Monthly Archives: May 2024

National Bike Month: Excerpt from “Biking Uphill in the Rain” by Tom Fucoloro

May is National Bike Month, a celebration and showcase of the benefits of bicycling promoted by the League of American Bicyclists since 1956. More than just a mode of transportation, the bicycle has been used by generations of Seattleites as a tool for social change. In Biking Uphill in the Rain, Seattle Bike Blog founder Tom Fucoloro tells the story of the rise of an improbable bike culture in this notoriously hilly and rainy city. The following is an excerpt from the book.

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The Boeing bust gave Seattle a head start on the national recession of the 1970s, triggered by the 1973 oil crisis. As Seattle would see again in the 2008 recession, people seeking ways to save money in difficult economic times found that and much more in the humble bicycle. The seeds of Seattle’s 1970s bicycle movement had been planted in the previous decades. Bicycle sales grew throughout the 1950s and 1960s as lighter bikes with multiple gears and easy-to-use gear shifters and derailleurs became more widely available at the consumer level. By 1968, a new kind of bike-riding movement was forming, empowering advocates to push for bike-friendly changes to the city.

The moment that propelled bicycling into the civic spotlight was the brainchild of a woman who didn’t even ride a bike. It rained all day November 16, 1967, which is to say that it was a very typical Seattle evening when Mia Mann walked into the regular meeting of the Seattle Board of Park Commissioners with a simple idea that would change her city forever. Mann was active on city and nonprofit boards, especially in support of city beautification and arts efforts.

Mia decided to push an idea being tried out in her hometown of Minneapolis: a car-free streets event. She wrote a Seattle City Council resolution to create such an event, but her idea met resistance from those in charge. First, the Parks Department tried to ignore her, but she would have none of that. Then the Parks superintendent said they couldn’t do it because it would interfere with vehicle traffic and because the Parks Department didn’t have jurisdiction to close streets. Eventually, Mia got a powerful City Council member named Myrtle Edwards involved. Edwards was responsible for major parks efforts, including the city’s acquisition of a closing gas plant at the north end of Lake Union that would one day become Gas Works Park. Edwards ran with Mia’s open streets idea, gathering council support and convening multiple city departments to make it happen. Her support was more than enough to win approval from the Parks board that rainy evening. They agreed to hold one trial event in the spring just to see how it would go.

The plan was simple: put up signs closing a two-mile stretch of Lake Washington Boulevard to cars starting at Seward Park in South Seattle and heading north. They then invited people to bike freely on the boulevard and on the forested roads through Seward Park without fear of cars. The whole thing cost the city less than five hundred dollars, and Mia Mann, Harry Coe of the League of American Wheelmen (now known as the League of American Bicyclists), and coaches from Rainier Beach Cottage School volunteered to carry out much of the organizing and promotion. “People have to get hold of their lives and get out in the open,” Mia told the Seattle Post-Intelligencer before the first Bicycle Sunday event. “The automobile just isn’t doing this for us. I haven’t ridden a bike in years, but I’ll be out there.”

The simple act of kicking cars off a street for a few hours demonstrated to people the benefits of public spaces without cars.
Tom Fucoloro

Nobody, it seems from news reports, expected the number of people who showed up April 28, 1968. An estimated five thousand people brought their bikes to Lake Washington during the seven hours the road was closed to cars. City leaders clamored to show their support for the popular event and call for more. Soon the city was hosting Bicycle Sundays several times a month in locations across the city. More than half a century later, the Parks Department still hosts Bicycle Sunday on the same stretch of Lake Washington Boulevard.

But Bicycle Sunday did more than just create a fun space for a few hours. The simple act of kicking cars off a street for a few hours demonstrated to people the benefits of public spaces without cars. Cars require an enormous amount of space, and by the late 1960s nearly all street space had long been the domain of car travel and storage. In the city’s deeply entrenched car culture, getting out on a bike on a car-free street could be a radical experience.

The start of Bicycle Sunday in 1968 was something of a coming-out party for Seattle’s growing bicycle revival. Politicians saw that many people were deeply interested in biking; people with bikes realized they should use their numbers to get organized and start asking for better conditions for biking; and people who didn’t bike saw the crowds and thought it looked like fun. Within weeks of the first event, Harry Coe was rallying political support for a citywide bike route network. Signed bike routes were a small step, but they could be done quickly and represented perhaps the first time since the turn of the twentieth century that the city’s Department of Engineering was tasked with thinking about how someone on a bike might get around town.

Coe was a runner for Team USA during the 1908 London Olympics and had biked all over Seattle as a child. “You could ride downtown without much competition from automobiles,” he told the Seattle Times in 1968. Coe also wrote a letter to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer around the same time saying that the first Bicycle Sunday reminded him of those early days. “It was a day which will be long remembered as one of Seattle’s finest for a lot of people who too seldom get together at one place to enjoy something which they all have in common, namely, love of bicycle riding,” he wrote. He was eighty-three in 1968 when the city started putting up his long-sought bike-route signs. The sheer number of bicyclists who participated in the first Bicycle Sunday gave the plan the popular push it needed to win approval. Signs started going up within months of the first event, and fifty miles of signed bike routes were installed across the city in the first year. Some of these green signs are still in place, bearing a pictogram of a bicycle and reading simply “Bike Route.”

Tom Fucoloro will discuss Biking Uphill in the Rain at the Edmonds Public Library on May 29 at 6:00 pm in partnership with North Sound Bicycle Advocates.

Tom Fucoloro is founder of Seattle Bike Blog and has served as its editor since 2010. He was named one of “15 People Who Should Really Run Seattle” by Seattle Met magazine. In 2023, he won the Doug Walker Award for his work to improve lives through bicycling from the Cascade Bicycle Club.

Related Books

Finding Montana: An Excerpt from ‘Norman Maclean’ by Rebecca McCarthy

The following is an excerpt from Norman Maclean: A Life of Letters and Rivers. In the first biography of one of Montana‘s most celebrated writers, author Rebecca McCarthy draws on their long friendship as well as stories from friends, family, colleagues, and others to reveal the forces and events that shaped the author-educator and formed the bedrock of his beloved stories.

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When Norman and his father stepped off the train in Hanover, New Hampshire, they found themselves in a small New England village of clapboard buildings and white picket fences. A walk around town confirmed that Hanover was a fraction of the size of Missoula. Where Hanover ended, Dartmouth College began. Its buildings bordered a long, open expanse called “the Green” that had been part of the school for more than 150 years. It was a small, all-male college in an isolated town. The winters were sure to be long, cold, and dark.

A notation in his high school yearbook shows Norman had listed as his college choice Washington and Jefferson, a small liberal arts college south of Pittsburgh founded by Presbyterian missionaries in the late 1700s. But he changed his plans. Norman told me Harvard had accepted him and that he thought about going, but he eventually decided not to, a decision his father seconded. Norman chose Dartmouth, he told his interviewers, because it was “the only outdoor college in the country,” and he assumed the woodsy setting would remind him of Montana. All too soon, he learned he was wrong. In Missoula, which sits at the confluence of five valleys, he had been able to see mountains wherever he went. In Hanover, elms and maples hid the vista. The White Mountains were far away. Most of his father’s family was in Boston, more than an hour south on the train.

At Dartmouth in the 1920s, the majority of students were privileged, white, wealthy young New Englanders. Some of their fathers and grandfathers had attended Dartmouth. They knew little about the Rocky Mountains and less about Montana, other than childhood tales about George Armstrong Custer and history lessons on Lewis and Clark’s expedition. Norman felt they looked down on him because his family wasn’t rich. I later learned that the clubby atmosphere had choked Norman, who told his friend Gwin Kolb that he felt “like an uncouth kid from Montana.” While many of his classmates were learning to sail and play polo, Norman had been fighting forest fires and leading pack mules in the Bitterroot Mountains. And though he spoke and wrote well, he was constantly having to explain himself, his hometown, his lineage, and his reasons for coming to Dartmouth. Doing so had exasperated him.

Even in his later years, Norman failed to resolve his antagonistic attitude toward the affluent. “He had a hatred of big money in the abstract,” said his son-in-law, Joel Snyder. “He could be very difficult, but at the same time, he could be very gracious with wealthy people.” [His wife] Jessie’s attitudes were clearer. She had been a fan of the International Workers of the World, the radical Wobblies, and she later became and remained, like Norman, an unreconstructed Roosevelt Democrat.

The most memorable figure in college for Norman was former Dartmouth student Robert Frost, then in his late forties. The poet was an occasional teacher at the college and had a free hand in instructing his students. Norman said Frost “talked straight to you, and often poetry was there, or something close to it.” Classes met once a week, in the evening, in a “great big basement room with a wonderful fireplace.” The subject was creative writing, but Frost apparently never bothered to read his students’ papers. Instead, he would pace back and forth in front of the class, talking and talking. There were never any questions in Frost’s classes, Norman said, and “nobody ever stopped him.”

Joel Snyder took this photo of Norman in Jackson Park on a crisp fall day in 1975, after the University of Chicago Press had accepted *A River Runs Through It and Other Stories* for publication. Norman is standing on the Clarence Darrow Bridge. Photo courtesy of Joel Snyder.

Norman studied hard, later claiming he read a book a day, but he realized he would have to suppress his sardonic sense of humor in class. He became a C student—an accomplishment, given his meager high school education and his many extracurricular activities. He found ways to thrive outside the classroom. He joined Beta Theta Pi and promptly began relieving his fraternity brothers of their money around the poker table. A friend visiting from Montana was astounded that the college boys “didn’t know not to draw from an inside straight.” In a local gym, Norman boxed with fraternity members and men from the community and enjoyed knocking down opponents. He became a staff member of the Dartmouth Bema, a literary magazine, and the Aegis, the Dartmouth yearbook. He was selected for Sphinx, the oldest of Dartmouth’s many secret societies. He was on the board of governors for The Arts, “a clearing house for the ideas and opinions of those interested in the fields of literature, drama and music.” Among the writers coming to campus during his senior year were journalist and critic Rebecca West and poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. How he felt about meeting and hearing these women, we don’t know, but I do know he liked Millay’s poetry.

Before Norman graduated, in June 1924, Dartmouth English professor David Lambuth asked if he wanted to return to campus and teach freshman composition. Lambuth had had Norman in a few of his classes and was impressed with his writing ability and his sensitivity to language. Norman accepted the offer, telling an interviewer the class “was full of some poker buddies of mine, and I figured it would be a good way to pay back some debts.”

Norman went home to Montana to work for the US Forest Service, gathering some of the experiences he would later turn into stories. He had spent most summers working for the Forest Service, except for part of 1921, when his father [Reverend Maclean], [brother] Paul, and he worked on a log cabin on the shore of Seeley Lake, on land leased to them by the federal government. Norman returned to the halls of Hanover in the autumn of 1924 as an instructor of introductory English, and his brother went with him to start on his Dartmouth degree. The Reverend couldn’t afford to pay for two sons to attend private school at the same time, so Paul had taken classes at Montana State (later renamed the University of Montana) in Missoula for a year before heading east.

In the early 1970s, forester John B. Roberts Jr. took this photo of Seeley Lake and the Swan Range from Double Arrow Lookout. Built in 1933 by the Civilian Conservation Corps, Double Arrow was one of many lookouts scattered across western Montana. A seasonal employee would staff each lookout, radioing into the district office any suspicious smokes that could blossom into forest fires. Today the lookout is rented to those wanting to stay a night or two. Photo courtesy of the author.

Bravig Imbs, one of Norman’s contemporaries, offers a glimpse of some events in Norman’s life while he was an instructor, in The Professor’s Wife. The professor and the wife are based on Lambuth and his wife, Myrtle. Imbs worked as a butler for the Lambuths, which gave him a bird’s-eye view of their lives. Norman makes an appearance in the book as the character Douglas MacNeil, “an exceptional person” with a sensitive and crooked smile, who comes to write in the couple’s study. The David Lambuth character says Douglas’s poetry “had the streak of genius” and that a novel he was working on was the best poetic prose he had read.

In addition to his own writing, Norman was busy teaching undergraduates how to construct sentences. He told the story of an “observer” visiting his class one session, a redheaded Scotch atheist he admired, Professor James Dow McCallum, whose lectures on Victorian writers were very popular. Weeks passed with no feedback. Norman at last went to McCallum’s office. The professor was surprised to see him. Norman asked McCallum how to improve his teaching, and McCallum told him to wear a different suit every day of the week. When Norman said he couldn’t afford so many suits, McCallum suggested he wear a different necktie. He followed this advice through his long teaching career at Chicago.

For Norman, the occasional amusement provided by his struggling students—one wrote that the primeval forest was “where the hand of man had never set foot”—failed to compensate for Dartmouth’s caste system. Maybe he was struggling with his own writing or tiring of the décor in Mrs. Lambuth’s study. The problems Norman had faced as an undergraduate now only worsened. The stratified society of the English department, in which instructors were socially segregated from tenured professors, added to the sense of moneyed clubbiness and made a lonely Montanan long for the West. Norman’s brother, Paul, had already gone home to Montana, skipping the 1926 spring semester.

Norman squirmed in the dinner jacket he was required to wear to departmental functions. Even the everyday clothes worn by the students set Norman on edge: the pullover sweaters and black-and-white saddle shoes of Joe College.

In June 1926, after two years as an instructor, Norman rode the train out of Hanover to Missoula and back to a job in the woods. In the fall, as the time came to return to New Hampshire, his father helped him realize he wasn’t bettering himself by teaching at Dartmouth. Alone, Paul boarded the train, heading east. Norman wrote to Professor Lambuth, telling him that he wasn’t coming back and asking if someone else could take his classes. He didn’t return to Hanover for decades.

He never wore a tuxedo again.

About the Author

Freelance writer, editor, and poet Rebecca McCarthy spent twenty-one years as an award-winning reporter at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and has written for the New York Times, Fast Company, the Bitter Southerner, and the American Scholar, among other publications. She holds a BA in English Language and Literature from the University of Chicago, where she was a recipient of the Norman Maclean Scholarship for an Outstanding English Student. She worked for the US Forest Service in Region 1 as a forest fire fighter and a timber beast.

Upcoming Author Events

May 22, 2024 | Athens, GA | Athens-Clarke County Library in partnership with Avid Bookshop, 7:00 pm EST

May 23, 2024 | Spartanburg, SC | Hub City Bookshop with John Lane, 6:00 pm EST

May 30, 2024 | Chicago, IL | Seminary Co-op with Alan Thomas, 6:00 pm CST

June 3, 2024 | Seattle, WA | Folio: The Seattle Athenaeum with Jonathan Evison in partnership with Elliott Bay Book Company, 7:00 pm PST

June 5, 2024 | Missoula, MT | Missoula Public Library with O. Alan Weltzien in partnership with Fact & Fiction Bookstore, 6:00 pm MST

June 6, 2024 | Seeley Lake, MT | Alpine Artisans Open Book Club, 7:00 pm MST

From Haida Gwaii to the Chicago World’s Fair and Beyond: Excerpt from ‘Skidegate House Models’

Based on over twenty years of collaborative research with the Skidegate Haida community, Skidegate House Models by Robin K. Wright features vital cultural context on the Skidegate model village carved by Haida artists for the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. While promoters of the Chicago World’s Fair used the village to celebrate the perceived “progress” of the dominant society, for Skidegate residents it provided a means to preserve their history and culture.

After the exposition, the models went to the Field Museum of Natural History and many were dispersed from there to other collections, but fourteen of the model houses have not yet been located. The book provides extensive archival information and photographs that contextualize the model village and might help locate the missing houses while offering valuable insights into Northwest Coast art history. The following is an excerpt.

From the Foreword by Jisgang, Nika Collison

My name is Jisgang, I belong to the Ḵaay’ahl Laanas clan. Gaahlaay is my chief. My mother is Gid Ḵuuyas, my father was Skilay. I grew up in HlG̱aagilda Llnagaay Skidegate Village. I am one of the last generations to receive the smallpox vaccine. I was five or six when I got it. My mom explained the shot would really hurt, and probably scar a lot, showing me hers. She explained why I needed it. That is how I learned my village should have been much bigger than it was.

In 1862 colonizers purposefully introduced smallpox to the Northwest Coast, killing hundreds of thousands of Indigenous people and almost annihilating some Nations, including the Haida.¹ Survivors in northern Haida Gwaii migrated to G̱aw Tlagée Old Massett in order to survive. Chief Skidegate welcomed southern survivors into the village of HlG̱aagilda. Haawa Kilslaay, sah uu dang G̱iida. Before the smallpox epidemic we had successfully kept colonists from our territories. In 1867 the colonial state of Canada was formed, with assigned authority over “Indians and Lands reserved for Indians.”² In 1876, Canada legislated the Indian Act, which was so effective it informed parts of Apartheid. The year 1876 is also the year missionaries arrived on Haida Gwaii. They shamed and prohibited our ways, often forcing the destruction, sale, or handing-over of our belongings. Desecration of our Ancestors’ graves would soon follow “in the name of science.” Around 1883, Canada and the Church joined forces to create the horrific Indian Residential School System, which operated for more than one hundred years. In 1884, Canada legislated the Potlatch Ban, which criminalized the legal system of the Northwest Coast from 1885 to 1951. Offenders faced seizure of belongings and up to six months in jail. A final mass exodus of our Ancestors’ belongings and funerary remains would follow.

HlG̱aagilda Llnagaay, 1878. Photograph by George M. Dawson. Courtesy of the Canadian Museum of History, neg. no. PA-37756.

In other words, we were thirty years into the genocide of the Northwest Coast when James Deans traveled to Skidegate to commission a model village for the Chicago World’s Fair. [Robin K.] Wright notes that when Deans arrived, there were only about eleven poles and three longhouses still standing in Skidegate (families were largely living in colonial-style homes). Fourteen years prior, almost eighty poles of varying purpose stood in Skidegate. Deans directed artists to use an early photo of Skidegate to create their replicas. The end result was a massive model village that, while commissioned during times of duress, was built on our peoples’ own terms. It was sent to the World’s Fair along with a large collection of our peoples’ belongings, including a real-life pole, house, and canoe. When the fair ended, the village and greater collection were split up and dispersed willy-nilly around the world, far away from Haida Gwaii.

Our Ancestors did everything they could to preserve our Haida-ness. Each subsequent generation has been dedicated to the same. For decades we have been piecing ourselves, our clans, and our villages back together the same way Dr. Wright pieced the Skidegate House models back together.
Jisgang, Nika Collison

About 120 years later, Dr. Robin Wright started to piece the village model back together. For more than twenty years she searched the globe tracking down the model houses and poles; scoured archives to sort out the work of early anthropologists, photographers, missionaries, government agents, and museums; and worked with our people to sort these findings out further, along with working on Haida language, genealogies, privileges, and histories. The findings were woven together into this precious book. In piecing back together as much of our model village as she could, Dr. Robin Wright has not only created a fascinating body of critical research, she has assisted our Nation in our greater plight: piecing ourselves back together.

Model of HlG̱aagilda Llnagaay, Skidegate village, installed in the Anthropology Building at the World’s Columbian Exposition, 1893. Courtesy of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, 93-1-10/100266.1.39.

Several years ago, I was listening to a radio program on strategies of war and the annihilation of a people. In addition to destroying lives, destroying heritage was a critical tactic. Shatter identity so that the survivors don’t know who they are, where they come from, or their place in the world. I was born in 1971. The population of Skidegate numbered fewer than three hundred people. Growing up, we were called “Indians” and our home, the “Queen Charlotte Islands.” I lived with my grandparents behind the only pole left standing in our village.³ Part of my family lived “off reserve” and part off island, disenfranchised from their community through colonial regimes. Haida was rarely spoken, if at all. The were no masks, dance blankets, songs, or dancing. I didn’t have a proper name. Many didn’t. It was all silenced—hidden away in minds, archives, museums, and behind closed doors.

That was for the first few years of my life. I also grew up during a time of great cultural and political revitalization. Despite massive population loss and colonial regimes, our Ancestors preserved as much Haida knowledge as possible by employing subversive tactics and by working with anthropologists and other foreigners to record our knowledge. We started coming back out through the art, through the poles. I was seven when I witnessed the first pole to be raised in Skidegate Village in almost one hundred years, the Skidegate Dogfish Pole. Carved by my chinaay grandfather Iljuwas Bill Reid, the pole was raised in 1978, in front of the first longhouse to be built in Skidegate since the late 1800s, with a great community potlatch.⁴ A similar event had happened nine years earlier in the village of Old Massett, when Robert Davidson gifted his community a pole to raise. These events awakened much more than I think either artist anticipated.

My children are Haida, not Indians. They live on an archipelago called Haida Gwaii. The population of Skidegate is nine hundred strong, and more than five thousand as a Nation. My children have proper names, given in potlatch. They have attended many pole raisings in their lifetime, wearing their regalia. They are learning and growing up in the art, the language, the culture, the land and water. They are learning their family ties and their clan and nation histories. They were Haida singing and dancing in the womb.

House Model No. 5, Sgyam Sgwaan Naas, “Sparrow Hawk House,” made by Adam Brown, 1892. Courtesy of the Field Museum, cat. no. 17816. Photograph by Gail Specht.

Today there are sixteen poles of varying purpose standing throughout Skidegate.⁵ My clan is readied for a memorial pole-raising in September 2022, and by the end of 2023, four new carved house posts will be standing at Xaaynang.nga Naay, the Skidegate Health Centre. There are nineteen poles in G̱aw Tlagée Old Massett, the most recent being raised in August 2022, marked by a two-day potlatch hosted by Christian and Candace White (Yahgu Jaanas/Laanas clan) in Old Massett. And more recently, in October 2022, a memorial pole was raised for Tlajang nang kingaas, Benjamin Ray Davidson.

We might be a far cry from eighty poles standing in Skidegate alone, but we are also a far cry from one pole left standing. Our Ancestors did everything they could to preserve our Haida-ness. Each subsequent generation has been dedicated to the same. For decades we have been piecing ourselves, our clans, and our villages back together the same way Dr. Wright pieced the Skidegate House models back together.

Like Dr. Wright’s restoring of our model village, the restoration of our world is not fully complete. Not everyone and everything has been located or gathered. There could even be a correction down the road. But we are still here—we are Haida—and we know our place in this world. My friend’s book is an important contribution to this journey. So many years of working with our people to bring critical stories together under one roof. So many names, clans, genealogies, houses, and poles reunited. When I hold this book, I am holding a part of myself, my family, our community, our Nation. When I hold this book, I am holding a part of our past, present, and future, all at the same time.

Haawa to my friend Robin for your respect, passion, and scholarship. Haawa to Haida Gwaii, our home. Haawa to the Ancestors, without your determination we would not be here as Haida. Haawa to our knowledge holders and scholars who scour their minds and the earth to gather the knowledge our Ancestors preserved. Haawa to the Supernatural, who help guide us in this work.

Notes

Not just smallpox but also TB, measles, and other diseases. ↩︎
BC joined in 1871. ↩︎
It was raised ca. 1884 by David Shakespeare for his wife, Jane, of the Saang.ahl Staastas; see Skidegate House Models chapter 3, Model Pole No. 17, for more on that pole. ↩︎
The Shakespeare and Dogfish poles stood side by side for almost a decade before the Shakespeare Pole fell in 1989. The Dogfish Pole was taken down for conservation in 2014. Both now live in the Haida Gwaii Museum. The Longhouse served as the Skidegate Band Council Headquarters through the mid-1990s. In 1998 it became the HlG̱aagilda Xaayda Kil Naay Skidegate Haida Language House, home to the Skidegtae Haida Immersion Program (SHIP). ↩︎
Haida Heritage Centre-6, Cheexial-1, Lydia Wilson-1, Gah Yah-1, Skidegate-1, Sk’aadGa Naay-1, Niis Wes-1, Cumshewa-1, WiiGanad-1, Unity-1, Gidansda-1. ↩︎

Robin K. Wright is professor emerita of art history at the University of Washington, Seattle, and curator emerita of the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture. Her award-winning books include A Time of Gathering and Northern Haida Master Carvers. Recent books include In the Spirit of the Ancestors (coedited with Kathryn Bunn-Marcuse) and Charles Edenshaw (coedited with Diana Augaitis).

Jisgang Nika Collison belongs to the Ḵaay’ahl Laanas of the Haida Nation. She is Executive Director and Curator of the Haida Gwaii Museum at Ḵay Llnagaay and has worked in the field of Haida language arts and culture for over two decades. Deeply committed to reconciliation, she is a senior repatriation negotiator for her Nation, pursuing reparation and relationships with mainstream museums on a global scale.

Upcoming Events

Author Robin K. Wright will share more about Skidegate House Models and her community-engaged research in conversation with Nika Collison at the following events:

Saturday, May 11, 2024, 7:00 pm PST at the Haida Gwaii Museum in Skidegate, B.C. Details here.
Tuesday, May 14, 2024, 7:00 pm PST at the Burke Museum in Seattle, WA. Register here.