Tribal Journey by Gary Robinson

climbed.
    As I crawled out of the tent, my groggy brain protested. The voice in my head said, “Are you nuts? Go back to bed!” I tried to ignore it.
    I dragged myself up into my waiting chair. My back and arm muscles were tight and sore. I slowly wheeled toward the campfire where the pullers were gathering.
    The ground crew had cooked up eggs and bacon for us. They’d also put a cast-iron pot of coffee on the campfire. I needed something to kick-start the brain cells, so I got an emptymug and moved closer to the fire. This would be my first taste of something my parents drank every morning.
    A member of the ground crew poured some of the thick black liquid into my outstretched cup. Steam rose from the mug, so I gave it a few minutes to cool down. I grabbed a plate of the hot food and found a picnic table to roll myself to.
    The food was great. The coffee, on the other hand, was the worst tasting thing I’d ever put in my mouth. Next to liver.
    I must’ve made a terrible face as I swallowed the caffeinated drink, because Jessy laughed at me as he sat down beside me. He had a plate of food and a cup of coffee, too.
    â€œYou look like you just took a bite of liver,” he said.
    â€œIs this the way coffee is supposed to taste?” I asked.
    â€œNo. You should’ve asked me about it first. I could’ve warned you.” He took a big swig of his coffee.
    â€œHow can you drink it?” I asked.
    â€œThere are a lot of things you’ll eat and drink if you’re cold and hungry enough,” he said. “You’ll get used to it. It helps if you fill half the cup with that hazelnut-flavored cream over there.”
    â€œNow you tell me,” I complained.
    After breakfast, everyone in our camp gathered near the canoe to have a prayer for the day’s journey.
    â€œWhen you’re out there on the water today, remember who you are,” Mr. Franks said. “If you don’t know who you are, this is the time and place to figure that out.”
    â€œHow do we do that?” one of the young pullers asked.
    â€œPay attention to your surroundings. Listen to the birds and the splashing of the water. Smell the ocean and the forests nearby. Notice the warmth of the sun and the feel of the rain on your skin. Then close your eyes and go deep into your own mind to see what Spirit has waiting for you to discover.”
    That was heavy. Everyone was quiet for a few moments.
    â€œAnd have fun!” he said as he ended his little talk with a smile.
    With that, we scattered to begin performing our assigned tasks. The pullers either climbed into the canoe or onto the support boat. The ground crew began breaking down the camp and packing it up. We would see them at the next stop, on the Tulalip Reservation farther up the coast.
    And so the daily pattern repeated itself. After an overnight stay at Tulalip, we pushed on to the Swinomish Reservation, the Samish Reservation, and then to Lummi. We shared stories, songs, and accounts of our trip at each stop. So did other canoe families.
    And the number of canoes and people grew with each stop as more and more groups caught up with the tribal canoes coming from the south.
    Each night we’d take a look at the maps and charts the canoe family had prepared. On the map you could see that tribal canoes were coming from the far northern regions of western Canada. Others werecoming from farther south along the Washington State coast. Everyone’s trip was timed so we’d all arrive on the same day on the shores of Cowichan Bay.

Chapter 11
Crossing the Straits
    On the seventh morning of our journey I woke up on the Lummi Reservation. This tribal community was located on the northwest coast of Washington State. It was only about thirty miles from the Canadian border. But our final destination was located on Vancouver Island, a huge piece of land off the western coast of Canada.
    So in order to get there, all the southern canoes had to