There’s something to be noted about first nations and their oft-touted motto of respect for elders. It’s an absolute about-face from the way I grew up viewing a western societal take on the geriatric age, where old people are addressed with demeaning tones as they are shipped off to retirement homes, only to be visited or let out for Christmas, Easter and the occasional grandchild birthday.*
Today the students had a field trip led by elders to the site of the old Ross River, before it was moved to this side of the river in 1963. It is about a 20-minute hike, once you cross the footbridge over the fast-moving Pelly River, and the path is marked with grave sites, hawks’ nests and walking trails established long ago.
Troubled kids who are normally off the wall and wouldn’t listen to warnings of a nuclear attack sat enraptured by the tales of the elders. Kids who have difficulty remembering their own birthdays were able to tell me how they were related to the elders present, where the families became connected long ago. As far as I know, the age of 65 denotes one an elder. Their faces are dark and lined at the creases, their hair is black but lined in white. They speak softly, and say much with few words.
One, Amos, I estimate is almost 80 years old. He said he was 13 in 1942 as he recounted a story of how large steamboats would pass the old Ross River settlement during the war. He led a walking tour of the old site in the bush, keeping a quick pace with his carved walking stick through unmarked paths. I consider myself in decent shape and found myself taking large steps to keep up with him as he moved from the site of an old car to an abandoned house once owned by the Catholic priest. He showed us where the produce was stored for coolness and recounted what fun he had running around with his friends. Though hard of hearing, he told stories with fascinating detail, and all listened, no matter how soft he spoke.
Around the campfire, he sharpened stick to be used in a gopher trap, and talked to the students.
“Those potato chips, potato chips. No eat those potato chips. You eat potatoes, fruit, that be much better,” he said with a nod.
“And don’t be drinking. You stagger around act like idiot, that’s no good,” echoed with a face of disgust.
“That marijuana smoke,” he said, raising two fingers to his mouth as if to smoke it, “you stay away, it make you crazy like, no good. Us old timers, we know, you stay away.”
Sound advice, even if the demographic was largely between the ages of 9 and 12-- not early or too late.
Another elder, a woman, told me talking to the kids today is like talking to sticks, she said, holding up a sharpened piece of willow.
“They don’t listen, don’t know how to survive off the land.” Is that really important these days? It is here, where families still hunt in the bush for extended periods of time. “They run out food, bear eat it, these kids don’t know how to feed themselves.”
She pointed out some kids that are eager to learn, but lamented that most fall victim to junk: food, family structures and alcohol.
This was the first time, since arriving here, that I heard such candid and clear thoughts against drinking, against the social dysfunction that I witness every day. I realize there are wise people here who wish for better, who recognize the trouble their people are in.
The old Ross site smelled sweet from the thousands of sage plants growing in the field. The area is dotted with rusted-out tin roofs, cars and ovens. A couple of cabins still stand, but most are fallen, eroding pieces of wood. The kids and I learned which berries to eat (berry blossoms and rosehips) and which not to eat (bee flowers and soap berries). We learned what wood to use to smoke the fish we catch (and fillet ourselves, naturally), and finally, how to set a gopher snare. It was completely impressive to see this practice taught to the kids. It is seldom used these days, and why bother—is there not a general store to buy candy? Of course, but this is tradition, and this is an elder, and for that we respect him and learn.
*=SIDENOTE: This is, of course, a generalization. In my family, my Grama and Grampa were always hanging out with us, taking us to the park, even skateboarding with us. And my Dad’s parents were esteemed intellectuals who never lost their touch until the day they died. That said, I fear we are the exception rather than the norm

Labels: Ross River, social conscious