head.
“Mick,” Mom said in a warning tone. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Can you do a moose call for me?” Mick said, eyes sparkling.
I closed my left nostril with a finger and trumpeted as loudly as I could. When he’d taught me, he’d said that female moose made the sound so that they could have other moose to play with. He laughed and Mom said, “Put Her Royal Highness down and get going.”
He smiled at me. “We used to call her Miss Bossy Pants when she was a kid.”
I giggled.
“Less cute remarks,” Mom said. “More attention to details—like the tide, Mr. Smarty-Pants.”
Mick tossed me up over his head. The world spun, blurred as I twirled, then Mick caught me by the waist and, in one dizzying, swooping movement, lowered me from the dock so I landed in the speedboat with a thump.
He cast off and hopped in the boat, rocking it alarmingly. After he started the motor, he raised one hand and flapped it a few times at Mom, then saluted and yelled, “Red power!”
“Get out of here, you nut,” she said.
Mick pushed us off, as she stood on the docks and watched us. He fired off the engine. We started off sedately, but once we rounded the breakwater and the point, and were firmly out of her view, he gunned the motor, the bow lifted like a ramp, spray kicked up three feet high behind us and we tore across the water.
Behind us, the village, the road to town, the hazy plumes of smoke and the bright orange lights of Alcan shrank away. Ahead of us, the mountains stretched along the sides of the channel. As we rode near the Kildala Valley, I felt a sudden chill. A white man and his son, in matching neon green and black scuba gear, stood on a point, waving to us. I stood up and waved back wildly.
“Who are you waving at?” Mick shouted over the engine. He was looking at me like I was nuts.
“You can’t see them?” I said, lowering my arm.
“Who?” He looked back at the shoreline.
“They’re right there,” I said, pointing. “On the beach.”
Mick craned his head and squinted. “I don’t see anyone.”
The man turned and walked into the woods. The son—I don’t know how I knew he was the son—stopped waving too, but stayed and watched us. He seemed so lonely that I took off my cap and waved it in the air to make him smile. He stayed on the beach until we were out of sight.
The Kemano was a half-day away on a fast speedboat. About three of the rivers in Kitamaat territory have reliable oolichan runs—the Kitimat, Kitlope and Kemano rivers. Like salmon, oolichans spawn in rivers and their fry migrate to the ocean, where they live for about three years. They return to their home rivers along the British Columbian coast in early spring, usually between mid-February and early April. The Kitimat River used to be the best one, but it has been polluted by all the industry in town, so you’d have to be pretty dense or desperate to eat anything from that river. Mom said the runs used to be so thick, you could walk across the river and not touch water. You didn’t even need a net; you could just scoop them up with your hat. Most people go out to the Kemano and the Kitlope these days, but you have to pay for gas, and you need a decent boat and have to be able to spend a few weeks out there if you want to make grease. If you have a job, it’s hard to get enough time off work. Oolichans spawn in only a small number of rivers in B.C., so the Haisla used to trade themwith other villages for things that were rare in our area, like soapberries. In the past, most of the groups spoke different languages, so a trade language called Chinook was created, which combined the easiest-to-pronounce words in the languages into a pidgin, a patois. Oolichan is the Chinook word for the fish, but in Haisla they’re called
jak’un
.
Oolichans spawn in other rivers on the northwest coast like the Chilcat, Nass, Skeena, Kimsquit, Bella Coola, Oweekeno, Kingcome and Fraser rivers. Each place has its own way of
“Mick,” Mom said in a warning tone. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Can you do a moose call for me?” Mick said, eyes sparkling.
I closed my left nostril with a finger and trumpeted as loudly as I could. When he’d taught me, he’d said that female moose made the sound so that they could have other moose to play with. He laughed and Mom said, “Put Her Royal Highness down and get going.”
He smiled at me. “We used to call her Miss Bossy Pants when she was a kid.”
I giggled.
“Less cute remarks,” Mom said. “More attention to details—like the tide, Mr. Smarty-Pants.”
Mick tossed me up over his head. The world spun, blurred as I twirled, then Mick caught me by the waist and, in one dizzying, swooping movement, lowered me from the dock so I landed in the speedboat with a thump.
He cast off and hopped in the boat, rocking it alarmingly. After he started the motor, he raised one hand and flapped it a few times at Mom, then saluted and yelled, “Red power!”
“Get out of here, you nut,” she said.
Mick pushed us off, as she stood on the docks and watched us. He fired off the engine. We started off sedately, but once we rounded the breakwater and the point, and were firmly out of her view, he gunned the motor, the bow lifted like a ramp, spray kicked up three feet high behind us and we tore across the water.
Behind us, the village, the road to town, the hazy plumes of smoke and the bright orange lights of Alcan shrank away. Ahead of us, the mountains stretched along the sides of the channel. As we rode near the Kildala Valley, I felt a sudden chill. A white man and his son, in matching neon green and black scuba gear, stood on a point, waving to us. I stood up and waved back wildly.
“Who are you waving at?” Mick shouted over the engine. He was looking at me like I was nuts.
“You can’t see them?” I said, lowering my arm.
“Who?” He looked back at the shoreline.
“They’re right there,” I said, pointing. “On the beach.”
Mick craned his head and squinted. “I don’t see anyone.”
The man turned and walked into the woods. The son—I don’t know how I knew he was the son—stopped waving too, but stayed and watched us. He seemed so lonely that I took off my cap and waved it in the air to make him smile. He stayed on the beach until we were out of sight.
The Kemano was a half-day away on a fast speedboat. About three of the rivers in Kitamaat territory have reliable oolichan runs—the Kitimat, Kitlope and Kemano rivers. Like salmon, oolichans spawn in rivers and their fry migrate to the ocean, where they live for about three years. They return to their home rivers along the British Columbian coast in early spring, usually between mid-February and early April. The Kitimat River used to be the best one, but it has been polluted by all the industry in town, so you’d have to be pretty dense or desperate to eat anything from that river. Mom said the runs used to be so thick, you could walk across the river and not touch water. You didn’t even need a net; you could just scoop them up with your hat. Most people go out to the Kemano and the Kitlope these days, but you have to pay for gas, and you need a decent boat and have to be able to spend a few weeks out there if you want to make grease. If you have a job, it’s hard to get enough time off work. Oolichans spawn in only a small number of rivers in B.C., so the Haisla used to trade themwith other villages for things that were rare in our area, like soapberries. In the past, most of the groups spoke different languages, so a trade language called Chinook was created, which combined the easiest-to-pronounce words in the languages into a pidgin, a patois. Oolichan is the Chinook word for the fish, but in Haisla they’re called
jak’un
.
Oolichans spawn in other rivers on the northwest coast like the Chilcat, Nass, Skeena, Kimsquit, Bella Coola, Oweekeno, Kingcome and Fraser rivers. Each place has its own way of
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