Potlatch at the Hoedad Camp.
So what is this?
This is a very short work, prompted by the following two quotes:
“Talk, loudly and frequently and in detail, about the future you want. You can’t manifest what you don’t share.”
~ Madeline Ashby
And
“Remember to imagine and craft the worlds you cannot live without, just as you dismantle the ones you cannot live within.”
~ Ruha Benjamin
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Potlatch at the Hoedad Camp.
Mid-summer, and the heat is oppressive. The 40-meter band radio is a buzz with the news that our southern brothers and sisters have called for a potlatch.
We do need to restock, resupply, and rest. But the long travel south is not without hazard. So as we siesta from the midday heat and spread out the solar cells, we talk and argue about the possible trip.
As a child, a potlatch was a magical thing. Looming large in the memory of a year. A time of feast, fun, and laughter. A bit older, and it became a ritual of finding your own cohort, of bonding, and sex, of leaving your family to form a new one. Dancing until you're exhausted, falling into a pile of strangers.
It is about a 9-day trek, down into the valley, and south along the rivers. Will the horses make it? Will we encounter militia? What about the western slopes we are re-planting? What other groups can we hook up with and travel in a larger band? None of these questions will be answered today. We have at least a moon to decide.
The contract we have with the local Cascadia council does allow us to take time off for resupply, and they won't bitch too much if we travel to the potlatch. Yet the re-planting is very important work, and the acres and acres of burn scars are reason enough for our work to continue.
"Ask The Forest" is embroidered on our Pottiputki carrying bags, and across our shirts. A sort of vague motto someone thought profound years ago, when our co-op was young. It is also on a flag at our home base, down in the valley were the green houses grow the Douglas Fir starts.
~~~~
How this all started.
Philippa is slowing down, walking ahead of me, making sure I see her. One of her boots is untied. She'll probably stop in a moment, a chance to talk without the others hearing us. She drops her pack to lace up and says, “Hey, give me some of your juice". I shrug out of my pack and start digging through it for the extra bota bag. "I know you know that it wasn't my fault," I say, as I hand her the blackberry drink. “OK, but I don't get why you didn't hit him in the face the first time." She is now sitting and pulling her own pack off. There is a long silence. A genuine smile on her face. I am trying to figure out what she is expecting me to say. “Well, I don't know exactly, but I just didn't." Now she is looking at her boot, as if that was the wrong thing, instead of me.
Jon and Philippa, everyone says our names together, as if we were one person. Yes, we spent most of our childhood inseparable. Born two days apart. Our moms, best friends. But we are different on the inside. She is the strong, self-assured, get things done one. I'm not. My mom says it is because we balance.
"Remember when you carried me home when I sprained my ankle? You know the right thing to do and can act fast," she said with that little lilt in her voice, meant to make me feel better. “Yes, P, I know, but that was you, and Mel is Mel, and I thought he would fucking apologize." She is looking right into my eyes, the only person that I can stand to do that. "Mel is never going to change. He is a bully. Yes, I know what the old folks say. But punching him in the nose is the only thing he understands."
We are now a fair bit behind the others, so we both grab our packs and hoedads and get moving. Most of the group thinks of Philippa as a leader. So she has to play the game and be attentive to everyone. Me, I am the one who most forget is there. This is fine by me. I sometimes pretend I am not here.
We catch up to the group sitting on an old tree fall. Philippa asks Barbi to pull out the old topo maps and compass. We all call her Barbi because the old uncles do. Tall, thin, and blond, Barbi is the best of us at finding the perfect spot to camp. The smoothest route to the ridge line. All the others are talking at once. Joking around and relaxing, hoping someone will say it is okay to pull out the herb. But it is only mid-morning and we have got a long way to go today to get to the burn line. Thomas is working with Barbi, finding out where we are. How far to the next camp. Eve is chatting with Mel and Blink about gear, but really making sure they stay hydrated. Greta is walking into the brush to pee. Me, I am keeping an eye on Mel and trying hard to blend into the background.
The Moms have organized this planting trip. To get us all out from under and to mix us up. We come from three neighboring tribes, and even though we see each other at feasts and potlatches, we don't usually hang together. Everyone is aware that the Moms hope to grow some kind of bond between us. The Moms never do anything that is not strategic. But out here we are just kids trying to do the work and find a good sleeping partner.
Eve is a bit older, I think 25 summers, and the one we all listen to about when it is time to eat or smoke or to change our socks. She is the one Blink has an eye for, and I am pretty sure they spent last night together. Blink is carrying a stout bow. Never goes without a knife, and maybe other weapons. He is the one we count on if we see a cougar or a bear.
Then there is Mel, not the fittest of us, but definitely the loudest. He makes everything about himself. The thing that blew up yesterday was Mel flirting with Greta again. Trying to impress her with a story about how he once snuck into the men’s council and saw what they do in there. We all knew this was bullshit. No one gets into the council without them knowing about it. It looked to me that Greta was uncomfortable about calling him on this boast. So I did. Bad words. Loud words. I punched him in the nose. Not as hard as I could, but enough to shut him up, and he bled all over his shirt.
Philippa is now getting us up and moving again. Barbi has laid out a route. Everyone else is grousing about not getting time to smoke some herb. But we do move on. After 2 days of walking in this forest, we are pairing up, just like the moms want us to. Me and Philippa, of course, Eve and Blink, Thomas and Barbi, the only exception is Mel and Greta. Here is the thing, Greta is the moms’ favorite, we all know it. She is also picky about who she likes. She stays quiet until she brings out her small guitar and starts to sing.
Above us, the sky is clear, the climb not too steep. We are now making good time. Thomas falls back a pace or two to talk to me. "Don't worry about Greta, she can take care of herself," he says. "I think you did right by shutting Mel down. But remember, compassion is the way, and violence only begets violence." Thomas talks this way, like some kind of book, the aunts and uncles are always trying to get us to read. He is the most giving of us. Always there with a kind word. A helping hand. The thing I like about him the most is that he seems to get that I think I am broken, but never tries to fix me or change my mind. People joke that Thomas is going to be a "grandfather" before he is 40.
After a long day of hiking, Philippa and Barbi decide we have arrived at a good campsite. So we break. Maybe two hours of daylight left. We are all tired and a bit sore. Mel's face is still a bit swollen, and he has a nasty blister on his heel. Eve is making a poultice for his foot. Blink is out scouting for small game. Barbi and Thomas are gathering firewood. I take off my boots and just lie down staring at the sky. Philippa and Greta are clearing a fire pit. Getting out the cooking stuff. If I lay here for too long, people are going to tease me into action, but I take as long as I can to do nothing.
When I think back to what Thomas had to say, I feel a bit guilty, as if I could have found another way to shut Mel up. But Philippa approved of my actions. So now I am confused, in my normal state of mind. The moms would have said, "Just get on with it, the past is gone". Blink would agree with Philippa that it needed to be done. The others probably aren't still thinking about it.
I put my boots back on and get up to help. I pull out a flint and steel and take it over to Barbi. Philippa gives me a little hug, as if to say, “Stop thinking about it. It isn't a big deal.” I swear she can read my mind. I walk back to the packs, thinking I will check on the seedlings. I make sure they are still packed tightly in their moist wrapping. 1,000 little fir trees, not so many, given the size of this burn we are trying to replant. But I know it can make a huge difference. If we are careful where we plant. I spread them out just right. I make sure they can get water when it rains. They will grow fast. In a few years, they will multiply. Not fixing the burn. But helping it heal faster.
Blink has brought back a wild chicken, so a good stew tonight. At sunset, Greta takes out her guitar and begins to play and sing. It is a small cook fire. But enough for us. The herb comes out, and we all quietly smoke. Listening to the music, thinking our thoughts. Philippa and I will lie close together tonight, holding each other tight. Whispering in a language only we know.
It is about noon when we reach the burn line. Mostly following a north-south ridge. The winds must have shifted, and the fire was pushed back down the slope it just climbed. We take a break. While Barbi, Thomas, and Philippa circle down and around the hill. Looking closer at the land and the drainage. Where best to plant. This was not a huge burn. Only tens of square miles. Not the thousand that ran through here 30 years ago. We will start planting tomorrow. After everyone is rested up. All of us have done this before. So no newbie show and tell. Eve, Mel, Greta, and I start to set up camp. We will be here 3 days or so. So the first thing to do is dig a latrine pit. Then pull rocks from sleeping spots. Pilling them in a real fire ring.
Greta and Eve are pulling rocks, so Mel and I start on a pit line about 100 paces from the center of camp. We work in silence. The hoedads make it easy to dig through the ground cover and into the soil. Mel stops and looks at me. "Why did you punch me?" he asks. I don't want to answer. But it is a fair question. "Because you were acting like an asshole. I didn't know any other way to shut you the fuck up," I say, standing up and leaning on my hoedad. "We were both fucking yelling," he calmly says. “Yeah, we were." I think for a moment. What would Thomas or Philippa say next? "Mel, I don't know you. I think you lie to get laid," I say, getting that invisible feeling. Mel is not angry. But also not backing down. “Listen, Jon, everybody knows that you and Philippa are like together. Shit ain't like that for most of us. There's nobody at home that I want to fuck. So the moms put this trip together. I think maybe I can change tribes. Then you fuck it all up." We are about three paces away from each other. So I am not scared. But I really don't want this to go on. "Fuck it, Mel, I don't want to mess things up between you and Greta. I just wanted it to be real." He turns his back and starts digging again. I don't think this is over.
Blink has been scouting around camp. Doing whatever it is he does. Maybe setting traps or looking for tracks. I'm not a hunter. But he comes back happy and saying, "Great spot. That Barbi sure is good at picking camps." He has three bags full of water. Having easy access to water is a plus. But being on top of this ridge could get bad if any wind comes up. Blink sits down and starts to unpack. I notice for the first time he has pockets, pouches, and belts everywhere.
He is pulling out a huge assortment of tools, weapons, and stuff I can't identify. He was carrying all this stuff plus his pack and his share of seedlings. I am impressed.
We got a small fire going, heating up some water so people can wash up a bit. Maybe make some tea. When Philippa, Thomas, and Barbi come back, they are all smiles. Talking about how this is going to be an easy one. The burn was three years ago. So most of the dead wood has washed down the slope, leaving an easier job for the hoedads to get into the soil. Philippa glances around and sees that I am tense. She looks at Mel for a second. She has figured out that we talked. But she is busy doing the leader thing. So it will have to wait.
I don't feel like talking to anyone. I just want to rest. Eat a good meal. Then crawl into my bedroll. Eve squats down beside me, offering some jerky in trade for some of the blackberry drink my family is kind of known for. "You okay?" she asks. She softly puts her hand on my wrist. She touches people like this. I think she is taking my pulse. Or maybe some other kind of healing thing. “Yeah, I'm just tired and hungry, " I say. "You need to drink more water," she laughs. Her go-to words. Nobody drinks enough water for Eve. The jerky is good. Spicy and not too hard. It makes me thirsty. So I do drink more water.
We all wake up at dawn. Eve has already made some tea and some cornbread. So we eat to fuel up. It is going to be a long day of planting. This is what we came here to do. Healing the forest. We all know well our great-grandparents’ story, of how the world got so hot, of how the land burned, and the people died, by the millions. They all got punched in the nose, had 12 years of famine, and war. Yet we are still here. Living with the land, not against it. We have this in our blood. The songs, dances, and the stories. But today it is all about hard work and just being in the scar of the burn. Taking our time. Making sure each small tree has the best possible chance of making it.
We sing as we work. Even Mel gets into the rhythm of the chant. Greta leads with a high, clear voice, and we all follow. Swinging the hoedads, nestling the saplings into the hole, pushing the topsoil back to support it in its new home. With each step down the slope, we add life. In a day or two, this hillside will be just a little bit better, better able to hold onto the soil, and with luck, a future home to a new forest.
This is our work, and we are proud of it. All the bickering, all the joking around, even me hitting Mel is forgotten. For this might be the future, but it is our home.
So what is this?
This is a very short work, prompted by the following two quotes:
“Talk, loudly and frequently and in detail, about the future you want. You can’t manifest what you don’t share.”
~ Madeline Ashby
And
“Remember to imagine and craft the worlds you cannot live without, just as you dismantle the ones you cannot live within.”
~ Ruha Benjamin
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Potlatch at the Hoedad Camp.
Mid-summer, and the heat is oppressive. The 40-meter band radio is a buzz with the news that our southern brothers and sisters have called for a potlatch.
We do need to restock, resupply, and rest. But the long travel south is not without hazard. So as we siesta from the midday heat and spread out the solar cells, we talk and argue about the possible trip.
As a child, a potlatch was a magical thing. Looming large in the memory of a year. A time of feast, fun, and laughter. A bit older, and it became a ritual of finding your own cohort, of bonding, and sex, of leaving your family to form a new one. Dancing until you're exhausted, falling into a pile of strangers.
It is about a 9-day trek, down into the valley, and south along the rivers. Will the horses make it? Will we encounter militia? What about the western slopes we are re-planting? What other groups can we hook up with and travel in a larger band? None of these questions will be answered today. We have at least a moon to decide.
The contract we have with the local Cascadia council does allow us to take time off for resupply, and they won't bitch too much if we travel to the potlatch. Yet the re-planting is very important work, and the acres and acres of burn scars are reason enough for our work to continue.
"Ask The Forest" is embroidered on our Pottiputki carrying bags, and across our shirts. A sort of vague motto someone thought profound years ago, when our co-op was young. It is also on a flag at our home base, down in the valley were the green houses grow the Douglas Fir starts.
~~~~
How this all started.
Philippa is slowing down, walking ahead of me, making sure I see her. One of her boots is untied. She'll probably stop in a moment, a chance to talk without the others hearing us. She drops her pack to lace up and says, “Hey, give me some of your juice". I shrug out of my pack and start digging through it for the extra bota bag. "I know you know that it wasn't my fault," I say, as I hand her the blackberry drink. “OK, but I don't get why you didn't hit him in the face the first time." She is now sitting and pulling her own pack off. There is a long silence. A genuine smile on her face. I am trying to figure out what she is expecting me to say. “Well, I don't know exactly, but I just didn't." Now she is looking at her boot, as if that was the wrong thing, instead of me.
Jon and Philippa, everyone says our names together, as if we were one person. Yes, we spent most of our childhood inseparable. Born two days apart. Our moms, best friends. But we are different on the inside. She is the strong, self-assured, get things done one. I'm not. My mom says it is because we balance.
"Remember when you carried me home when I sprained my ankle? You know the right thing to do and can act fast," she said with that little lilt in her voice, meant to make me feel better. “Yes, P, I know, but that was you, and Mel is Mel, and I thought he would fucking apologize." She is looking right into my eyes, the only person that I can stand to do that. "Mel is never going to change. He is a bully. Yes, I know what the old folks say. But punching him in the nose is the only thing he understands."
We are now a fair bit behind the others, so we both grab our packs and hoedads and get moving. Most of the group thinks of Philippa as a leader. So she has to play the game and be attentive to everyone. Me, I am the one who most forget is there. This is fine by me. I sometimes pretend I am not here.
We catch up to the group sitting on an old tree fall. Philippa asks Barbi to pull out the old topo maps and compass. We all call her Barbi because the old uncles do. Tall, thin, and blond, Barbi is the best of us at finding the perfect spot to camp. The smoothest route to the ridge line. All the others are talking at once. Joking around and relaxing, hoping someone will say it is okay to pull out the herb. But it is only mid-morning and we have got a long way to go today to get to the burn line. Thomas is working with Barbi, finding out where we are. How far to the next camp. Eve is chatting with Mel and Blink about gear, but really making sure they stay hydrated. Greta is walking into the brush to pee. Me, I am keeping an eye on Mel and trying hard to blend into the background.
The Moms have organized this planting trip. To get us all out from under and to mix us up. We come from three neighboring tribes, and even though we see each other at feasts and potlatches, we don't usually hang together. Everyone is aware that the Moms hope to grow some kind of bond between us. The Moms never do anything that is not strategic. But out here we are just kids trying to do the work and find a good sleeping partner.
Eve is a bit older, I think 25 summers, and the one we all listen to about when it is time to eat or smoke or to change our socks. She is the one Blink has an eye for, and I am pretty sure they spent last night together. Blink is carrying a stout bow. Never goes without a knife, and maybe other weapons. He is the one we count on if we see a cougar or a bear.
Then there is Mel, not the fittest of us, but definitely the loudest. He makes everything about himself. The thing that blew up yesterday was Mel flirting with Greta again. Trying to impress her with a story about how he once snuck into the men’s council and saw what they do in there. We all knew this was bullshit. No one gets into the council without them knowing about it. It looked to me that Greta was uncomfortable about calling him on this boast. So I did. Bad words. Loud words. I punched him in the nose. Not as hard as I could, but enough to shut him up, and he bled all over his shirt.
Philippa is now getting us up and moving again. Barbi has laid out a route. Everyone else is grousing about not getting time to smoke some herb. But we do move on. After 2 days of walking in this forest, we are pairing up, just like the moms want us to. Me and Philippa, of course, Eve and Blink, Thomas and Barbi, the only exception is Mel and Greta. Here is the thing, Greta is the moms’ favorite, we all know it. She is also picky about who she likes. She stays quiet until she brings out her small guitar and starts to sing.
Above us, the sky is clear, the climb not too steep. We are now making good time. Thomas falls back a pace or two to talk to me. "Don't worry about Greta, she can take care of herself," he says. "I think you did right by shutting Mel down. But remember, compassion is the way, and violence only begets violence." Thomas talks this way, like some kind of book, the aunts and uncles are always trying to get us to read. He is the most giving of us. Always there with a kind word. A helping hand. The thing I like about him the most is that he seems to get that I think I am broken, but never tries to fix me or change my mind. People joke that Thomas is going to be a "grandfather" before he is 40.
After a long day of hiking, Philippa and Barbi decide we have arrived at a good campsite. So we break. Maybe two hours of daylight left. We are all tired and a bit sore. Mel's face is still a bit swollen, and he has a nasty blister on his heel. Eve is making a poultice for his foot. Blink is out scouting for small game. Barbi and Thomas are gathering firewood. I take off my boots and just lie down staring at the sky. Philippa and Greta are clearing a fire pit. Getting out the cooking stuff. If I lay here for too long, people are going to tease me into action, but I take as long as I can to do nothing.
When I think back to what Thomas had to say, I feel a bit guilty, as if I could have found another way to shut Mel up. But Philippa approved of my actions. So now I am confused, in my normal state of mind. The moms would have said, "Just get on with it, the past is gone". Blink would agree with Philippa that it needed to be done. The others probably aren't still thinking about it.
I put my boots back on and get up to help. I pull out a flint and steel and take it over to Barbi. Philippa gives me a little hug, as if to say, “Stop thinking about it. It isn't a big deal.” I swear she can read my mind. I walk back to the packs, thinking I will check on the seedlings. I make sure they are still packed tightly in their moist wrapping. 1,000 little fir trees, not so many, given the size of this burn we are trying to replant. But I know it can make a huge difference. If we are careful where we plant. I spread them out just right. I make sure they can get water when it rains. They will grow fast. In a few years, they will multiply. Not fixing the burn. But helping it heal faster.
Blink has brought back a wild chicken, so a good stew tonight. At sunset, Greta takes out her guitar and begins to play and sing. It is a small cook fire. But enough for us. The herb comes out, and we all quietly smoke. Listening to the music, thinking our thoughts. Philippa and I will lie close together tonight, holding each other tight. Whispering in a language only we know.
It is about noon when we reach the burn line. Mostly following a north-south ridge. The winds must have shifted, and the fire was pushed back down the slope it just climbed. We take a break. While Barbi, Thomas, and Philippa circle down and around the hill. Looking closer at the land and the drainage. Where best to plant. This was not a huge burn. Only tens of square miles. Not the thousand that ran through here 30 years ago. We will start planting tomorrow. After everyone is rested up. All of us have done this before. So no newbie show and tell. Eve, Mel, Greta, and I start to set up camp. We will be here 3 days or so. So the first thing to do is dig a latrine pit. Then pull rocks from sleeping spots. Pilling them in a real fire ring.
Greta and Eve are pulling rocks, so Mel and I start on a pit line about 100 paces from the center of camp. We work in silence. The hoedads make it easy to dig through the ground cover and into the soil. Mel stops and looks at me. "Why did you punch me?" he asks. I don't want to answer. But it is a fair question. "Because you were acting like an asshole. I didn't know any other way to shut you the fuck up," I say, standing up and leaning on my hoedad. "We were both fucking yelling," he calmly says. “Yeah, we were." I think for a moment. What would Thomas or Philippa say next? "Mel, I don't know you. I think you lie to get laid," I say, getting that invisible feeling. Mel is not angry. But also not backing down. “Listen, Jon, everybody knows that you and Philippa are like together. Shit ain't like that for most of us. There's nobody at home that I want to fuck. So the moms put this trip together. I think maybe I can change tribes. Then you fuck it all up." We are about three paces away from each other. So I am not scared. But I really don't want this to go on. "Fuck it, Mel, I don't want to mess things up between you and Greta. I just wanted it to be real." He turns his back and starts digging again. I don't think this is over.
Blink has been scouting around camp. Doing whatever it is he does. Maybe setting traps or looking for tracks. I'm not a hunter. But he comes back happy and saying, "Great spot. That Barbi sure is good at picking camps." He has three bags full of water. Having easy access to water is a plus. But being on top of this ridge could get bad if any wind comes up. Blink sits down and starts to unpack. I notice for the first time he has pockets, pouches, and belts everywhere.
He is pulling out a huge assortment of tools, weapons, and stuff I can't identify. He was carrying all this stuff plus his pack and his share of seedlings. I am impressed.
We got a small fire going, heating up some water so people can wash up a bit. Maybe make some tea. When Philippa, Thomas, and Barbi come back, they are all smiles. Talking about how this is going to be an easy one. The burn was three years ago. So most of the dead wood has washed down the slope, leaving an easier job for the hoedads to get into the soil. Philippa glances around and sees that I am tense. She looks at Mel for a second. She has figured out that we talked. But she is busy doing the leader thing. So it will have to wait.
I don't feel like talking to anyone. I just want to rest. Eat a good meal. Then crawl into my bedroll. Eve squats down beside me, offering some jerky in trade for some of the blackberry drink my family is kind of known for. "You okay?" she asks. She softly puts her hand on my wrist. She touches people like this. I think she is taking my pulse. Or maybe some other kind of healing thing. “Yeah, I'm just tired and hungry, " I say. "You need to drink more water," she laughs. Her go-to words. Nobody drinks enough water for Eve. The jerky is good. Spicy and not too hard. It makes me thirsty. So I do drink more water.
We all wake up at dawn. Eve has already made some tea and some cornbread. So we eat to fuel up. It is going to be a long day of planting. This is what we came here to do. Healing the forest. We all know well our great-grandparents’ story, of how the world got so hot, of how the land burned, and the people died, by the millions. They all got punched in the nose, had 12 years of famine, and war. Yet we are still here. Living with the land, not against it. We have this in our blood. The songs, dances, and the stories. But today it is all about hard work and just being in the scar of the burn. Taking our time. Making sure each small tree has the best possible chance of making it.
We sing as we work. Even Mel gets into the rhythm of the chant. Greta leads with a high, clear voice, and we all follow. Swinging the hoedads, nestling the saplings into the hole, pushing the topsoil back to support it in its new home. With each step down the slope, we add life. In a day or two, this hillside will be just a little bit better, better able to hold onto the soil, and with luck, a future home to a new forest.
This is our work, and we are proud of it. All the bickering, all the joking around, even me hitting Mel is forgotten. For this might be the future, but it is our home.