, USA-Alaska 26, 33
Qividluamiut, 234,243
Qividluaq, USA-Alaska 2 34, 243
Queensland Heritage Act (Australia), 393
Qvens (Finns), 90, 94
R
Ralph, Jessie, 254
Rankama, Tuija, 230
Ray, Dorothy Jean, 231, 243
Reeves, Brian, 37
Regional Advisory Councils (Alaska), 57, 1 99
Reindeer landscape, Sami, 362-364
Roberts, Alexandra, 32
Rock art: in Australia, 389; in Canada, 24-25; in Norway,
96-97, 101, Sami Parliament and, 371-372
Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (Canada), 1 7, 30
Russia: fisheries management in, 164, 166; heritage
research trends, 106-108; interpreting cultural
landscape concept, 108-110; public attitudes effect
on scientific approaches, 105-106, 117-123
Russia: landscape preservation, 1 08-1 1 0; museum-conserva-
tion areas, 1 09, 1 1 5-1 1 6; national parks, 112,114; nature
parks, 1 12, 1 14-1 1 5; overview of, 1 1 3-1 14;
Russia: protected landscape legislation, 1 1 0-1 1 3; On the
Status of Protected Natural Areas, 112; On Unique
Historical and Natural Landscape Territories, 113;
Regulation for Natural Preserves, 1 64;Regulation for
Protection of Monuments of History and Culture, 346
Russian Associations of Indigenous Minority Peoples of the
North (RAIPON), 167, 170
Russian Orthodox Church, 132, 142-143
Russian Research Institute for Cultural and Natural
Heritage (RRICNH), 109-110, 112, 122
5
Saami. See Sami
Sacred Trust Project (Russia), 1 34, 1 39
Sacrificial stone (Graksesteinen; Norway), 116
Saga landscape, of southern Iceland: books about land,
256-258; cultural centrality of sagas, 258-259; cultural
context of landscape, 255-256
Saga Centre (Iceland), 263-267; bus tours at, 268-271;
conclusion about, 273-274; guides at, 271 -272; tours at,
267-273; using imagination during tour, 272-273; visitor
profile at, 266-267
Saga of Burnt NJal, 260-263; Icelandic landscape and,
260-262; local identity and, 262-263; sagas in
Icelandic daily life, 259-260
Sahtu Dene people (Canada): creation myth of, 303;
landscape protection and, 34-35; potential Aboriginal
cultural landscape of, 28-29; worldviewof, 20, 303, 318
Sahtu Dene and Metis Comprehensive Land Claim Agree-
ment, 35, 36, 31 1
Sahtu Heritage Places and Sites Joint Working Group, 36, 39,
303,311,318
Sahyoue and Edacho National Historic Park (Canada), 34, 3 1 7-
318
Salym River Khanty, 1 22. See Khanty people (Russia)
Sami people (Norway, Sweden, Finland, Russia): cultural
heritage management legislation concerning, 85; defining,
90-91 , 92, 99-1 01 ; estimated numbers of, 81 , 91 -92; in
Finland, 81 ; in Sweden, 81
,
92; languages of, 81 ; recogniz-
ing prehistory of, 364-365. See also Norway, Sami cultural
heritage in; Sami Parliament
Sami Act, 90-9 1,3 56
Sami Cultural Heritage Council, 87, 357
Sami Parliament, 82, 85, 87, 88, 91, 94, 95; cultural survey
of Mauken-Blatind area, 366-367; establishment of,
356-357; rock art and, 371-372; role in heritage manage-
ment, 364, 372-373; role in Norwegian governmental
system, 369-371
;
registration of Sami sites, 362
Saniq-Saniniq coast. See Shishmaref, Alaska
Sattler, Dana, 394
Sauer, Carl, 68, 108
Schaaf, Jeanne, 231
Schanche,Audhild, 92-93
Schneider, William, 179-180
Scott, James C, 189
Selkup people (Russia), 1 55, 1 67
Shared Beringian Heritage Program (NPS; USA), 2, 54, 231
Shem Pete's Alaska, 180-183, 242
Shishmaref, Alaska: function of place-names in landscape,
231-234; geographic context of, 236-239; Inupiat
place-names project at, 236-239; Non-Native vs. Native
view toward land, 244-245; place-name classifications,
245-248; uses for research from, 248-249
Shtormovoye field (Russia), 1 65
Sidney,Angela,326, 328, 330
Sierra Club (USA), 47-48
Silook,Paul,210,21
1
Simeone, William E., 182-183
Simpson, Harry, 319
Sitkas people (Canada), 328
41 2 INDEX
Sivuqaq/Gambell, changing ethnographic landscape(s)
of: beach and surf zone, 213-214; burial areas and
ritual sites, 214-215; ethnographic landscape ele-
ments, 213-216; evolution of, 216-220; fortification/
defense sites, 215-216; historic trails, 216; physical
changes In landscape, 205-210; preserving ethno-
graphic landscapes, 221-225; seascape, 216; setting
of, 204-205; social construction of landscape, 210-
213; sports areas, 213-214; use of place names in, 216;
Skoltebyen, Norway, 87, 102
Smith, Winnie, 334
Solovetskii Museum-Conservation Area (Russia), 116
Sommerseth, Ingrld, 366
Spaeder, Joseph, 191, 195
Speranskli, Mikhail M., Ill
Spirn, Anne Whiston, 66
St. Lawrence Island, Alaska. See SIvuqaq/Cambell,
changing ethnographic landscape(s) of
Stikeen people (Canada), 328
St6:l6 people (Canada), 24, 25-26
Subsistence: management/Issues in Alaska, 49, 55-57,
178-179; as more than economic, 178-179
T
Tagish people (Canada), 326, 327, 328, 329, 330
Tallekpaiek, Alex, 181-182
Taskscapes, 359
Taz Bay Fishery Preserve (Russia), 164
Thornton, Thomas, 230-231 , 234, 334
TImbishaSho-shone people (USA), 50
Tlingit people (USA-Alaska, Canada), 327-328, 329-330; In
Glacier Bay, 230-239; HunaTllngIt, 331
,
332-333, 334, 336,
337; place-names of, 56, 234, 338-339
Tobias, Terry N., 293
Tobollakov, V., 1 56
Tourism: In Alaska national parks, 45; In Iceland, 263-274;
Khanty-MansI Autonomous Area, potential at, 121-122;
Sivuqaq/Gambell, potential at, 224-225
Traditional Cultural Properties aCPs; NPS), 52, 60, 61, 72-
75, 331, 334, 339
"Trail of Tears" National Historic Trail (USA), 32, 60
Traveling landscapes (Alaska), 58-60
Tr'ochgk Heritage Site (Canada), 36
Tsimshlan people (Canada, USA-Alaska), 29
U
Uluru-KataTjuta National Park (Australia), 38
UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural
Organization): Conference on Natural Sacred Sites, 1 37;
Convention on the Protection of World Cultural and Natural
Heritage, 290; World Heritage Convention, 2, 8, 20, 290,
291
U.S. Geological Survey (USGS), 1 80, 1 81
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS): ecosystem model of,
58, 61; lands owned by/wilderness lands in Alaska,
185; subsistence management and, 55, 198
U.S. Forest Service: ecosystem model of, 58, 61; lands
owned by In Alaska, 1 85; subsistence management and, 55
Ust-Poluy site (Russia), 347, 348
Utrenn'ee (Morning) oil and gas field (Russia), 1 65
Uwatangaghmllt (St. Lawrence Island, USA), 21 2, 21 9-220
V
Vancouver, George, 331
Vanuito, Awo, 1 62
Vaygach Island, Russia, 1 74
Von Kotzebue, Otto, 218,235
W
Waterman, Thomas T., 230
Western Arctic Caribou Herd (WACH; USA), 1 94-1 98
West Kitlkmeot/Slave Study Society (WKSS; Canada), 313-314
WIget, Andrew, 145, 147
Wildlife Management Units, In Alaska, 56
Wood, Charles, 331
World Heritage List, 2, 1 1 ; Canada sites on, 21 ; Norway
sites on, 96-97, 101
Y
Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Area (Russia): contemporary
demographic status of, 344-346; legislation base for
preservation, 346-350; living culture monuments, 350;
new trends and prospects In protection, 1 22, 354-355;
registration and protection resources, 350-352; status of
preservation efforts, 352-354
Yamal-Nenets sacred sites mapping project: conclusions
about, 170-174; ethnographer personal background,
1 56-1 58, 1 70-171; need for special protection for
sites, 1 72-173; outsider vs. insider researcher, 171-
1 72; preservation of, 353-354; survey area, 1 63-1 65;
surveying and documenting model, 1 74
Yamal State Wildlife Preserve (Russia), 1 64
Yellowknives Dene First Nation (Canada), 312, 313
Yugan Khanty Biosphere Reserve, Inventory and
assessment (Russia): community engagement, 142-
144; ethnographic findings, 148-149; methodology,
1 40-1 42; policy implications, 1 49-1 52; project Implementa-
tion, 1 45-1 48; recommendations 1 52-1 53
Yugan Khanty people. See Khanty people (Russia); Yugan
Khanty Biosphere Reserve, inventory and assessment
Yukon First Nations (Canada), 35-36
Yup'lk people (USA, Alaska): conservation practices of,
196; worldvlew of, 56, 187-188
Yupik people (Russia, USA-Alaska), 1 1 8
Yuquot, Canada, 28, 30
z
Zapovednik (Federal nature reserve; Russia), 113,139
Zoological-botanical monument (Russia), 1 64
INDEX
i 4
Illustration credits
Title/ Photograph by John S. R. Hood, 2002.
1/ Photo courtesy National Park Service, Alaska Region.
2/ Photograph by Sergey Bogoslovkiy, 1981, courtesy
Arctic Studies Center, Smithsonian Institution.
3/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1991.
4/ Map produced by Dan Pag, courtesy Parks Canada,
Archaeological Services Branch.
5/ Photograph by Ellen Lee. Courtesy of Parks Canada,
Archaeological Services Branch.
6/ Photograph by Lyie Henderson, Parks Canada.
7/ Photograph by LyIe Henderson, Parks Canada, 1991.
8/ Photograph by David Neufeld, courtesy Parks Canada,
Archaeological Services Branch.
9/ Photograph by Morris Neyelle, courtesy Parks Canada,
2000.
1 0/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews.
11/ Photograph by John McCormick, courtesy Parks
Canada, 2000.
12/ Courtesy Parks Canada, Archaeological Services
Branch.
1 3/ Courtesy National Park Service, Alaska Region.
14/ Courtesy National Park Sen/ice, Alaska Region.
1 5/ Courtesy Alaska and Polar Regions Department, Elmer
E. Rasmuson Library, University of Alaska Fairbanks,
Stephen Foster Collection, #69/92/330.
16/ Map source: Office of Subsistence Management,
USFWS.
17/ Map source: Office of Subsistence Management,
USFWS.
18/ Map source: Office of Subsistence Management,
USFWS.
1 9/ Courtesy National Park Service, Alaska Region.
20/ Map adapted from Haetta 1 996:6.
21/ Photograph by Ingegerd Holand, 2000.
23/ Photograph by Ingegerd Holand, 1997.
24/ Photograph by Ingegerd Holand, 1992.
25/ Photograph by Ingegerd Holand, 2000
26/ Map produced by Marcia Bakry, Smithsonian
Instituttion; adapted from Espeland and Sveen
1989:162.
27/ Photograph by Ingegerd Holand, 2000.
28/ Photograph by Arve Kjersheim, NIKU, 2000.
29/ Photograph by G. Lebedev, 1911.
30/ Photograph by Pavel Shul'gin, 1991.
31/ Photograph by C. Lebedev, 1911.
32/ Photograph by Pavel Shul'gin, 1999.
33/ Photograph by G. Vedmid', 1999.
34/ Photograph by Olga Shtelle.
35/ Photograph by Olga Shtelle.
36/ Photograph by Vladimir Eviadov, 1928. Courtesy
Arctic Studies Center, Smithsonian Institution.
37/ Map courtesy Andrew Wiget.
38/ Photograph by Andrew Wiget.
39/ Map courtesy Andrew Wiget and Olga Balalaeva.
40/ Photograph by Andrew Wiget.
41/ Map courtesy Andrew Wiget.
42/ Map courtesy Andrew Wiget.
43/ Photograph by Andrew Wiget.
44/ Photograph by Andrew Wiget.
45/ Photograph by Andrew Wiget.
46/ Map produced by Igor Krupnik and Marcia Bakry,
Smithsonian Institution.
47/ Photo courtesy Calina Kharyuchi.
48/ Photograph by William Fitzhugh, courtesy Arctic
Studies Center, Smithsonian Institution.
49/ Photo courtesy Galina Kharyuchi.
50/ Photograph by Vladimir Eviadov, 1928. Courtesy
Arctic Studies Center, Smithsonian Institution.
51/ Photograph by Galina Kharyuchi.
52/ Photograph by Galina Kharyuchi.
53/ Photograph by Vladimir Eviadov, courtesy Arctic
Studies Center, Smithsonian Institution.
54/ Photo courtesy National Park Service, Alaska Region.
55/ Photo courtesy National Park Service, Alaska Region.
56/ Photo courtesy National Park Service, Alaska Region.
57/ Relief map courtesy National Park Service, Alaska
414
Region.
58/ Map courtesy National Parl< Service, Alasl<a Region.
59/ Ahtna place-names map courtesy National Park
Service, Alaska Region.
60/ Graph adapted from Halpin 1987:31.
61/ Photograph courtesy National Park Service
62/ Mentasta caribou herd density dependant model
courtesy Don Callaway.
63/ Photograph by Igor Krupnik, 1 999, from the panel
photo at Sivuqam Inc., Gambell, Alaska.
64/ Map reproduced from Collins 1937: 32.
65/ Photograph by Peter Bonnett, 1 889. Courtesy NAA-SI
85-814.
66/ Photograph by Leuman M. Waugh, 1930. Courtesy
National Museum of the American Indian, Smithsonian
Institution, N42787.
67/ Photograph by Riley D. Moore, 1912. Courtesy NAA-
SI, neg. SI 76-705.
68/ Drawing by Willis Walunga, 2001.
69/ Photograph by Henry B. Collins, Courtesy NAA-SI,
neg. 2000-4459.
70/ Photograph by Peter Bonnett, 1 889. Courtesy NAA-SI
85-81 5.
71/ Photograph by Igor Krupnik, 2001.
72/ Photograph by Igor Krupnik, 2001.
Pg. 228/Courtesy Sandra Haldane, 2004.
73/ Photograph by James Magdanz, Kotzebue, 1993,
courtesy of the photographer.
74/ Map courtesy Susan Fair. Cartography by Nadia
HIibka, Ikarus Design, Tucson, AZ.
75/ Hand-drawn map, 1902. Courtesy Kathleen Lopp
Smith and Verbeck Smith, Seattle.
76/ Watercolor courtesy Alaska State Library, Wickersham
Collection, MS 107, Box 73, Folder 6, #35.
77/ Photograph by Fred Machetanz. Courtesy Alaska and
Polar Regions Department, Elmer E. Rasmuson Library,
University of Alaska Fairbanks, Fred Machetanz
Collection, #73-75-452.
78/ Photograph by James Magdanz, Kotzebue, 1 997,
courtesy of the photographer.
79/ Photo by Glen Simpson, Fairbanks, 1987, courtesy of
the photographer.
80/ Photograph by Edward L. Keithhahn, courtesy
National Park Service, Alaska Region, Keithhahn
collection, neg. 047.
81/ Courtesy Edgar Ningeulook and Shishmaref IRA
Village Council (SH/EN-83-F01 2-6).
82/ Photograph by Susan W. Fair, 1 998.
83/ Photograph by Elisabeth Ward, 2001.
84/ Illustration courtesy Gisli Sigurdsson.
85/ Map adapted from Hreinsson et al., 2000b:388.
86/ Photograph by Elisabeth Ward, 2001
.
87/ Photograph by Elisabeth Ward, 2001.
88/ Photograph by Elisabeth Ward, 2001.
89/ Photograph by Elisabeth Ward, 2001.
90/ Photograph by Elisabeth Ward, 2001.
91/ Photograph by Elisabeth Ward, 2001.
92/ Photograph by Anita Maurstad.
93/ Photograph by Anita Maurstad.
94/ Photograph by Anita Maurstad.
95/ Photograph by Anita Maurstad.
96/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1992.
97/ Map produced by Miles Davis, Archaeology CIS
Facility, Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre,
Yellowknife, NWT, Canada.
98/ Map produced by Miles Davis, Archaeology CIS
Facility, Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre,
Yellowknife, NWT, Canada.
99/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1 996.
100/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1991.
101/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1996.
102/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1 992.
103/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1993.
104/ Photograph by Thomas D. Andrews, 1991.
105/ Photo courtesy National Park Service, Alaska
Region, 2001.
106/ Photo courtesy Anchorage Museum of History and
Art, Anchorage, B70.22.14, #271.
1 07/ Photograph by George T. Emmons, 1 889. Courtesy
Dept. of Library Services, American Museum of Natural
History, New York, neg. 41619.
108/ Photograph by Mikhail Sherhsnev, 1995.
109/ Photograph by Mikhail Shershnev, 1997.
110/ Photograph by Natalia Fedorova, 1995.
111/ Photograph by Natalia Fedorova, 1996.
I 1 2/ Photograph by Marianne Skandfer.
1 1 4/ Photograph by Marianne Skandfer.
I I 5/ Photograph by Marianne Skandfer.
116/ Photograph by Marianne Skandfer.
1 1 7/ Photograph by Marianne Skandfer.
1 1 8/Photograph by Marianne Skandfer.
1 19/ Photograph by Thetus Smith, 2001.
1 20/ Photograph by Claire Smith
121/ Photograph by Matt Schlitz.
1 22/ Photograph by Claire Smith.
123/ Photograph by Claire Smith.
124/ Photograph by David Dector, 1995. Courtesy Arctic
Studies Center, Smithsonian Institution.
41 5
OTHER TITLES IN THE SERIES
CONTKi5UTION5 TO CiKCaMrOLAK ANTMROPOLOGY
Vol.1 : Gateways: Exploring the Legacy of the Jesup North Pacific Expedition, 1897-1902. Edited by Igor Krupnik
and William W. Fitzhugh. Arctic Studies Center, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution.
Washington, DC. 2001. xvi+335 pp.
Vol. 2: Honoring Our Elders. A History of Eastern Arctic Anthropology. Edited by William W. Fitzhugh, Stephen
Loring, and Daniel Odess. Arctic Studies Center, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution. Wash-
ington, DC. 2002. xvi-i-319 pp.
Vol. 3: Akuzilleput Igaqullghet. Our Words Put to Paper. Sourcebook in St. Lawrence Island Yupik Heritage and
History. Edited by Igor Krupnik, Willis Walunga, and Vera Metcalf. Compiled by Igor Krupnik and Lars Krutak. Arctic
Studies Center, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution. Washington, DC. 2002. 464 pp.
Vol. 4: Constructing Cultures Then and Now. Celebrating Franz Boas and theJesup North Pacific Expedition. Edited by
Laurel Kendall and Igor Krupnik. Arctic Studies Center, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution.
Washington, DC. 2003. xviii+364 pp.
Vol. 5: Leonid P. Khiobystin. Taimyr. The Archaeology ofNorthernmost Eurasia. Edited by William W. Fitzhugh and
Vladimir V. Pitul'ko. Arctic Studies Center, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution. Washington,
DC. 2004 (in press).