TEMAGAMI'S TANGLED WILD: RACE, GENDER AND THE MAKING OF CANADIAN NATURE

JOCELYN THORPE

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In compliance with the Canadian Conformement a la loi canadienne Privacy Act some supporting sur la protection de la vie privee, forms may have been removed quelques formulaires secondaires from this thesis. ont ete enleves de cette these.

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Drawing upon and bringing together the insights of social nature scholarship and feminist and anti-racist scholarship on the nation, this thesis examines the social and historical processes and relationships of power through which Temagami, Ontario, came to exist as a site of Canadian wilderness. In it, I argue that the Temagami region is not "naturally" a national wilderness space, but rather that it has been created as such over time through a number of power-infused discourses, practices and events, including: the setting aside and regulation of the Temagami Forest Reserve in the early 1900s; Temagami tourism and travel writing at approximately the same time; a controversy that unfolded in the

1930s after the provincial government demanded the payment of rent from members of the Teme-Augama Anishnabai, the Aboriginal inhabitants of the Temagami region; and a court battle over legal title to the Temagami area that took place between Ontario and the

Teme-Augama Anishnabai during the 1980s. Although it appears on the surface that forest policy, travel writing, the reserve controversy and the court case merely regulated, described or contested a pre-existing place, I show how these discursive practices in fact constituted the region as a site of Canadian wilderness while at the same time rendering invisible this active construction. The making of Temagami as a wild Canadian space worked to evict the Teme-Augama Anishnabai from the territory that they have always known as n'Daki Menan rather than Temagami, and to open the region up to resource extraction and tourism for the benefit of non-Native governments and citizens. By iv uncovering the cultural processes through which Temagami came to appear self-evidently natural and national, I reveal the operation of power, often racialized and gendered, in the making of Canadian wilderness. In so doing, I aim not only to demonstrate that nature is constructed alongside other social categories like race, gender and nation, but also to create space for a more just Temagami to emerge, one that includes recognition of and respect for Teme-Augama Anishnabai rights and responsibilities toward n'Daki Menan.

v Acknowledgements

When I began this endeavour, I had no idea how much work it would be for the people around me. I am sure that many of them had no idea either. But when they figured it out, they neither stopped talking to me nor suggested that I should choose another path.

Instead, they walked this one with me, and for this I am more grateful than I can express.

I have truly come to understand how a dissertation is a collective effort, and I hope that I have done my part as well as have those without whom this dissertation would not exist.

Dr. L. Anders Sandberg, Dr. Catriona Mortimer-Sandilands and Dr. Enakshi Dua have guided this project since its inception, and I could not have imagined or asked for a stronger supervisory committee. All three members have generously devoted much time and energy to building this dissertation. Anders, assigned long ago as my interim advisor, has been stuck with me ever since. His unwavering support of and confidence in both me and this project have provided me with the determination to get on with it and the strength to believe that it was worth the effort. His consistent insistence that I say more clearly what I mean has led to the strengthening of those parts of the thesis where, as he knew, I was not at first quite sure what I meant. Cate suggested that I focus my research on Temagami. Had this been her only contribution, it would have been invaluable, for I can think of no other topic more appropriate than the "wilderness" place I first visited over fifteen years ago. But this suggestion was only one of Cate's many significant contributions, an early indication that she knew better than I the shape of the dissertation vi to come. Indeed, her brilliant insights and thorough comments profoundly influenced the thesis as a whole, challenging me to work harder, think more deeply and write more carefully. Ena's work on race, gender and the Canadian nation led me to pursue graduate studies in the first place, and she has taught me over the years, in her kind and encouraging way, that I still have much to learn. Her timely phone calls often prevented crises she could not have predicted, and her practical advice to stay on track, to remember the questions I set out to answer, helped me to negotiate what sometimes felt like a daunting task.

I am so very lucky to have family and friends who make life not just manageable, but exciting, funny, challenging and wonderful. They have also both read and made possible this dissertation. Wendy and John Thorpe gave my sisters and me a love for reading, writing and thinking right from the beginning, and they have continued to support us far above and beyond the call of parental duty. Hilary and I have grappled together with how to balance PhD work and the rest of our lives, while our sister Dinah has kept us in check, reminding us regularly that we are both nuts. Else Knudsen, Sarah

Lamon, Tyler Peet, JJ Sheppard and Julie Sinden have long provided friendship and support, but through this process they have also fed me confidence and cupcakes, given me a healthy dose of perspective, and paused with me to celebrate the small accomplishments along the way. Stephanie Rutherford and I began our PhDs together, bonded over grandmother tales and back-up plans, convinced each other that we could make it, and ensured that we never had to do it alone. And Deborah McPhail loved me

vii and put up with me every single day. She made me dinner far too often, listened as I read out loud, knew that I could do it, even when I did not.

Members of the Teme-Augama Anishnabai welcomed me onto their territory, gave me a place to stay, put me to work, allowed me to sit in on meetings, let me have access to records, taught me about their land claim, and shared with me food, laughter and stories. I will never forget this generosity and nor will I forget that, for the Teme-

Augama Anishnabai, the history of their land claim is far more than a dissertation: it is their lives and the lives of their ancestors and descendants. I am particularly indebted to

Victoria Grant, who took me on as a student and as a friend, and whose wisdom about life's complexities has very much informed the thinking behind and writing of this thesis.

I owe thanks as well to Chief Alex Paul, Chief John McKenzie and the Joint Council for making me feel welcome and allowing me to observe council and negotiations meetings.

Great thanks also to Betty Ann Turner, Joe Katt, Mary Katt, Holly Charyna, Marie Paul,

Doug Friday, Fabian Grant, Flo and Monty, Deb Charyna, Leanna Farr and Peter

McKenzie for sharing with me their perspectives and stories. I also appreciate the insights offered to me by the First Nation's negotiator, Ian Johnson, and lawyer, Alan Pratt.

I acknowledge the financial support for this project from SSHRC, OGS and York

University. Adriel Weaver came through with court documents and support at a crucial moment. Numerous archivists and librarians worked hard to track down files. Mariko

Obokata worked wonders on my endnotes and bibliography, and Rajiv Rawat created the beautiful maps that accompany this text. To all of them, I am greatly appreciative.

viii Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION 1 Chapters 5 A Note on Language 12

CHAPTER 1 - TANGLED WILD: SAVING, TROUBLING AND THEORIZING THE CANADIAN WILDERNESS 13 Temagami, Ontario, 1985-1991 13 My Route through Temagami 26 Trouble with Temagami Wilderness 28 Crossing Stories 40 On Method and Sources 45 Theoretical Considerations 52 Writing about Temagami 76

CHAPTER 2 - BOUNDARIES DRAWN: THE INVENTION OF TEMAGAMI TIMBER NATURE AND CONCERN ABOUT SCATTERED INDIANS IN THE FOREST RESERVE 85 Introducing the Temagami Forest Reserve 85 N'Daki Menan Prior to 1901 88 The Temagami Forest Reserve in its Conservationist Context 100 The Making of Temagami Timber Nature 105 The Virgin Canadian Forest Lids in Wait: Forest Conservation and the Making of National Nature 113 Not Actual Ownership: Just a Small Band of Indians Living in the Forest Reserve 143 Before Any Government was Born in Canada: The TAA on the TFR 154

ix CHAPTER 3 - THE NEW SPORTSMAN'S PARADISE: TEMAGAMI TOURISM AND THE TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT OF THE TEME-AUGAMA ANISHNABAI_ 160 Tourism, Travel Writing and the TAA 160 Temagami Tourism in Context 164 From Almost Unknown to Far Famed 168 But Who Went, Who Was Already There, Who Worked, and Who Wrote? 175 Wild Temagami: Wild with Some, Wild for Others 200 The Anti-Conquest of Temagami Tourism 224 Surviving to Tell the Tale: Indian Legends, Animal Encounters and the Making of National Nature 229 But When Does Possession Happen? 241

CHAPTER 4 - "SETTLERS," "BEAR ISLANDERS" AND THE SPATIAL CONFINEMENT OF THE TEME-AUGAMA ANISHNABAI 244 Rent to Reside on Bear Island 244 The Canadian Nation in Context 245 Pristine Wilderness and Timber Commodity: The (Re)making'of Temagami Nature in the Middle Decades of the Twentieth Century 248 Race and Rental Fees 256 Valuable Timber versus a Rocky Reserve 260 A Conditional Transfer 264 Reserve Space 267 Writing Back 271 Conclusion: 1943-1973 274 CHAPTER 5 - THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH: LEGAL CONSTRUCTIONS OF PUBLIC SPACE, N'DAKI MENAN AND THE TEME- AUGAMA ANISHNABAI 277 And the Verdict Is 277 The Space of the Law 278 Background to the Bear Island Case 280 Neither Predators nor Immigrants, but Children of the Motherland 283 In (Imperfect) Translation 293 Rights to (What) Nature 298 Rights to Nature and Aboriginally 300 Legally Speaking 305 Did the TAA Have Aboriginal Rights? 306 Aboriginal Rights to do What? 333 (Trick or) Treaty Stories 347 For the Love of the Land: Race, Gender and Abandonment k 357 My How the Truth Moves 369 The Power of the (Legal) Truth 371

CONCLUSION - TOWARD RENEWED RELATIONSHIPS 373

ENDNOTES 392

BIBLIOGRAPHY 445

XI List of Figures

FIGURE 1 - Temagami Integrated Planning Area xiii

FIGURE 2 - n'Daki Menan and Temagami Forest Reserve Boundaries xiv

FIGURE 3 - Potential Settlement Lands of n'Daki Menan xv

xii Figure 1 xiii Figure 2 xiv LEGEND

^ Body of Water •*—> diver N •• Town <|P» Road A •* *. Railroad Provincial Boundary

kilometers MAP DATA SOURCE: MWMM JHH Official Road Map of Ontario, Geematlcs Office, Ministry of Transportation Ontario, 2005 10 20 30 40

Figure 3 xv Introduction

Driving along a stretch of highway in northern Ontario a number of years ago, my partner and I passed by an old rusty railway bridge on the side of which, written in bold white paint, were the words "THIS IS INDIAN LAND." It was impossible not to notice the words, standing out as they did against their background of bridge and bush. The words seemed both an assertion and a challenge and I, not sure how to respond, stopped the car and took a photograph. Thus captured, these words have stayed with me, and I write this thesis with them in mind.

Certainly in 2008 not everyone thinks of land in northern Ontario as Indian land.

Instead, non-Native people tend to consider it part of the province of Ontario within the nation of Canada. With the exception of private property, it is public space, imagined at a number of scales simultaneously: the local, the provincial, the national. If Indian land is considered at all, it is most often equated with reserves, fragments of Native land scattered across the province and the Canadian nation. But it is not only in people's imaginations that the land exists as public. It is also the law in Canada. With

Confederation, provincial governments gained control of lands and resources while the federal government became responsible for Indians and lands reserved for Indians.1

Because of this jurisdictional division within the 1867 Constitution Act, it is both commonplace and legally accurate to understand most Canadian land as simultaneously provincial and national. Yet there is nothing natural about this division of land. As is by 1 now generally recognized, when European colonists first arrived in what was to become

Canada, they found not an empty land but the home of many First Nations. These people

spoke approximately fifty languages, divided lands according to their own systems, and,

depending on their geographical and cultural circumstances, lived by fishing, trading, hunting and gathering, and farming. Colonial and later national divisions of land did not, then, take place on a blank slate, but rather imposed new orders onto pre-existing

systems, thus disrupting those systems. Rarely, however, do non-Native Canadians

consider, as we drive across northern Ontario or walk around downtown Toronto,

Montreal or Vancouver, the historical processes through which Native land became

Canadian. Instead we take for granted that places like northern Ontario are simply parts of the nation. Perhaps the sign on the railway bridge serves as a reminder that things are not so simple.

This thesis traces the making of national space, exploring how Indian land came to be imagined and treated as public land in spite of the continued assertions by First

Nations peoples that "THIS IS INDIAN LAND." I focus specifically on the making of one place: Temagami, Ontario. Though the boundaries of the region are somewhat elusive,3 the area encompassed within them lies in what has become the northeastern portion of the province of Ontario (see Figure 1). Located approximately one hundred kilometres north of North Bay, Temagami is forested with pine and other tree species, including maple and birch, and contains many lakes and the rocky shores and soils considered typical of the Canadian Shield. The Teme-Augama Anishnabai (TAA) have

2 1 called this area home, or n'Daki Menan (our land), for thousands of years. For much of this time, the TAA governed the use of n'Daki Menan according to a system of family hunting territories, where each family had a responsibility to steward its two to three hundred square mile territory in a way that ensured the continuity of the species upon which the TAA depended for survival.4 As non-Native people encroached in increasing numbers upon n'Daki Menan in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the

TAA found their ways of life and relationships with n'Daki Menan disrupted. While they consistently maintained and enacted their claim to the region, the TAA were increasingly confined in both space and time until they were permitted by non-Native governments to use only one of the four thousand square miles comprising n'Daki Menan. Today the

TAA continue to struggle to have non-Native governments recognize n'Daki Menan as

TAA territory, but, according to Canadian law and popular imagination, the region is, with the exception of the TAA's one square mile reserve, part of Ontario, Canada.

Indeed, for over one hundred years the Temagami region has held special resonance for non-Native people as an iconic site of Canadian wilderness. I argue that

Temagami has in fact been made—imaginatively and materially—as a site of wild

Canadian nature, and that the historical processes and power relationships through which

Temagami became wild and Canadian worked also to dispossess the TAA of their territory. In a certain sense, then, Temagami replaced n'Daki Menan: Indian land became

Canadian. The argument of this thesis hinges upon the understanding, elaborated upon in chapter 1, that both wilderness (and nature more generally) and the nation are social

3 categories that gain much of their power and legitimacy, together and separately, from their appearance as self-evident, or natural. The naturalizing force of wilderness and the nation disguises the exclusionary practices, often highly racialized and gendered, through which these categories were created and are maintained. As I explain in the following

chapters, the existence of Temagami as a wilderness space depended variously upon the

TAA's eviction from n'Daki Menan and the denial of their claim to the region. The

district, after all, could not at the same time be wilderness and the territory possessed by a

distinct First Nation. The creation of Temagami as a national space was also part of a

larger nation-building project that attempted, in part through the exclusion or conditional inclusion only of immigrants of colour, to make Canada into a white settler society. To unravel the Temagami wilderness, as I aim to do in this thesis, and thus to reveal the cultural threads both holding it together as a site of wild Canadian nature and making it

seem self-evidently so, is to remove the naturalizing power of this social construct.

Such an unravelling is, I think, a necessary part of moving toward more socially and environmentally just futures for those of us living in what has become the Canadian nation. Dispossession, a racial hierarchy of citizenship and environmental degradation are three legacies left to us by colonial and nationalist projects built upon the appropriation of

Native land, the preferential treatment of some settler groups over others and the exploitation of the non-human world. We are shaped by and left with these legacies, albeit in different ways depending upon where we fit within the nation, but we do not need to pass them along unquestioned to future generations. Indeed, the persistence with

4 which First Nations have pursued their land claims, as well as the efforts by marginalized groups within the nation to have their concerns addressed, have made this virtually impossible. One of my hopes is that the telling of this story about the past, parts of which took place over a century ago and others more recently, will comprise part of the work that allows those of us living now to understand and take seriously the embeddedness of colonial relations in the present, and thus to move toward justice in the future. Justice as I understand it must include not only a recognition that "THIS IS INDIAN LAND," but a more equitable sharing of land and resources among First Nations peoples, the diverse group of non-Native people who live here as well, and the (again diverse) non-human animal and plant worlds upon which we depend for survival and with whom we inhabit this earth. Scattered fragments of Native land like the TAA's one square mile reserve are simply unjust, as First Nations peoples have been telling colonial and federal officials for hundreds of years. It appears that movement toward greater justice will require a reversal of historical trends: Canadian space must be confined as First Nations expand outwards and reclaim national space as Native.

Chapters

Each chapter of this thesis focuses on a specific moment in the production, contestation and transformation of n'Daki Menan/Temagami. The sites I have chosen cover different time frames and different kinds of discourse, from scientific forestry in the late nineteenth century to Canadian law in the 1980s. Though the sites may appear at first to have little to do with one another, I show how each played an important role in the constitution of the

5 region. A reading of the chapters together does not reveal a unified, singular n'Daki

Menan/Temagami, but rather makes it clear that there is no such place. Instead, multiple constructions of the region come into view—empty Canadian wilderness, tourist mecca, wasteful old trees, TAA territory—and never resolve themselves into a stable entity. But while n'Daki Menan/Temagami is not reducible to any inherent essence or single meaning, I demonstrate how some versions of the region (Temagami as part of the

Canadian wilderness) have come to dominate the imaginative and physical landscape at the expense of others (n'Daki Menan). By showing the contestations and fissures in the social construction of national nature, as well as by demonstrating how particular understandings of the region have come to exist as the commonsense truth, this thesis enters into the struggle for the constitution of the region, aiming to clear space for more just ways of imagining and living in the future.

Chapter 1 begins by describing a controversy that unfolded in the 1980s following a contentious decision by the Ontario government to extend a logging road in Temagami.

The dispute, framed most often as a struggle between loggers and environmentalists over the pristine wilderness, brought national and international attention to the region, and resulted in the banning of logging from some parts of Temagami. Although the hype surrounding this issue has largely faded away, the controversy both revealed and reinforced the widespread understanding of Temagami as part of the Canadian wilderness. The dispute and the way that it was framed by the media thus offer a focal point for the present-day truths that this thesis seeks to historicize. The remainder of

6 chapter 1 explores in further depth my motivations for undertaking this project. The chapter also elaborates on the theoretical and methodological underpinnings of the thesis, and explains what the thesis hopes to contribute to the scholarship upon which it draws.

In chapter 2,1 rely on the ideas outlined in chapter 1 in order to trace the making of Temagami as a timber commodity designed to benefit the Canadian nation and the

British empire. In 1901, the Ontario government created the Temagami Forest Reserve in order to secure future timber supplies. This move by Ontario played a central role in the burgeoning Canadian forest conservation movement. I argue, however, that far from introducing forest conservation to a self-evident Temagami forest, the setting aside of the

Temagami Forest Reserve instead created the region as a commodity to be extracted for profit. At the same time, the designation of the forest reserve also inserted the region into the imperially imagined white settler nation-building project upon which the forest conservation movement drew its strength and to which it contributed. The elite white men who initiated this movement, which successfully convinced a wider Canadian public that forests should be a perpetual rather than a non-renewable resource, constituted Canadian forests as feminized spaces of waste, degeneracy and danger that needed to be transformed into well-ordered timber producers that would bring economic benefit to the

Canadian nation and its mother country for generations to come. In constructing a degenerate forest in need of saving, conservationist discourse both created the need for the masculine hand of forest science to transform "virgin" forests into ordered nature and made it appear that the forest called for its own incorporation into this nation-building

7 project. The Temagami forest thus came "naturally" to appear—though never entirely— as a national commodity to be extracted for profit. The chapter goes on to explore how the logic of forest conservation worked to displace the TAA from n'Daki Menan, though this displacement was never complete and was always contested by the TAA, who continuously asserted that the region was their homeland, and not merely a commodity to be extracted for the benefit of outsiders. This chapter shows that forest conservation must be seen as a movement that was about much more than the protection of timber supplies, but one that was deeply implicated in gendered and racialized relationships of power and inequality.

While chapter 2 examines forest conservationist discourse around the turn of the twentieth century, chapter 3 investigates Temagami travel writing at approximately the same time. In spite of the fact that the discourses of conservation and travel writing created Temagami nature at the same historical moment, I will demonstrate that the natures that emerged within the two discourses differ in significant ways. I begin the chapter by showing how Temagami shifted between the years of 1894 and 1910 from a relatively little-known region to a far-famed wilderness destination for upper-class Euro-

American and Canadian tourists. In describing their experiences of Temagami wilderness, travel writers, most of whom were white men, created rather than reflected the region as wilderness. Unlike in conservationist discourse, however, in travel writing

Temagami forests did not figure as degenerate spaces in need of scientific management, but rather as part of a pristine and unchanging wild Canadian nature for white men to

8 explore. Temagami wilderness thus became a space for white men, even as white women also travelled in Temagami and the TAA called the region home. Notably, although the

Temagami nature that appeared in travel writing differed in important ways from the

Temagami nature that emerged within forestry discourse, the two natures had some elements in common. Both, for instance, positioned Temagami as a national site, to be either extracted or visited, and in so doing participated in the erasure of the TAA's claim to territory. Both also created the region as a natural rather than a cultural space, a representation that negated the very existence of the TAA as cultural beings. Yet at the same time, tourism in Temagami depended on the work of TAA members, and travel writers were particularly fascinated with their Aboriginal guides, about whom they wrote a great deal. By examining Temagami travel accounts, I show that travel writing was not an innocent endeavour, but rather a practice that inscribed gendered, classed and racialized hierarchies through its fashioning of a pristine Temagami wilderness.

In chapter 4,1 jump forward in time to the late 1920s in order to examine a conflict between the TAA and the Ontario government that started when, in 1929, the

Ontario government demanded that TAA members pay rent for the privilege of inhabiting

Crown land in the Temagami region. Not surprisingly, the TAA vehemently opposed this government action, and instead of paying rent, the First Nation demanded that the provincial government recognize the TAA's claim to land. Ontario refused to do so, and so began a dispute, the resolution of which, though wholly unsatisfactory to the TAA, did not come until 1943.1 argue that between 1929 and 1943, the racial and spatial order that

9 had been (imperfectly) imposed through earlier tourist and forestry discourses and practices was uprooted and reconfigured as the TAA and the Ontario government struggled for control over the Temagami region. In 1943, it appeared that Ontario's vision of Temagami nature, which, I argue, included the simultaneous construction of the area as a pristine wilderness for tourists and as a commodity to be extracted for profit, had won the day. Ontario's success became possible through the spatial confinement of the TAA and their temporal displacement to a previous time, a process that racialized the

TAA in new ways, while simultaneously depending on the prior marginalization of the

TAA from their lands. In this chapter, it begins to become clear how the denial of

Aboriginal claims to land in the present can occur through the repetition of the denial of these claims in the past.

In chapter 5,1 skip ahead again in time to focus on another struggle between the

TAA and Ontario. In 1973, the TAA opposed Ontario's plan to develop a resort complex in the Temagami region. By filing legal cautions, the First Nation successfully stopped

Ontario from going ahead with the development. These cautions, which signalled the

TAA's challenge to Ontario's ownership of the lands in question, marked the beginning of a lengthy legal battle between Ontario and the First Nation that ended with the

Supreme Court of Canada ruling in 1991. In this chapter, I analyse the legal production of

Temagami nature by studying the arguments, trial transcripts and decisions at the various levels of court through which the case travelled. I argue that the legal battle between the

TAA and the province was not merely a contest over a given territory, but rather that the

10 territory itself was constructed and contested in and through the court system. But the legal struggle was not only about land, and I show how the fight for the legal right to land was simultaneously a struggle over categories of race and gender. As such, race and gender, as well as nation and nature, were fought over and produced through the court case. This chapter shows how historical discourses and practices, often colonial in character, emerge in the present to deny subjectivity and land to Aboriginal peoples.

I conclude by revisiting the different ways that the Temagami region has been created over time as a site of wild nature, and discuss some of the consequences of this construction of the region, particularly for the TAA as they struggle to gain a meaningful say over the activities taking place within n'Daki Menan. I briefly outline two present- day land management initiatives, showing how both rely upon the idea, established by the

Supreme Court of Canada, that Crown lands comprise the majority of the Temagami region. As in the past, the TAA's claim to n'Daki Menan remains unrecognized by

Canadian governments. Then, drawing from principles articulated by the TAA over the years and from similar concepts expressed in the 1996 Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, I suggest that there exist possibilities beyond the system of land ownership presupposed in contemporary Temagami planning processes. Such possibilities include the prospect of respectful co-existence among the diverse group of humans, non-human beings and the lands we have come to share.

11 A Note on Language

"Teme-Augama Anishnabai" (TAA for short), translated into English as the "people of the deep water," is the term used contemporarily by the TAA to describe themselves.

Membership in the TAA includes all people designated by the TAA as members, regardless of their Indian Act status. Those TAA members who have status under the

Indian Act make up the Temagami First Nation (TFN), the entity that is recognized by

Canadian governments. Today, the TAA are represented by two councils, the TAA council and the TFN council, which come together to form the Joint Council. TAA/TFN members are currently working on a new membership code in order to enable all TAA members to be recognized under the Indian Act as members of the First Nation.6

Throughout this thesis, I prefer the term "TAA" over the various designations used by federal and provincial government officials to describe the TAA and individual TAA members. Where logistically appropriate, however, I use the terminology employed in the archival documents that I discuss. Often these documents refer to the TAA as "Temagami

Indians" or simply "Indians." Following accepted current-day practice, I rely as much as possible on the terms "Aboriginal people," "Aboriginal peoples" and "First Nations" rather than "Indians" when discussing Aboriginal individuals and nations.7

12 Chapter 1

Tangled Wild: Saving, Troubling and Theorizing the Canadian

Wilderness

Temagami, Ontario, 1985-1991

The protests passed me by—at eleven and twelve, I paid little attention to the news—but the posters found their way onto my bedroom wall, reading: "Temagami: The Last Great

Pine Wilderness," and "Temagami: World's Largest Old-Growth Red and White Pine

Forest." Both posters depicted, above the words, close-up photographs of big pine trees in an otherwise empty forest. Later I learned that these posters, along with protests at

Queen's Park in Toronto and on logging roads in the'Temagami region, were part of a campaign in the late 1980s and early 1990s to save the Temagami pines from clearcut logging. Led by the Temagami Wilderness Society and championed by prominent

Canadians like Margaret'Atwood, David Suzuki and Robert Bateman, this campaign attracted widespread media attention and public support.

The "Save Temagami" campaign had its origins in opposition to the Ontario

Ministry of Natural Resource's (MNR) proposal, announced in 1985, to build a fifteen- kilometre road extension connecting the Red Squirrel and Liskeard lumber roads in the

Temagami area (see Figure 1). Referred to as the Red Squirrel Road extension, the purpose of this connection was to open up new stands of timber for extraction by local forest companies. These companies considered the road extension necessary for 13 guaranteeing timber for their mills and securing jobs for their employees, but others, including Temagami tourist and youth camp operators, cottagers and environmentalists, criticized the MNR's plan, contending that the new road would ruin the Temagami wilderness, damaging not only the environment, but also businesses dependent upon the remote and rugged character of the region. Because of the different groups' conflicting viewpoints on the necessity of the road extension, and the related complexity of this issue for the Ontario government, Minister of Natural Resources Vincent Kerrio agreed to commission an environmental assessment of the proposed expansion, and to invite input from the interested public. A draft of the environmental assessment report recommending that the road link should go ahead appeared in September of 1986 and, in response, critics of this plan founded the Temagami Wilderness Society (TWS). By then, as part of a larger controversy taking place over Ontario parks policy,1 environmental groups had become active in campaigning against the expansion of the road. In November, the

Toronto-based Federation of Ontario Naturalists succeeded in drawing international attention to the Temagami logging issue when its members convinced the world's largest alliance of conservation groups, the International Union for Conservation of Nature and

Natural Resources (IUCN), to place Temagami's Lady Evelyn-Smoothwater Provincial

Park on its list of threatened areas. The IUCN considered the park, which was created in

1982 and through which one of the logging roads in question ran, to be in danger both because of logging operations that would take place along the park borders following road construction and because the connection of the two logging roads would make the

14 park more easily accessible from the busy Highway 11, thus inviting further damage to the region through the introduction of regular traffic.

According to Gerald Killan, a history professor who followed the Temagami controversy closely, the IUCN's intervention "changed what had been a localized logging versus wilderness skirmish into a political cause celebre." It was indeed around this time that the Red Squirrel Road issue started to receive consistent coverage in the mainstream media, and that Canadian celebrities began to show their support for the environmentalist cause. Margaret Atwood, for instance, wrote a letter to Environment Minister Jim

Bradley in February of 1987, opining that the planned road would "destroy the wilderness," and urging him to "stop the threat to the Lady Evelyn." Atwood wrote a similar letter to Ontario Premier David Peterson that spring, and in the summer she toured the region by canoe, writing in the Toronto Star about her trip in order to bring public attention to the wilderness attractions of Temagami and to the district's at-risk status.4 Atwood was joined in her efforts by Pierre Berton, Timothy Findley, Robert

Bateman, David Suzuki and other well-known Canadians, who together formed the Save

Temagami Committee, helping to make the Temagami issue a national one.5 Indeed, the press represented Temagami as "the Canada of dreams," with its "cool waters and vast forests." A "unique, almost shockingly beautiful part of the country," Temagami appeared as a "wild region" full of "wilderness charms," and as "the last large wilderness accessible to Toronto." Toronto Star writer David Israelson went so far as to compare

"national treasure" Margaret Atwood with the national treasure that comprised the

15 Temagami region. As the Temagami debate drew increased attention, headlines indicated that a "showdown," a "battle" or even a "war" was being waged over the

Q

"future of Ontario's wilderness." The TWS began to advocate for a buffer zone around the provincial park, where road construction could not take place and where logging activities would cease. Municipal officials and forest industry representatives disagreed vehemently with this plan and petitioned the government to ensure that road construction went ahead expediently.9

The provincial government, in an attempt to manage this volatile situation, established a citizens' advisory group to review and make recommendations to the MNR on land-use questions in Temagami. The MNR gave this group, called the Temagami

Area Working Group, from December to March to suggest a solution to the controversy.

The Working Group, however, did not come to a consensus and instead came apart, with conservationist and forest industry representatives distancing themselves from the report presented to the MNR by the chair of the group, Laurentian University President John

Daniel. Nevertheless, the MNR appeared content with Daniel's recommendations to complete the Red Squirrel Road extension and reject the creation of a buffer zone around the park. Shortly after Daniel submitted his report, the provincial government announced its decision not to have a formal hearing before the Environmental Assessment Board about the Red Squirrel Road extension. This choice was in spite of the fact that environmentalists demanded such a hearing, since the study that informed the environmental assessment report looked only at the impact of the road itself and did not 16 examine the potential effects of the logging operations that would occur after the road extension had gone ahead. In fact, because of the narrow scope of the assessment, the company that the MNR had commissioned to conduct the study decided to take its name off the final report. Almost two hundred individuals and groups wrote to Ontario requesting that the government conduct public hearings about the road, but Jim Bradley's statement that these hearings would cause "undue delay in obtaining access to timber stands" confirmed that the road extension would go ahead without further ado.10

This is where the story gets complicated, at least if the reader has understood it thus far as a "festering parks-versus-logging dispute in the wilderness" or, even better, as

"an ugly, yet world-famous fight between loggers and conservationists."11 With a few notable exceptions, the Temagami story appeared in the media in precisely this way, as a two-sided struggle between those who wanted to see the Temagami wilderness left intact and those who wanted the area logged. Most often, journalists framed the issue as "a raging debate between conservationists and loggers." Not infrequently, however, the matter was represented as a fight "between two of the area's main industries—logging and tourism." And sometimes the press also mentioned that the struggle was

"complicated by a land claim that local Indians have been fighting in the courts for some

15 years." Consistently, though, even when conservationists, tourist operators and the local First Nation were listed as distinct interest groups, the battle appeared as having two clear sides: lumber companies wanted the road extended, while "youth camp directors, outfitters, conservation groups and the local Indian band... all opposed the roads, because

17 of concerns that the wilderness [would] be ruined." These latter groups seemed to be all on the same side not only because they disputed the road extension, but also because they disputed it for the same reason: they wanted to preserve the wilderness. According to

Margaret Atwood, for instance, for over a century before conservationists and outfitters got on board to try to save Temagami, the "Temagami Indian Band" had "been battling for the preservation of this area."

For people who followed the early press coverage of the Red Squirrel Road controversy, it likely came as a surprise to learn from a Toronto Star article that the

Teme-Augama Anishnabai (TAA), the media's "local Indian band," considered the "fight over the future of the Temagami area" to be a "squabble between white men over land that doesn't belong to them." This article offered the rare perspective in the mainstream media that the TAA's struggle could not be easily collapsed into the preservationist vision of the region advocated by environmentalists, or into wilderness tourist operators' desire to stay in business. While the TAA, like environmentalists, were concerned about the ecological impacts of future logging activities in Temagami—as TAA Chief Gary

Potts stated, logging would turn the area into "a desert"—the First Nation disagreed more fundamentally with Ontario's assertion of control over land that the band claimed as its own. Environmentalists and tourist operators, on the other hand, emphasized the need for the provincial government to manage land in the best interest not of logging companies, but of the general public. The general public, they held, needed wilderness places to visit.

Although the TAA opposed the clearcut logging of their homeland, they also resisted

18 environmentalists' and tourist operators' position that the Temagami region needed to exist as untouched wilderness. As Chief Potts commented, while forestry operations would turn the region into a desert, environmentalists would prefer "a zoo." For the TAA, who were in the midst of pursuing their land claim through the Canadian court system, both desert and zoo were dangerous options.14

The reason the story gets complicated here is that an action of the TAA successfully "grabbed national attention," thus making it untenable for the Temagami conflict to make sense as a straightforward saving versus logging the wilderness dispute.15 On June 1,1988, the TAA set up two roadblocks in the bush where construction of the Red Squirrel Road extension would begin, and vowed to stay there until winter weather ended the construction season. As the media turned to cover these blockades, the TAA land claim emerged as central to the Temagami controversy, and as distinct from the environmentalist campaign. Journalists began to focus on the TAA struggle for territory, rather than merely mentioning it briefly in articles about the fight between loggers and environmentalists. One article in the Toronto Star, for example, traced the TAA's claim back to 1884, when the federal government first surveyed a one hundred square mile reserve for the TAA, promising this land base to the First Nation, but failing over the years to deliver it to the band.16 Placed within this historical context, the current actions of the TAA made sense as one of a number of strategies employed by the First Nation over the years to secure for themselves a land base within n'Daki Menan, the TAA's traditional territory. The Temagami issue, then, began to appear not only as a

19 conflict over what should happen to the land, but also as a struggle over who had the right to determine what should happen to the land. The TAA camped in the bush for more than

six months to stake their claim to the territory.

Meanwhile, about a month into the TAA roadblocks, the TWS attempted as well to stop the road extension. The wilderness advocacy group sued the Ontario government

over the government's acceptance of the Red Squirrel Road environmental assessment.

The group also launched the Tall Pines Project at this time, commissioning ecologist

Peter Quinby to study the forest that was to be logged. The TWS founders, who had been following the controversies taking place in British Columbia over old-growth forests, noted the large size of the pine trees in the Temagami region and wondered whether the forest to be logged was in fact an old-growth forest. Prior to this time, no one had attempted to study old-growth forests in northeastern North America, and preservationist concern for Temagami had focused on the region's recreational values rather than on the

17 specific character of the Temagami forest. The divergent strategies employed by the

TAA and TWS at this time showed that even though both groups opposed the road extension, they did not do so together.

While Quinby conducted his study, advocates of the logging road, including the

Temagami Reeve and the co-owner of a local sawmill, expressed their frustration about the delays in road construction caused by the TWS lawsuit and the TAA actions by attempting on Labour Day to blockade the road used by most cottagers to access Lake

Temagami. The police arrested fifty-one of the approximately one hundred protesters. 20 Perhaps in partial response to their demonstration, however, in November Ontario sought an injunction to end the TAA blockades. In a compromise ruling, the court awarded

Ontario the injunction, but would not allow the province to begin building the road until after the Ontario Court of Appeal heard the TAA's land claim case. The TAA had lost their case in an Ontario court in 1984, but their appeal hearing was scheduled for early in

1989/° It had been three years since Ontario announced its plan to build the Red Squirrel

Road extension, but no road had yet materialized.

Throughout 1989, public attention remained focused on Temagami. The TWS increasingly directed its public relations energies to highlighting Quinby's research results, which indicated that Temagami contained the "world's largest known stand of old-growth white and red pine."19 The Temagami forest was not like any other, the society insisted. Its old-growth status made it unique and essential not only for wildlife habitat, soil stabilization and water purity, but also for scientific research: this forest could hold the key to scientific understandings of white pine regeneration. The TWS lost its court case, but kept up its publicity campaigns. In April, for example, the wilderness society organized a benefit concert called "Temagami: The Last Wild Stand," which featured Gordon Lightfoot, Mary Margaret O'Hara and Murray McLauchlan. The group also organized a May rally in Toronto, attracting six hundred people who marched to Queen's Park with placards reading things like "Save Temagami. Dump Peterson."21

1989 also saw the TAA lose their court appeal, but, determined that they had a just claim to land, they decided to seek permission to appeal the decision to the Supreme Court of

21 Canada. The TAA also announced their intention to set up further roadblocks, and to

discuss with Ontario possible ways that the First Nation and the provincial government

might share the management of forests and other natural resources on the territory

claimed by the TAA.22

After the TAA took down their blockades, and in spite of the fact that the

activities of the TAA continued to take place separately from those of the

environmentalists, the media began again to represent the two groups as having identical

interests. One article, for instance, stated that "Native people and conservationists are

fighting in the courts to preserve one of the last stands of old-growth pine in Ontario."23

Perhaps it was easier to represent the issue this way than to explain its deeper

complexities, or maybe larger forces were at work in these representations. I shall briefly

hypothesize about this possibility below. In any case, the TWS attempted to appeal the

decision about the Red Squirrel Road environmental assessment, but in July the Ontario

Court of Appeal refused to hear the TWS's appeal, thus giving the provincial government

the go ahead to proceed with road construction. The TWS responded to this news by

announcing plans to prevent construction by blockading the road, and the

environmentalist blockade began in mid-September.24 As in the majority of the earlier media coverage of the Temagami conflict, now again the TAA land claim became a marginal part of the story, and the issue appeared as a matter between loggers and environmentalists.25 The environmentalist blockade became a hugely successful media event, especially when NDP leader Bob Rae joined the TWS ranks and was arrested with

22 other protesters. By the end of September, police had arrested more than ninety

protesters.

Notwithstanding the environmental protests, road construction went ahead until

late October, when the province stopped construction because the TAA, whose appeal the

Supreme Court of Canada had just decided to hear, sought an injunction to stop all road

construction and logging in the region until the Supreme Court made its ruling. This

move by the First Nation again led the media to focus on the land claim, but the TAA did

not win their injunction, and work crews moved in to resume construction of the road on

October 30. Although the TWS planned to escalate levels of civil disobedience in light of

the court's decision not to halt construction, this did not take place because the TWS

obeyed a request by the TAA that the wilderness society remove its blockade. The First

Nation planned to continue its own roadblocks, and invited Aboriginal and non-

Aboriginal people from across Canada, including members of the recently evicted TWS,

to join in the TAA's blockades. The TAA considered it important that the roadblocks

were their own, and that people standing on the road stood in support of the TAA's claim to land rather than merely insisting that the provincial government change its position on

logging in the region. On November 11, the TAA resumed their blockades, planning to keep them in place until the December 31 construction deadline passed. Police began to arrest TAA members and their supporters on November 12, and despite delays caused by the protestors, construction workers completed the road extension on December 10, and the TAA removed their roadblocks. Over the course of a month, police had arrested over

23 two hundred people, most of them TAA members. This brought the total number of people arrested to almost four hundred.

The road was completed, but it never opened. In fact, a section of it sank into a wetland the winter that construction ended. It seems that despite Ontario's obvious determination to have the road extension finished, the government was also affected by the efforts of both the TWS and the TAA. A few weeks before the completion of the road, Lyn McLeod, the new Minister of Natural Resources, showed that her ministry had been paying attention to the TWS's petitions to protect the Temagami old-growth forest for scientific purposes. She announced that since scientists knew little about old-growth forest dynamics, it made sense to suspend the logging of "a particularly sensitive area" of the Temagami forest so that scientific research could take place. This area was not logged, and eventually became part of the Obabika River Provincial Park.31 The TAA also made some headway with Ontario when, in the spring of 1990, they entered into an agreement with the province for joint stewardship of the forty thousand hectare area opened up to logging by the completion of the Red Squirrel Road. This arrangement meant that the First Nation would have a veto over any logging in this area. Chief Potts referred to the agreement as "the first step toward a treaty of co-existence," but the TAA had no intention of giving up their claim to the entire four thousand square mile region that comprised n'Daki Menan. They continued to await their Supreme Court hearing, scheduled for May of 1991.32

24 Toronto Star columnist David Israelson observed that Premier David Peterson benefited most from the agreement between the province and the First Nation. According to Israelson, this arrangement allowed Peterson to look like he had backed away from his pro-logging stance, while still permitting logging to happen in most of the Temagami area. Further, the premier made it appear that he intended to take seriously the TAA's land claim, thereby making it difficult for environmentalists to complain that the government was doing nothing about the Temagami issue, while simultaneously allocating to the forest industry wood from the territory claimed by the First Nation.33

Indeed, while environmentalists did try to maintain public support for the preservation of the region, contending that "Temagami has not been saved," the Temagami issue slowly faded from mainstream attention. By the spring of 1991, the Temagami controversy existed to many outsiders as "mostly just a memory."34 In August 1991, the Supreme

Court determined that the TAA had lost any Aboriginal rights they once had by adhering to the 1850 Robinson-Huron Treaty. In this controversial decision, however, which is further discussed in chapter 5, the Court also determined that the federal and provincial governments had not always fulfilled their treaty obligations to the First Nation, and the

•ye

TAA were thus owed certain benefits from both levels of government. While this matter is rarely mentioned in the news, the TAA remain in negotiations with Ontario, upon the conclusion of which they intend to commence negotiating with the federal government.36

To the displeasure of environmentalists, much of the region remains open to industrial logging, though, as in other parts of the country, work in the forestry sector is 25 increasingly precarious. The issues that brought Temagami to national and international attention in the late 1980s and early 1990s certainly remain today, even as the gaze of television cameras is trained elsewhere.

My Route through Temagami

As I said above, the protests passed me by. I knew Temagami only from my posters, and it was not until much later that I discovered these posters were part of the TWS's anti- logging campaign. Temagami, like the Carmanah Valley (a poster of which also hung on my wall), existed to me as a site of wild nature, a far-away place of big trees. If someone had asked, I likely would have told them that Temagami was in British Columbia.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I learned in 1992 not only that Temagami was relatively close to my London, Ontario, home, but also that I would soon go on a two-week canoe trip through the region. This trip was part of a leadership training program through Camp

Queen Elizabeth, the Georgian Bay summer camp that I had attended since I was nine years old. What I remember most from that trip is something I was never meant to see, and what disappoints me now is what I did not learn. I remember seeing a clearcut. I did not know then about industrial logging practices (I likely did not even know the word clearcut), but I felt, as we paddled past the treeless slope, that something was wrong.

Later I realized that part of what was wrong was that I saw the clearcut, that the clearcut was visible from the lake. For many years, the Ontario government has issued logging licences under the condition that forestry companies agree to leave strips of trees along shorelines and highways so as not to disturb the view for tourists like me. What

26 disappoints me now is that I learned nothing of the history or politics of this place, including the TAA's longstanding claim to the region. It is no coincidence that those of us on the canoe trip considered Temagami to be a site of nature rather than a place imbued with culture, history and politics, since the purpose of our trip was to develop our leadership skills in a wilderness setting. Perhaps because of the trip's emphasis on wilderness, as well as our prior understandings of the area—mine gleaned mainly from my posters—it did not occur to us to think of Temagami as anything other than a natural space. The clearcut, campsites, cottages and other campers that we came across on our trip did not lead us to question the naturalness of Temagami, though in retrospect, I see that they might have.

While I have come to consider my earlier conception of Temagami as a site of wild nature to be both naive and problematic, I was certainly neither the first nor the last person to understand the area in this way. As chapter 3 will describe, tourists began travelling to Temagami in the late nineteenth century in order to experience what promoters described as a "little known district amid the wilds of Canada" that was

"certainly enchanting enough to satisfy all poetical minds."37 Confederation poet

Archibald Lampman's mind seems to have been satisfied in Temagami, for after he visited the region in 1896, he felt compelled to write a sonnet about his experience in what he called "wild Temagami." This same poem, etched into a piece of wood, today hangs on the wall of a Temagami outdoor store, and the Temagami Chamber of

Commerce encourages tourists to "leave civilization behind" and visit this "land of serene

27 nature," with its "pristine lakes lined with magnificent old pine." A Temagami outfitting company similarly advertises that "in Temagami, Nature rules."40 Temagami's reputation as a place of natural beauty far exceeds the efforts of local tourist operators to promote it as such. Outdoor Ontario, a provincial and federal government initiative dedicated to developing outdoor tourism in Ontario, names Temagami as one of

Ontario's "signature landscapes," extolling it as a region that "offers miles upon miles of unspoiled wilderness to explore."41 And while the media spotlight no longer shines on the

Temagami region, one effect of the environmentalist campaign has been the reinforcement of the idea of Temagami as a site of nature. It is still possible to purchase the pine tree posters that hung and perhaps still hang on thousands of walls other than my own.42 Temagami and wilderness seem almost synonymous.

Trouble with Temagami Wilderness

As I reflect now upon Temagami's representation, both historical and contemporary, as a site of nature, and as I remember my canoe trip through this region, I find myself troubled, like historian William Cronon, by the Temagami wilderness.431 am troubled for a few related reasons, all of which centre on a concern about what gets lost when we understand Temagami specifically, and wilderness spaces more generally, as sites that lie outside of culture, history, power and politics. As this thesis will show, Temagami has never been the pristine wilderness that environmentalists struggled to save or that promoters have long encouraged tourists to visit. Instead, like other places deemed either natural or nature's opposite—unnatural, social and/or cultural—the Temagami region is

28 a complex assemblage of both, since, as will be discussed in further depth below, nature and society do not exist independently, but rather are inevitably intertwined categories.

Yet the story of Temagami as a wild natural space continues to hold sway. One danger of this narrative lies in how it positions the TAA, for whom the Temagami region has always existed as n'Daki Menan, and therefore not as untouched wilderness. Often, when the TAA presence on the land is acknowledged at all in news reports or travel literature, the First Nation's present-day existence in and claim to land is absent. Mentioned instead is the "historically significant" character of the region, significant because it contains

"reminders of our rich native legacy," for instance: Aboriginal artifacts, pictographs, and

"nastawgan," a six thousand year old trail system developed by the TAA and used now by thousands of hikers and canoe trippers each year.44 This kind of emphasis places TAA land use in the past, thus negating contemporary relationships between the TAA and their territory. That it is possible for the Temagami region to exist simultaneously as a wilderness space and a place which contains Aboriginal history reveals as well how

Aboriginal people often become collapsed into nature: pictographs, arrowheads and pathways, it appears, are all part of the Temagami wilderness.

Perhaps this logic goes some distance to explaining how, when international attention focused on Temagami late in the last century, it was possible for the media to present the conflict as two-sided. The TAA, understood as part of the wilderness,

"naturally" had an interest in the region's preservation, and therefore sided unequivocally with environmentalists against loggers. The pervasiveness of this way of thinking is

29 reflected in the fact that media representation repeatedly fell back on the

"environmentalists and Indians against loggers" logic even as the TAA attempted, sometimes successfully, to articulate a different position. For example, Chief Potts clearly distanced the TAA's interest in the land from the interest of environmentalists when he spoke against environmentalists' anti-logging stance and when he stated that a prominent environmentalist had "no respect for us [members of the TAA] other than as part of the landscape—the noble savage." The TAA refused their representation as part of the wilderness, insisting instead that they had been "owners [of the region] for 6000 years."

They maintained that, as owners, they had the right to ensure that "things [were] done differently in the future." Instead of clearcutting, the TAA supported selective harvesting methods, with the logs hauled from the bush on temporary winter roads rather than on permanent all-season roads.4

The term wilderness, when used to exclude Aboriginal peoples from their lands and from the contemporary moment, is a dangerous term. While Cronon and other scholars, some of whose work I will discuss below, have criticized the logic that positions nature and culture as mutually exclusive realms, and that often places Aboriginal peoples into the category of nature, the project of denaturalizing wilderness remains timely and important given the still common assumption that Aboriginal peoples exist as part of the wilderness. As Andrea Smith has noted, the all too familiar concern with what Native people are in essence must be displaced by the more pressing question of what Native people are doing.46

30 A second trouble with Temagami wilderness is that, to borrow Cronon's words, it

leaves us with "little hope of discovering what an ethical, sustainable, honorable human

place in nature might actually look like."47 If, as Cronon argues, the concept of

wilderness depends on the false assumption that humans exist outside of nature, then the

presence of humans in nature signals nature's fall. And if only wild nature counts as

nature and as valuable—Temagami, not Toronto, must be saved—then we are left in a

difficult position. To use nature is to destroy it, to save nature is to be apart from it, and

how we treat "unnatural" spaces like cities or farmlands is insignificant, since such

spaces do not much matter. This framework leaves us no room to negotiate the "middle

ground," the messy mixes of nature and culture that humans and non-humans actually

inhabit, and it does not allow us to struggle in that middle ground toward more just and

livable futures for humans and non-humans alike.48 It makes it difficult to ask, as Graeme

Wynn has, "how do we want to live in the world and what kind of people do we want to

be?"49

Further, as Catriona Sandilands elaborates in the context of Clayoquot Sound,

British Columbia, the fight for wilderness "is not so much about freeing the resident

ecological and social communities to negotiate multiple possible futures and identities as

it is about imposing a particular view of the landscape on precisely these communities."50

While clearcut logging certainly signals the commodification of nature and the insertion

of Clayoquot Sound into global capitalism, environmentalism commodities nature as well, particularly through associating saving the wilderness with ecotourism. While

31 forestry operations turn trees into timber, ecotourism traffics in images of pristine nature: both have got something to sell. The difficulty for Sandilands is that when environmentalist discourse equates ecotourism with saving nature, logging appears as the only form of capitalism in the region, and is charged with the destruction of wild nature.

Yet the vision of nature being "saved" through ecotourism is a highly constructed and commodified one. It depends not only on the active removal of humans from nature, but also on the consumption of a pristine and unique wilderness that must be created in order to be experienced. Wilderness in tourism does not merely exist as a space empty of human inhabitation and labour, but also as a place for tourists to visit. In order to ensure that tourists experience the wilderness that they anticipate encountering, the wilderness must be made to fit their expectations, expectations that are in turn shaped by the packaging and selling of the region as special and pristine. This vision of wilderness can exist only through evicting people, labour and industry to an elsewhere that is by definition not special and therefore whose careful treatment is unnecessary. Not only are we again left with no way to live or to work in nature (except perhaps, as Sandilands points out, as tourist operators), but also we risk reducing environmentalism to a concern only about those forms of nature deemed special enough to be sold as tourist commodities.

The perils of conflating ecotourism with the saving of nature are evident in

Temagami as well as in Clayoquot Sound. During the Temagami conflict of the late

1980s and early 1990s, as in the Clayoquot Sound dispute that received worldwide

32 attention in 1993, the interests of environmentalists appeared identical with the interests of tourist operators in the region, not least because those who spoke against logging in

Temagami often were tourist operators. Though these people, like forest industry workers, had a serious economic stake in what happened to Temagami's trees, this fact was obscured in most media accounts, which portrayed tourist operators as participating for the sake of the wilderness in its defence. While forestry workers seemed to look out only for their own economic interests, which in turn appeared identical to the interests of the forest industry as a whole, environmentalists and tourist operators appeared as the selfless and innocent preservers of a unique wilderness that all of us could visit. The appearance of tourist operators in this story as out for the wilderness rather than for themselves obscured the fact that everyone, not just loggers, depends on nature for survival. Largely absent from the discussion, therefore, was a search for solutions to the complex socio-ecological problems of the region that did not mean the eviction of working people (with the exception of tour guides) from the land and the creation of the region for the enjoyment of those who could afford not to work the land.53 The construction of loggers as the only representatives of a capitalist system in which nature exists as an exploitable resource also reinforced the idea that working-class people are more to blame for environmental degradation than the middle- and upper- class people who benefit from such a system, an idea that allows for easy assignments of guilt and innocence without a more fundamental questioning of the system itself.54 Further, the environmentalist emphasis on saving the Temagami region because of its uniqueness—

33 the pine trees were old-growth, the forest was the last of its kind—not only reinserted the area into a capitalist system, packaging and selling it as a tourist destination, but also reinforced the idea that it is acceptable for humans not to care about or act respectfully toward the everyday places that we live in and use.

Finally, I am troubled by Temagami's status as a site not only of wild nature, but also of national nature. It is telling, I think, that I paddled through Temagami at fifteen thinking of the region as nothing more and nothing less than part of the great Canadian wilderness. So self-evidently did Temagami appear as both wild and Canadian that I did not think twice about why I understood the region in this way. But the connection between Temagami and Canadian wilderness certainly extends beyond my own experience. When Margaret Atwood wrote about her 1987 Temagami canoe trip, for example, she described herself as taking part in the "old Canadian summer ritual" of paddling through "the Temagami wilderness area."55 During its court challenge to

Ontario's acceptance of the Red Squirrel Road environmental assessment, the TWS also associated Temagami with the nation, calling the Temagami forest an irreplaceable

"national treasure" that, like Niagara Falls and the Rocky Mountains, was priceless.56 In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the press as well used the term "national treasure" to describe Temagami, and referred additionally to the region as "the Canada of dreams."57

Today Temagami continues to be correlated with Canadian wilderness, with Temagami summer camp brochures offering "Canadian wilderness canoe trips" and "the peace and quiet of Canada's wide open pine forests and pristine waterways."58 Similarly,

34 Earthroots, the environmental organization that succeeded the TWS, continues to describe the Temagami pine forest as an endangered "national treasure," while the

Temagami Chamber of Commerce welcomes tourists to "a Canadian vacation destination offering unsurpassed beauty."59

As Eva Mackey argues, Canadian nationalist mythology has changed over time in order to create and maintain a sense of national identity in shifting economic, political and social circumstances. ° While pre-World War II nationalist mythology was based on

British cultural hegemony and the exclusion of racial and cultural difference, national stories have shifted since the 1971 introduction of multiculturalism policy to an emphasis on Canada as a pluralist and tolerant nation.61 But, as Mackey further contends, one feature of nationalist mythology that has remained constant throughout these changes is the idea of Canada as a northern wilderness. The iconic Canadian wilderness is most famously depicted in the paintings of the Group of Seven. The Group, officially founded in 1920 and comprised of seven artists based in Toronto, is often credited with developing a uniquely Canadian form of landscape painting inspired by the rugged character of the land itself, and also with stimulating a sense of national identity based on a wilderness aesthetic. Links between Canada and the northern wilderness do not begin and end with the Group of Seven, however. As Carl Berger shows, the northern theme in

Canadian nationalism can be traced back to the time of Confederation, when the Canada

First Movement attempted to kindle nationalist feeling by celebrating Canada's northern location and challenging climate as necessary elements for the building of a powerful

35 nation. In the late 1920s, Emily Carr began to be considered the western Canadian equivalent to the Group of Seven. Like the paintings of the Group, Carr's works, many of them depicting dense forests, are said to have been shaped primarily by the landscape and are understood as capturing the quintessential character of the Canadian west coast.

Today, both Carr and the Group of Seven remain among Canada's most famous artists.

Interestingly, while the "wildernesses" painted by these artists differ from one another in significant ways—Carr remained focused mainly on the west coast while the Group painted landscapes as diverse as the Rocky Mountains, the Arctic and Algonquin Park:— these and other "wild" places in Canada have collectively come to represent the essence of the nation.66

The idea that such different sites could come together to epitomize the Canadian wilderness, and thus the nation more generally, speaks I think to one of the tensions of nationalism. As Ghassan Hage shows in the Australian context, when people describe their experiences of particular locales, whether they talk about walking down a city street or going on a canoe trip in the wilderness, they often articulate their experiences at the national rather than only the local level.67 Lauren Berlant similarly examines how in the

United States "national culture becomes local" through the "images, narratives, monuments, and sites that circulate through personal/collective consciousness." If people indeed experience very specific localities as national spaces, then it becomes possible for places quite different from one another to be characterized as national. A trip to Banff National Park might feel and look unlike a trip to Niagara Falls, but both could

36 be considered quintessentially Canadian experiences. Catriona Sandilands argues that national parks are shaped by this local/national tension. One the one hand, parks are very much local places, both because they are "a fairly haphazard collection of sites that perform a variety of local roles" and because they must market themselves as unlike anywhere else in order to attract visitors. On the other hand, part of what makes parks distinct from their local surroundings and thus important places for tourists to visit is the fact that they have been designated as sites of national significance. Therefore, parks must, in all their local specificity, do the work of representing the nation. 9 While

Sandilands concentrates specifically on national parks, her insights are relevant as well for thinking about places not officially selected as sites of national nature but which are nevertheless considered to be part of the Canadian wilderness. Temagami is one example.

Like national parks, Temagami is a locality, and promotional efforts attempt to attract visitors by focusing on the region's special character, particularly its distinctive old- growth forest. At the same time, however, like those diverse places painted by the Group of Seven and Emily Carr, Temagami has taken on a broader national significance as representative of the Canadian wilderness.

Though it may be more appropriate to speak of national wilderness in the plural rather than the singular, one thing that iconic images of Canadian wilderness share is their appearance as empty of human activity. Scholars have criticized the works of both the Group of Seven and Emily Carr for erasing Aboriginal peoples from the picture, thus making possible the idea of an empty Canadian wilderness and providing a

37 representational justification for the colonization of Aboriginal peoples and lands. As fierger additionally shows, First Nations peoples are not the only ones excluded from the story of Canada as a nation of wild nature. In the early days of nation-building, for example, the Canada First Movement used Canada's northern location and cool climate to advocate for a white settler nation. According to this "northern race idea," people of northern European ancestry were by nature and by virtue of living in northern climates a

71

"healthy, hardy, virtuous, dominant race." Proponents of the Canada First Movement insisted that Canada "must ever be... a Northern country inhabited by the descendants of the Northern races," and felt confident that the nation's climate ensured the perpetuation of such a race. Not only were members of northern races deemed the only ones capable of surviving the harsh Canadian winters, but the winters themselves were also considered important elements in building the strength of white settlers.73 Thus as Canadian nationalists imagined southern races and nations, including the United States, as becoming more and more weak, effeminate and degenerate, they simultaneously considered Canada as having the potential to become a dominant nation comprised of virile, hardy and self-reliant white citizens.74 A variety of explicitly racist immigration policies accompanied the northern race idea, with the notion of "climatic unsuitability" being used until 1953 as a reason to exclude immigrants of colour from the nation.75

Mackey points out that the Canada First Movement was not only racialized but gendered as well. While the north and northern races were associated with the masculine virtues of virility, strength, self-reliance and health, the south and southern races were 38 made inferior and "other" through their feminization. As Mackey further observes, the

Group of Seven's version of nationalism was also highly gendered. The nationalism portrayed by the Group differed from the nationalism of the Canada First Movement, most strikingly in its articulation of a Canadian nation that was unlike Europe (and

Britain specifically) as well as unlike the United States. The difference between the two forms of nationalism reflects the fact that the Group painted during and contributed to a later period of self-conscious nationalism, when Canada's differentiation from Britain had become important. The Group's emphasis on the north highlighted Canada's distinctiveness from the United States and the prominence of landscapes empty of people distinguished Canada from Britain.77 But while differences between the nationalisms of the Canada First Movement and the Group of Seven are significant, both nationalist forms created an empty wilderness for settlers to experience and both relied on the language of virility to mobilize a specifically masculine form of national identity. As

Lawren Harris noted, the Group was "convinced that no virile people could remain subservient to and dependent upon the creations in art of other peoples."79

The trouble with Temagami as a wild Canadian space is that it works to naturalize the nation as well as the wilderness. Like the figuring of Temagami as wild, the representation of the region as Canadian leaves little room for the TAA to articulate their alternative perspective on n'Daki Menan. The potent combination of Canadian and wilderness doubly denies the TAA's claim to land, for while the concept of wilderness erases the TAA presence in the region, the claiming implicit in the term "national" marks

39 the area as belonging to Canada, not to the TAA. Further, and as shall be explored in greater depth below, the appearance of the nation as a naturally existing phenomenon, embodied as it appears in the "Canadian wilderness," is one way that the nation-form gains its power and legitimacy. Gendered and racialized nationalist exclusions and hierarchies of citizenship can thus appear to be natural inevitabilities rather than the result of social and historical processes.

Crossing Stories

I hope that it has become clear through the above discussion that my troubles with

Temagami wilderness are well founded. The idea that Temagami is a wild site of national nature hides the decidedly cultural practices through which the region has come to make sense as part of the Canadian wilderness. This idea also disguises the cultural practices in which Temagami has never existed as either national or wilderness. In both cases, what is missing is the culture of nature. Taking as a starting point the fact that n'Daki Menan existed as the TAA's homeland, and therefore as a space of human culture, long before the "national treasure" of Temagami wilderness existed, this thesis attempts to trace significant discourses, practices and relationships of power through which Temagami has come to make mainstream sense as a natural, national space.

My political motivation for undertaking this project is twofold. First, I want to show how the present injustices faced by the TAA are the result of specific historical discourses and practices that have both created these injustices and made them appear acceptable to non-Native Canadians. I do not mean to suggest that non-Native Canadians,

40 upon learning about the history of TAA-Canadian government relationships over the years, are not sympathetic to the TAA's contemporary claim to n'Daki Menan. I have found quite the opposite, in fact. Yet we have not as a collective made it a priority to insist that our governments deal fairly with the TAA government in order to work toward a just agreement for the co-existence of TAA and non-TAA members on n'Daki Menan.

This kind of relationship of mutual respect and co-operation is something that the TAA have sought for many years. First Nations across Canada have long struggled toward similar (and sometimes different) goals, usually with little support from and in many cases meeting the violent resistance of non-Native Canadians. Clashes between

Haudenosaunee/Six Nations members and Caledonia residents over contested land south of Hamilton, Ontario, is only the most recently publicized example.

It is with hope that I write this thesis. I hope that non-Native Canadians do not merely not care about First Nations issues, but rather that we have been trained to think of such issues as not having much to do with us. I recognize that those of us non-

Aboriginal people living in Canada are a diverse group (as, of course, are Aboriginal peoples). Some of us, many with white skin, have been encouraged to make Canada our home, while others have had to fight systemic discrimination in order to carve out a place for ourselves. But in spite of our significant differences, the fact that we all live in

Canada, that we all arrived later to this Native land, makes Aboriginal issues our issues as well. The governments that are supposed to represent us have done so far too often at the expense of Aboriginal peoples with whom the same governments have often made, and

41 broken, solemn agreements. It is my firm belief that if all of us who live in what has

become Canada are to do so injustice and in peace, then we must not only learn one

another's (hi)stories, but we must also come to understand how our different stories

intersect, how our stories are our stories because of these crossings.

This thesis attempts a mapping of stories. It tries to show how the making of

Temagami as a site of Canadian wilderness had and has everything to do with the

(incomplete and always contested) dispossession of the TAA, and therefore has

everything to do with the non-Native Canadians who have benefited from this process.

The story that I tell is very specific. It happened how it happened because of the particular interactions that took place over the years among the TAA, n'Daki Menan and people from other places. Yet I hope that this specific story resonates more broadly as

well. While the discourses and practices of colonial rule were and are not everywhere the

same, the fact remains that most non-Native people think of ourselves as living in Canada rather than on, for example, TAA territory. A larger story of colonialism has made this possible. By tracing one part of this larger story, I aim to provide some insight not only into how colonialism has worked and continues to work, but also into why it continues to be acceptable to mainstream society in our supposedly postcolonial present. I hope that readers take away from this thesis a sense that what has become acceptable is absolutely unacceptable, and perhaps even a feeling of obligation to act differently in the future: to look for the culture in nature, to learn the history of the ground under our feet, to come to understand how our stories interact with others, to write a letter to the federal or

42 provincial government indicating our support of just agreements between Aboriginal and

non-Aboriginal peoples. Maybe it is too much to ask people to feel obligated by a story.

My learning of this story has instilled in me a commitment to support the TAA's claim to

n'Daki Menan in whatever ways I can be useful. I hope that this thesis contributes one

small part to that effort. Coming to know this story has also led me to learn more about

the diverse histories of First Nations peoples in Canada, and to put pressure on Canadian

governments to facilitate rather than impede Aboriginal self-determination. I do not

pretend to have the answers, and I often wonder what to do with the important stories I

have heard. Sometimes I think of Thomas King's brilliant Massey Lecture series in which he invites listeners to take his stories and to do with them what we will: tell them to

friends, talk about them at scholarly conferences, forget them. But, he ends each lecture by saying, "don't say in the years to come that you would have lived your life differently if only you had heard this story. You've heard it now."82

I suspect, though I can never be sure, that my long ago route though Temagami would have been different had I known that I paddled through TAA territory. Had I been invited, I might have felt honoured, as I do when I visit n'Daki Menan these days, that the

TAA had allowed me to spend time on their lands and waters. I might have been awed by the region's beauty, while simultaneously respecting it as something I could not claim as my own. Learning the history of n'Daki Menan has necessarily cut for me the tie between the region (or any other) and the Canadian wilderness, but I doubt that I will ever consider this area to be anything other than one of my favourite places on earth. Certainly

43 my attachment to this place is connected as well to the history that first brought me there,

a history that I now argue needs to be re-examined in the context of colonialism. But it is

precisely this attachment that brings me to the second motivation for undertaking this

project. I do not want to see the region destroyed by unsustainable forestry practices, or

otherwise, and in this way I find myself sympathetic to environmentalist efforts and

concerns. I am disappointed, however, in what I perceive as a too persistent

environmentalist reliance on the empty wilderness idea, particularly given that criticisms

of this concept are no longer new.831 write this piece in the hope that those who, like me, care deeply about the more-than-human world will see in this thesis solid reasons to let

go of the wilderness idea while continuing to struggle, in perhaps quite different ways, toward a world in which all of us might live well.

I have mentioned some of the things that I learned from undertaking this project, as well as what I hope that others, specifically non-Native inhabitants of Canada, will take away with them when they have finished reading. But if one major purpose of this thesis is to support the TAA's claim to n'Daki Menan, then why have I not directed comments to TAA members in this section? One reason is that much of the story that I tell here is already familiar to members of the First Nation. I do not presume to think that

I have anything to teach them about the workings of colonialism. What I hope comes across to TAA members as they read this work is my great respect and admiration for them and for their ancestors. The TAA have for many generations consistently, creatively and patiently pressed their claim to n'Daki Menan upon non-Native Canadians and

44 governments alike, and it is high time that we listen to them and respond honestly and

with fairness.

On Method and Sources

This project demands that I employ a genealogical approach, a form of historical analysis

developed by Michel Foucault that describes the history of the present and concentrates

on how power operates in the production of subjects and truths. By inquiring into the history through which Temagami came to be imagined as a national wilderness space, I am calling into question the region's contemporary self-evidence as such. This kind of inquiry is genealogical in character because it historicizes a current-day truth in order to reveal the conditions of possibility through which this truth came to exist and to appear obvious. By making evident the histories of taken-for-granted truths, genealogical analyses show that truths are the effects of contingencies rather than inevitabilities of the past. Unlike more traditional approaches to history, a genealogical method does not assume that the past leads inevitably to the present, a view of history which, as Sara Mills

Of states, "renders the past banal." Genealogy instead finds that things "weren't as necessary as all that." Indeed, "it is the very strangeness of the past which makes us able to see clearly the strangeness of the present." It is also the strangeness of the past that makes it possible to imagine different kinds of futures. If Temagami's existence as

Canadian wilderness is a product of culture and history rather than a timeless truth, then this truth is quite fragile. Tracing the cultural and historical processes that resulted in this present-day truth breaks this story's hold on the truth and reveals it instead as part of a

45 contest over meaning. If this story is part of a struggle, then there necessarily exist other

stories as well, stories that become hearable only when we recognize that this story is not

the truth in any straightforward sense. The story of the TAA's longstanding claim to land

is one story that cannot be heard when Temagami is only wild and Canadian. By

revealing how one story came to have the effect of truth, I aim to make room for

alternative stories to be heard and different futures—which include TAA self-

determination on n'Daki Menan—to be imagined.

Central to a genealogical approach to research is discourse analysis. This is because genealogical studies aim to understand the intricate workings of power and, as

Foucault has shown, power cannot operate without discourse: it is through discourse that truths and subjects are produced. I follow Foucault in comprehending discourse not

simply as language but rather as "practices that systematically form the objects of which

OQ they speak." Discourse is comprised of those utterances or texts, not always verbal or written, that make some form of claim to truth and are sanctioned as knowledge.89 The purpose of studying discourse is to understand its effects, to comprehend, for example, how certain discourses come to function as truth in specific places and times while alternative discourses are cast aside. Discourse is thus connected to power through the mechanisms that allow some discourses to serve as true and constrain others from emerging. Yet these mechanisms of power often remain hidden and it appears that discourse reflects an objective world rather than constituting that world.90 Discourse analysis locates the operation of power in the creation of truths. In this way, it is a 46 fundamental part of genealogy's "making strange" of the past and present because it shows that present-day truths are neither inevitable nor innocent, but rather the result of power-infused historical discourses. An analysis of the discourses and therefore relationships of power through which Temagami became a famous site of Canadian wilderness is part of the contest over the meaning of this region, and thus over the region itself. My hope is that such an analysis will loosen the grip of this truth's hold on the present and create space for alternative visions of the area to emerge.

The discourse analysis that I employ to conduct my genealogy relies on primary materials obtained from a number of archival locations in Ontario. The thesis spans the hundred or so years from the late nineteenth century to the late twentieth century. While I do not write in depth about this entire length of time, I did search for and access materials covering the whole period and beyond. From Library and Archives Canada in Ottawa, the

Ontario Native Affairs Secretariat in Toronto and the Temagami First Nation Band Office on Bear Island in Lake Temagami, I accessed Department of Indian Affairs correspondence and reports for the Temagami region dating from 1848 to 2005. The

Archives of Ontario in Toronto provided reports, memoranda and correspondence about forestry, land surveys, cottage leases, and the damming of lakes in the Temagami region.

Much of this material dates between the late 1890s and 1934. At the Archives of Ontario as well as at the Ontario Court of Appeal in Toronto, I was able to access court documents. I was also given permission by the Joint Council of the TAA and Temagami

First Nation to study court documents at the Temagami First Nation Band Office,

47 including sixty-eight volumes of trial transcript that I could not locate elsewhere. At the

Band Office, I was permitted as well to access reports, speech transcripts and correspondence about the land claim. Most of this material was produced in the 1970s and 1980s. Finally, at the Toronto Reference Library, the Archives of Ontario, and the

University of Toronto and York University libraries, I retrieved newspaper and magazine articles and advertisements about the region dating from the late 1890s to the late 1990s.

In order to conduct my analysis, I looked for: common themes emerging from the different texts, as well as interruptions of those themes; linguistic choices; relationships between texts and images; language structure and style; relationships between texts I analyse and the documents or conversations to which they refer; and relationships between the texts I analyse and larger political, historical and discursive conditions from which they emerge.

Though my source materials are quite diverse, they have in common the fact that, with few exceptions, they are written rather than oral. One major drawback of depending on a written archive is that relatively few voices are incorporated into my analysis. The views of government officials about early twentieth century forest policy, for example, exist in the written record in a way that the perspectives of farmers living near the region at the time do not. Similarly, the opinions of Department of Indian Affairs officials about the concerns expressed by members of the TAA are recorded, whereas the thoughts of non-Native people living among or in close proximity to the TAA are generally not written down. TAA perspectives before the 1970s usually appear only when

48 TAA members petition for a reserve on n'Daki Menan or when they have specific

complaints related to the policing by government representatives of TAA activities. Such petitions and complaints are written most often by TAA chiefs and are sometimes translated and/or recorded by local magistrates or church officials. During and after the

1970s, TAA perspectives are more diverse, but it is still most often the voices of chiefs that exist on the record as speeches and in newspaper reports. Court documents are filled primarily with lawyers' arguments and with testimony by non-TAA "expert" witnesses, though TAA members' testimonies are also recorded. With the exceptions discussed below of Madeline Theriault and Mary Laronde, TAA women's voices are notably absent from the documents that I analyse. Non-Native women's perspectives are also uncommon, though some travel accounts written by women are discussed in chapter 3.

It is important to recognize that the story I tell in the following chapters is a partial story, and not only because of my particular viewpoint on the events and discourses that I discuss. It is partial also because of the stories that comprise the written record, stories that are shaped by race, class and gender. Much of the record upon which I draw has been composed by white men who had the class privilege of working in government offices rather than turning soil, felling trees or guiding tourists for a living.

Certainly not everyone shared the opinions of these men. Indeed, the men themselves held a variety of opinions and perspectives. Real life as it unfolded in the Temagami region was much more complicated than the archival materials that I rely on to tell my story reveals. Yet the archives remain a source of rich and important information. One

49 reason for this is that they offer insight into the minds of men who had the power to shape

laws and decisions that had and continue to have consequences in the world. The

opinions of these men thus matter not only for the (partial) perspectives that they offer

about (class privileged white men's) views of the times, but also because, more than other

people's, these ideas often had quite wide-ranging effects. In addition, while archives do

not offer a complete picture of history, neither do they present a simplistic or coherent

story of colonial and national expansion into and takeover of TAA territory. It is

abundantly clear from the archival materials that that the creation of Temagami as a site

of wild Canadian nature was never a straightforward matter. Members of the TAA and their supporters do write back, and it is evident in many places that the TAA not only respond to colonial processes but actively engage on their own terms with the Indian

agents, tourists, fire rangers and others whom they encounter on n'Daki Menan.

One danger of relying on written accounts produced largely by non-TAA members is that I risk centering encounters between the TAA and non-Native interlopers as the key events shaping the lives of both parties.92 In so doing, I am in danger of making the power relations of colonialism appear to be the only dynamics shaping the region. This is not my intention. Encounters resulting from colonialism are, however, central to the creation—and contestation—of the region as a site of national wilderness and, as such, are significant to the story that I tell. But the TAA had and continue to have multiple relationships among one another, with non-Native people who visit or live on n'Daki Menan, and with the animals, plants, rocks and waters that comprise n'Daki

50 Menan. While relationships between the TAA and n'Daki Menan are not the focus of my

thesis except as they have shifted over the years of contact between the TAA and non-

Native governments and individuals, I aim, throughout this thesis, to acknowledge these

significant relationships as extending far beyond the story that I tell. One way that I do

this is to refer at appropriate moments to written accounts by TAA members about their

relationships with their territory. I also recognize that this thesis is only one story that

could be told, albeit a story that I think is necessary given the still common association

between Temagami and Canadian wilderness. I think that this story has the potential to fit

together nicely with stories that TAA members tell and have told about their own and

their ancestors' relationships with n'Daki Menan. I will discuss some of these stories

below.

I have chosen to focus my study on a number of key moments in the history of the

region, and I selected these moments in two ways. First, I chose moments highlighted on historical timelines created by the TAA. These appear in books and as photocopies in the

Band Office and are repeated when TAA members give information sessions about the history of their land claim.931 chose such moments because it is clear by virtue of their

existence on the timelines that these moments had a considerable impact on the TAA's experience of the region. Often that impact was negative; the TAA were made not at home in their homeland. Since the construction of the region as a national wilderness space depended on the dispossession of the TAA from n'Daki Menan, it makes sense to pay attention to times when members of the TAA experienced the loss of their lands

51 particularly acutely. The second way that I selected moments to study was by looking to the historical record for times when the Temagami region received a lot of attention from, for example, the popular press, supporters of forest conservation, the provincial government or the Department of Indian Affairs. Often, though not always, these times corresponded with events listed on TAA timelines, which is not a surprise given that

TAA timelines are marked by restrictions that were placed upon them as a direct result of non-Native regulation of and encroachments onto n'Daki Menan. None of the primary sources upon which I rely is a previously untapped resource—TAA research for their court case alone took place over more than ten years and uncovered thousands of sources from the 1600s to the 1970s—but my reading of this material provides a fresh perspective on the making of Temagami.

Theoretical Considerations

In order to examine the question of how n'Daki Menan came to exist as part of the

Canadian wilderness, I draw from the insights of two areas of study: critical scholarship on the nation and, in particular, feminist and anti-racist work on the Canadian nation; and literature on social nature. In the following paragraphs, I outline key ideas within these academic fields and indicate where my thesis contributes to these fields.

The Nation

The nation form and nationalism, as Benedict Anderson has observed, are full of contradictions.94 For example, although the nation is a relatively new historical form, it appears ancient to nationalists.95 Also, in spite of inequalities that exist within the nation

52 and the fact that most members of a nation will never meet the majority of their fellow

members, the nation is always conceived of as a community of people with a "deep,

horizontal comradeship" with one another.96 In grappling with the concept of the nation,

Anderson shows how some paradoxes of the nation are resolved in practice. He

demonstrates, for instance, how the introduction of print capitalism assisted the

imagining of the nation. Since printed languages were generated from a number of more

local dialects, they created unified fields of communication in which speakers of different

dialects could understand one another. This new understanding eventually led people to

consider themselves part of a community with a shared language-field, and distinct from

communities that did not share that same language. In time, the fixity that print capitalism

gave to language made it appear as though the language, and thus the nation, was of

ancient rather than recent origin. But as well as allowing people to imagine themselves as

part of a community that appeared very old, print capitalism also inscribed a hierarchy

into language. Dialects that were closer to each print language came to be considered

correct, while other dialects, and with them their speakers, became devalued.97

Inequalities within budding nations, then, appeared inevitable through language.

Other scholars have expanded upon Anderson's insights to examine different

ways that national boundaries are imagined. Like Anderson, Robert Miles and Malcolm

Brown seek to comprehend how the nation form appears preordained, how, in their words, the nation makes it seem that "the world's population is 'naturally' divided into

OR distinct nations." They contend that the collective self of the nation is defined against an 53 external other according to race, and explain that during the nineteenth century,

nationalists in Europe relied on scientific racism to confer the supposed naturalness of

national boundaries, since scientific racism allowed for the explanation that differences

among nations were attributable to biology. Scientific racism's biological determinism

also gave weight to the idea that the nation form was ancient, or at least historically

inevitable." Etienne Balibar argues that both race and language play important roles in

the naturalization of the nation form. Together, they produce an identity that he calls

"Active ethnicity," which allows individuals within a nation to understand their

differences as smaller than their similarities, and thus to imagine themselves as belonging

to the nation. While language is important to the nation because it allows members to

communicate with one another and therefore to imagine themselves as connected, Balibar

argues that the language community is not enough to produce ethnicity because it is

inherently open, which means that "new acquisitions" can easily become incorporated

into the nation, thus disrupting the imagined cohesiveness of a naturally exclusive

nation.100 Race offers "an extra degree of particularity, or a principle of closure, of

exclusion," which makes it appear, in spite of the fact that "no modern nation possesses a

given 'ethnic' basis," that racial unity is the origin of the nation.101 Further, Balibar

argues, the link between race and the nation allows for injustices within the nation to

seem natural and inevitable, as racialized others within the nation can appear "falsely" national and racially degenerate. Their exploitation can then be viewed as unrelated to the

54 privileges of the "genuinely" national and as separate from the equality that makes up the national community.

In order to comprehend the nation form, it is important to understand its imperial context. Anderson observes that as European powers increasingly defined themselves in national terms, they simultaneously expanded their power outside Europe through imperialism, and the nation thus began to be understood imperially: "great nations were global conquerors."103 As scholars of colonialism have shown, race played a crucial part in the operation of colonial rule as well as in the creation and maintenance of the nation form. Edward Said in his 1978 Orientalism, a book often cited as marking the beginning of colonial discourse studies,104 argues that the multifaceted European discourse of

Orientalism did not merely represent far-off lands to a European public, but rather invented the Orient as an object of western knowledge, thus both justifying European rule over the so-called Orient, and creating an other against which the European self could be constructed.105 This dualism between self and other was central to imperialism, for if colonized peoples were lazy, irrational, and barbaric, Europeans could appear hard­ working, rational, and civilized, and therefore perfectly suited to rule over colonized others. Anna Davin shows in "Imperialism and Motherhood" that empire was central to

British identity at the turn of the twentieth century. Concerns about the future of the

British empire, fuelled by the perceived poor health of British soldiers during the Boer

War and by imperial competition from Germany and the United States, were articulated through discourses of nation, race, gender and class. It became the responsibility of

55 middle-class British women to produce healthy children and thus to reproduce the race, the nation and the empire simultaneously.106

Relationships between nation and empire are perhaps most evident in non-

European nations that, like Canada, had their borders drawn by imperialist European nations. Canada's existence first as a French and British colony and settler society and later as an officially multicultural nation was and is neither a phenomenon of ancient origin nor an historical inevitability. Instead, Canada is largely the result, to borrow Chief

Potts's words from above, of a "squabble between white men over land that doesn't belong to them." Yet as critical theorists of the nation have shown, Canada has come to make sense as a white, predominantly English-speaking country through interacting webs of law, policy, discourse and practice.107 In Canada, as elsewhere, race and language work together to naturalize the nation form. As Sunera Thobani argues, Canadian national identity is produced through the construction of white people as "exalted subjects" or nationals and the constitution of Aboriginal peoples and people of colour as the nation's external others.108 Thus white people have been made to feel "at home" in Canada at the expense of both Aboriginal peoples, upon whose dispossession settlement depends, and people of colour, who, like white people, have become inhabitants of this land through processes of migration but who, unlike white people, have not been welcomed either by dominant settler groups or by Canadian law.109

Homi Bhabha warns us, however, that far from being a coherent and stable form, the nation is full of ambivalence, ambivalence that stems from the contradictory ways

56 that national unity is constructed within nationalist discourse. Nationalism as what

Bhabha calls a pedagogical discourse claims the origin of the nation to be fixed in antiquity or nature, and situates the people as the object of the discourse. But the nation must also exert its authority and unity in the present through the performative discourse of the nation. This nationalist discourse relies on the people not as objects, but as subjects whose daily activities must be performed as the activities of the nation, thus demonstrating the "living principle of the people as that continual process by which the national life is redeemed and signified as a repeating and reproductive process."110 The reliance of the nation on the performativity of the people makes it vulnerable to interventions and challenges by those placed on the margins of the nation.

While the Canadian nation has been built upon the marginalization of First

Nations peoples from their lands and their confinement onto tiny reserves,111 as well as upon the attempt to attract British settlers and to restrict the entry of Black and Asian

117 people, this project has not been entirely successful. The Canadian nation is and has always been an ambivalent entity, contested by those at the margins. For one thing,

Aboriginal peoples have not gone away and have instead fought for their lands, struggled for legal recognition under Canadian law, maintained their identities, worked for wages and employed a number of other strategies for survival within a nation formed on their 1 IT dispossession. Also, as Frances Abele and Daiva Stasiulis have pointed out, from the early days of nation-building, the desire of officials to create Canada as a British settler nation conflicted with their need to have labourers who would do the work of building 57 the new nation.114 Since British immigrants failed to arrive in great numbers, Canada permitted the entry of people from throughout Europe and, in limited numbers, from

China, Japan and India.115 Various head taxes and immigration restrictions ensured that

only a limited number of non-European people could arrive in Canada and, even when they did arrive, they were excluded by law from achieving full citizenship status. For

instance, Asians were denied the right to vote until 1947.116 Non-European immigrants also received worse wages than Europeans for the same work. In British Columbia in the early 1900s, for example, sawmill employees of Japanese origin were paid $1 per day while the general scale was $1.50 to $2 per day.117 Yet in spite of these barriers and the virulent white settler racism maintaining them,118 members of "non-preferred races" persisted in their efforts to enter Canada and to attain citizenship rights.119 It is largely because of their struggles that Canada did not become a white settler society. They performed a different kind of nation. The most famous though certainly not the only challenge to racist Canadian immigration policy took place when, in 1914, almost four hundred potential immigrants from India boarded the privately-commissioned Komagata

Mam and set sail for Vancouver, thereby challenging Canada's continuous journey regulation that was intended to block immigration from India. This regulation required that in order to be allowed into Canada, immigrants had to come directly from their country of origin. Though the rule appeared on the surface not to be discriminatory, the

Canadian government intended it to be so, and forced the only company running a shipping line between India and Canada to halt this service, thus making it impossible for

58 Indians to make a continuous journey, and therefore to immigrate to Canada. The passengers on the Komagata Maru, in spite of their continuous journey and status as

British subjects, were denied entry to Canada.120 In this case, as Bhabha might say, the pedagogical discourse of the nation won out over the performative.

Sunera Thobani makes the important point that although non-European immigrants often experienced European colonialism in their countries of origin, they also contributed to the colonization of Aboriginal peoples as they fought for inclusion into dominant Canadian society. Thus while Aboriginal peoples and people of colour made a white settler Canada impossible, they did not necessarily share similar goals.

Nevertheless, by the 1960s, the efforts of people of colour for citizenship rights and

Aboriginal peoples for self-determination coalesced with a number of other forces, including Quebec's sovereignty movement, to cause a "crisis of legitimacy" for

Canada. If a white settler nation had always eluded proponents of such a Canada, this was the case more than ever in the 1960s and 1970s. Following World War II, it became both economically and politically necessary for Canada, as well as other western nations, to abandon racially discriminatory policies. Labour shortages in the post-war period of economic growth meant that Canada had to look beyond Europe to find sufficient sources of labour, with the result that immigration from the third world increased substantially.

Politically speaking, in the post-war era of decolonization and civil rights, it was no longer possible publicly to defend either racist citizenship and immigration policies or genocidal practices toward Aboriginal peoples.124 An "international crisis of whiteness"

59 followed World War II, as western nations that had fought against fascism were forced to

question the racial thinking embedded in their own national myths and state policies.

This questioning, along with pressure by groups marginalized in and by the nation, led to

changes in both policy and national imagining.

In the early 1960s, immigration policies began to emphasize Canadian labour

market needs instead of racial preferences, and the current point system was put in place

in the mid-1970s. Changes in immigration policy have significantly altered immigration

patterns. Whereas ninety percent of immigrants to Canada prior to 1961 were born in

Europe, European-born people made up only twenty-five percent of Canadian immigrants

between 1981 and 1991, with countries in Asia comprising six of the ten largest source

countries for Canadian immigration.126 In 1951, after the repeal of Canadian laws that

made it illegal for Aboriginal people to raise funds to advance their land claims through

the Canadian court system, the Nisga'a Tribal Council brought their claim before the

Supreme Court of British Columbia. After a series of appeals, the Supreme Court of

Canada determined in 1973 that Aboriginal title had existed .prior to the arrival of

Europeans, and three judges allowed that this title might still exist.127 This decision, along with First Nations' vehement rejection of the federal government's 1969 White Paper designed to eliminate the distinct legal status of Aboriginal peoples, prompted an overhaul of Canada's system of negotiating land claims.128 Land claims proliferated across Canada during this time and played a role in the decolonization movement taking place around the world. The court case of the TAA that I will analyse in chapter 5 can

60 be seen as part of this larger indigenous struggle toward self-determination. Although the resolution of many of these cases remains to be seen, the recognition of Aboriginal rights in the Constitution Act, 1982, and recent court decisions in favour of First Nations peoples, however imperfect, indicate that Aboriginal peoples have had success in their struggle for land and recognition and that their challenges to a white settler Canada have been effective.130

Although changes in immigration and citizenship policies in the 1960s and 1970s and the constitutional recognition of Aboriginal rights in 1982 can be seen as moves away from a white settler nation-building project, scholars have argued that the policy of multiculturalism that emerged in the 1970s in fact worked both to manage the crisis of nationalism brought about by the challenges of marginalized groups, and to re-centre whiteness as the normal mode of being in Canada.131 Not only did multiculturalism allow

Canada to reconstitute itself as a tolerant and generous nation in the face of changing political times and criticism to the contrary, but it also created cultural difference as the feature that most significantly defined those considered "multicultural." So defined, the political identities of marginalized groups within the nation became reduced to cultural identities that could then be managed by the very state responsible for these groups' historical colonization and/or marginalization. Discussions of historical discrimination were elided in favour of celebrations of difference, with the result that white citizens could appear as heroic subjects who "tolerated" the difference surrounding them. Within this framework, people of colour and Aboriginal peoples were again positioned as

61 outsiders to the nation, a positioning that continues today: these people must be tolerated rather than tolerant. The limits of tolerance come sharply into focus when we pay attention, for example, to the treatment of Muslim Canadians by state officials, the popular media and white Canadians following the 2001 attacks on the World Trade

Center.133

The Canadian nation has been and remains a powerful construct, but it has also shifted over time and been shaped by, indeed built through, struggle. While race has always played a significant role in the constitution of the nation, the nation form also depends on specifically gendered, classed and (hetero)sexualized constructions of citizenship. As Mary Layoun states, the nationalist question of who belongs is not "only a proposition about those who do and do not belong to and thus within the nation. It is also about where and how the constituent members of the nation are situated from within."134

Layoun contends that the "very basic rhetorical and organizational principles of the nation are tropes for and expressions of gendered power," where heterosexual men are imagined to protect their women, children and land from danger through public participation in defending the private sphere. Men's mobility is contrasted with women's fixedness. Anne McClintock concurs, arguing that whereas men are represented within nationalist discourse as the "progressive agent of national modernity," women are constructed as the "authentic body of national tradition," a representational practice that naturalizes a gendered status quo even as it makes the nation appear simultaneously ancient and modern. Of course, not all women are considered equally national. Enakshi

62 Dua shows, for example, how the early twentieth century debate about whether or not

Indian women should be allowed into Canada centred on whether or not these women posed a threat to the white settler nation-building project. Those who said that Indian women should not be allowed to enter the country gave the reason that the entry of Indian women would encourage Indian men to remain in Canada and produce "ethnic communities" rather than returning to India once they were no longer needed as labourers. On the other hand, advocates for the inclusion of Indian women suggested that if these women were not allowed into Canada, then Indian men would become involved

• • 1 "^7 with white women, thus threatening the white nation with miscegenation. As Dua points out, in both sides of the argument Indian women were racialized and gendered as the creators of ethnic communities, but her argument also makes clear the fact that not all women are equally welcomed as nationals.

Women have also contested their various places in the nation and thus altered the shape of the nation. Middle- and upper-class white women in Canada as well as working- class white men historically made their claims for inclusion into the nation by supporting a racist nation-building project. British women during the Victorian era similarly tied their feminist aspirations to the British imperial project, constructing Indian women as backwards and in need of saving by their more advanced sisters even as Indian women struggled against British imperialism.139 Aboriginal women's struggles have centred largely on regaining the status, lands and rights that were taken from them under the

Indian Act.140 It is important to recognize the unfinished and contested character of the 63 nation precisely because the nation has the ability to appear fixed and finished, and thus impossible to alter. Indeed, Edward Said's important work has been criticized for making colonialism seem a complete and totalizing project, an analysis that leaves little room for figuring anti-colonial resistance.141 Other scholars have provided more nuanced studies of the operation of colonial rule, showing that European powers did not merely impose preordained systems of rule that everywhere operated effectively and similarly. Instead, colonialism was and remains a highly differentiated affair, shaped by time and geography, by the systems and subjects of colonizing nations and colonized peoples, and constituted through contact and struggle rather than by the simple imposition of control by one group of people over another. Further, while race is a central analytical concern of studies of colonialism, scholars have also shown that the racialized binary logic of colonized/colonizer does not sufficiently account for the classed, gendered and sexualized inflections of colonial rule.142 The same is true for the nation. But given the problem of the post in postcolonialism,143 it seems unnecessary to make a firm distinction between colonialism and the nation in the Canadian context, since the two are endlessly bound up together. The colonizers, after all, never left.

Critical scholarship on the nation provides for this thesis important insights about the connections between imperialism and nation-building and the processes through which the nation form and nationalist exclusions are naturalized (and contested).

Literature specific to the Canadian nation also provides a contextual background for the dynamics of Temagami that I explore in the following chapters. Critical scholars of the

64 nation, however, do not often pay attention to how the land itself is produced in

nationalist discourse.144 This is a significant gap, given that the nation is not only an

imagined community, but also an entity enacted on the land. The land, the physical space

of the nation, is exactly what nationals are made to feel at home within and from which

racialized others and Aboriginal peoples have been historically excluded. This thesis

attempts to grapple with the making of the Canadian nation in one specific place by

attending to how non-human nature is constructed alongside other social categories like race and gender.145

A focus on land, and in particular on relationships among differently located people within what has become Canada and the land that we share (albeit unequally), might also allow critical scholars of the nation to attend more carefully to the struggles of

Aboriginal peoples. Bonita Lawrence and Enakshi Dua have recently argued that anti- racist scholarship in Canada does not always take seriously the colonization of Aboriginal peoples upon which the Canadian nation was and continues to be premised. In part, they contend, this is the result of scholars' failure to take up the contested character of

"Canadian" land and to recognize that the reclamation of lands is central to First Nations' struggles for self-determination.146 By paying close attention to the processes through which TAA lands became and continue to make sense as Canadian, I hope to demonstrate one way that critical scholarship on the nation might more effectively support the anti- colonial efforts of Aboriginal peoples.

65 Social Nature

The second body of literature that I employ in this thesis begins from the premise that nature is social. Though seemingly counterintuitive—what is nature if not natural?—the concept of social nature has in recent decades gained popularity among scholars interested in examining the "traffic between what we have come to know historically as nature and culture."147 These scholars contend that the cordoning off of nature from society does not make analytical or practical sense, since, as Bruce Braun states, "Far from two separate domains, there is but one, a hybrid realm crisscrossed by flows of energy and matter and the movements of animals, plants, people, machines, and ideas."148

Indeed, nature and society are everywhere implicated in one another, from the lake water piped into city-dwellers' homes and the trees-turned-newspapers on their doorsteps, to gorillas who know American Sign Language and polar bears who walk the streets of

Churchill, Manitoba. The appearance of two separate realms is not pre-given, but is an effect of the destructive, western-derived human preoccupation with what separates humanity from the rest of nature.149 Yet in our daily lives, we often take for granted the

"potent mythic poles" of nature and culture.150 Certainly I did when I left my home in the city to go canoeing in Temagami nature. Never once did I think that the wilderness I visited was, as Cronon states of wilderness more generally, "quite profoundly a human creation."151 This is not to say that humans physically made the trees, waters, rocks and moose that I encountered on my trip, or that humans are the only subjects involved in the

66 production of nature, but rather to assert that it is impossible to go to an ahistorical,

apolitical, external nature, because such a place does not exist.

While some western environmentalists fear that understanding nature as socially

constructed undermines environmentalists' efforts to save nature, thus giving humans

licence to transform nature in ecologically destructive ways, many social nature

scholars consider that positing nature as an external entity that must be protected by (and

from) humans does more harm than good.153 As discussed above, in a framework that

defines nature and humanity as mutually exclusive categories, any human use of nature

figures as abuse, and important conversations about how humans might live respectfully

and responsibly in "our complex socioecological worlds" cannot take place.154 Further,

the fiction of a culture-free nature often hides the historical processes and relationships of

power and inequality through which nature has come to appear as separate from culture.

Cronon's troubling of wilderness does an excellent job of countering this escape from

history. He traces western environmentalism's concern with wilderness to a specifically

masculine bourgeois form of nineteenth century anti-modernism, and demonstrates how

elite Euro-American subjects constructed wilderness in their own image. Cronon makes it

clear that wilderness was not always already there by pointing out the dependence of

uninhabited wilderness on the prior removal of First Nations peoples from their

territories. Cronon's article makes clear not only that wilderness was invented, but also for whom it was invented and, importantly, whose histories, bodies and claims needed to

disappear before it could become properly wild.155

67 The proposition that nature is social is useful for this thesis because it opens up the possibility of questioning Temagami's existence not only as a national space, but also as a wilderness space. In addition, social nature theory allows me to analyse how

Temagami has been produced simultaneously as wild and national, and thus to attend to the relationships between land and the nation that are missing in many critical studies of the nation. Further, and as Braun states, an acknowledgement of the social construction of nature necessitates attention not only to how nature has been made, but also "in whose interests, and with what consequences (for people, plants, and animals alike)."155 Social nature scholarship thus compels me to examine how issues of justice intersect with environmental concerns, something that scholars of environmental justice and indigenous environmentalism also consider a necessary part of working toward more just futures for all species on the planet.

To the social nature literature, this thesis offers an analysis of the cultural politics of nature in the Canadian context. Bruce Braun, in his The Intemperate Rainforest:

Nature, Culture, and Power on Canada's West Coast, has a similar focus, although he concentrates on British Columbia whereas I study an Ontario locality. Braun details historical and contemporary processes through which the British Columbia forest has come to exist as a site of nature. He argues that the making of the forest as a natural space has had the effect of displacing First Nations' cultural understandings of and claims to the same land, thus authorizing non-Native people—the government, the forest industry and environmentalists—to regulate, harvest, and speak on behalf of the BC forest. His book

68 convincingly demonstrates that BC's temperate rainforest is a product of history and

politics rather than simply a self-evident truth. In spite of his interrogation of the

naturalness of the BC forest, however, Braun has little to say about the provincial or

national character of the forest. As a result, while he is able effectively to show that

colonial relationships between Natives and non-Natives continue to operate in the present

to the detriment of BC First Nations and non-human nature, he offers little insight into

how a specifically racialized and gendered nation-building project has authorized some

non-Native British Columbians more than others to struggle over, and thus to constitute,

the BC forest.

In his chapter on the 1990s environmentalist campaign to "save" the temperate

rainforest, for example, he begins by questioning why "white, middle-class professionals

(or their children)" were predominantly the ones speaking publicly as nature's defenders

in a territory claimed by the Nuu-chah-nulth.158 The chapter goes on to explore how the

constructions of nature and indigeneity embedded in the environmentalist struggle left

little room for members of the Nuu-chah-nulth nations to articulate their own

relationships with their territories. Unfortunately, Braun does not further interrogate the

race politics of the environmentalist struggle. While he queries why white rather than

Native people gained legitimacy as the forest's champions, he does not inquire into the place of Black or Asian people in this struggle. Consequently, it appears that the only tensions within BC society are those between First Nations and "everyone else." That

69 "everyone else" is represented as white and middle class does not appear to pose a problem for Braun.

Similarly, in his analysis of the public relations campaign of a forestry company,

Braun shows that the company uses the language of science and efficiency in order to authorize itself as the logical custodian of the "public" forest. He argues that the coherence of the forestry company's representation depends upon a fictional unified public in whose best interests the forest can be managed.159 By creating such a public, the company is able to avoid the question of its own legitimacy as forest manager, and to emphasize instead its ability to manage the forest well, thus disavowing the colonial history that made it possible for the company to manage the forest in the first place.

Braun states that it is through the abstraction of the forest from "its specific cultural and political contexts" that it can be relocated within "the abstract, rhetorical spaces of the province and the nation."160 This relocation is then made to appear natural within forest company rhetoric in a process that simultaneously naturalizes the "territorial claim of the nation-state."161 Although Braun recognizes that the forest company's "public" is fictional not only because of divisions in BC society between Natives and newcomers but also because of race, class and gender divisions, his argument focuses exclusively on the erasure of Aboriginal territorialities that makes possible the naturalization of the forest and the nation-state. As a result of this focus, he fails to analyse the specific kind of nation-state that is normalized through forest industry representations. One gets the sense that while BC First Nations continue to experience the effects of colonialism, the rest of

70 the BC "public" is fairly homogenous, or at least equally British Columbian and

Canadian. Indeed, in an earlier discussion, Braun comments that postcoloniality means different things for different subjects, citing the election of a South Asian provincial NDP leader as evidence that "although it was now possible to have an Indian (South Asian) premier, the election of an 'Indian' (aboriginal) premier was unthinkable." While

Braun is correct in noting the "vast differences between the experience of indigenous and diasporic communities in British Columbia,"163 he makes this comment at the expense of a deeper analysis of the racializing dynamics at work in the building of the Canadian nation. He is therefore unable to account for the specifically nationalist (rather than only colonial) practices through which some non-Native people more than others gained access to the benefits of Aboriginal dispossession.

In Making Native Space: Colonialism, Resistance, and Reserves in British

Columbia, Cole Harris shows that different administrations—first colonial and later provincial and federal—had very different impacts on Aboriginal peoples living in what became British Columbia. His book thus shows the importance of paying specific attention to the forms, including the nation form, that colonial rule takes, an emphasis missing in Braun's text. Like Braun's work, however, Making Native Space presents a

British Columbia divided neatly in two, with Native people on one side, confined onto reserves, and "virtually everyone else" on the other side, enjoying the privileges of

Native dispossession. Harris's text in fact quite brilliantly traces the making of Native space, that is, of Native reserves, in British Columbia, demonstrating how settlers'

71 demands for land and colonial and later provincial governments' determination to provide that land brought about the confinement of Aboriginal peoples onto tiny reserves.

As Harris puts it, one human geography was "superseded by another, both on the ground and in the imagination."165 By 1938, only about one third of one percent of the total area of British Columbia was Native space: the rest had become available for settlement and development.166 One gains in reading Harris's text a palpable sense of how colonial and nation-building projects played out on the ground, often in violent ways. Less clear in his work is a sense of what kind of space the rest of British Columbia, the province's non-

Native space, became. Some of it presumably became the temperate rainforest that is the subject of Braun's book.

This thesis draws on the ideas of both Braun and Harris, while attempting to remain mindful of the fact that the space and body politic of Canada have never been the homogeneous entities that Braun and Harris seem to assume, or at least do not interrogate, in their studies. I attempt in the pages that follow to provide an analysis of the making of one national wilderness space while remaining cognizant of the critical scholarship on the nation discussed above. This means attending where possible to the ways in which a specifically racialized and gendered nation-building project informed the creation of Temagami as a site of wild Canadian nature.

A fairly recent collection, Race, Nature, and the Politics of Difference, investigates the multiple ways that "race and nature work together as a terrain of power."167 The collection's editors, Donald S. Moore, Anand Pandian and Jake Kosek,

72 begin with the premise that neither race nor nature is natural. These categories exist only as "historical artifacts: assemblages of material, discourse, and practice irreducible to a universal essence."168 Yet the editors also recognize that both race and nature have the ability to appear natural, and that, working together, "race and nature legitimate particular forms of political representation, reproduce social hierarchies, and authorize violent exclusions." For this reason, they insist that the so-called truths of race and nature "must be rigorously denatured, [and] robbed of their naturalizing power," in part through analyses that attend to the ways that race and nature "become articulatedtogether in particular historical moments."169 Race, Nature, and the Politics of Difference is instructive to this thesis because, like the thesis, the collection brings together critical literature on race, colonialism, nature and nation in order to explore specific articulations of race and nature. While contributors to the volume, by analysing the workings of race and nature, disrupt the naturalizing force of these two concepts, the collection as a whole indicates that race and nature come together in ways that are often unpredictable. This unpredictability suggests a need for further geographically- and historically-located studies of the co-constitution of race and nature. This thesis provides one such study.

A Word of Caution on Objectifying/Subjectifying Nature

In some ways, social nature scholarship fits together nicely with Foucault's adamant refusal to accept the obviousness of things that appear self-evident. While the concept of social nature may now seem "passe, and... anything but shocking" to human geographers, for most people, including many human geography students, this idea

73 remains fairly obscure. Like Foucault, social nature scholars have historicized and

denaturalized something that many would consider part of the bedrock of existence.

Indeed, Kay Anderson has criticized critical race theorists for denaturalizing race, a social

category that draws much of its power from its naturalizing force, while leaving intact the

category of nature itself.172 Even antiessentialists, it seems, assume the innateness of

nature. Foucault, it is said, simply took no interest.173 Yet, according to Eric Darier,

Foucault's work has had a great, albeit indirect, impact on recent writings that attempt to

think beyond human subjects and institutions.174 Some scholars, for instance, have

extended Foucault's concepts of biopower and governmentality to discuss how non- i human life is also normalized and disciplined through the techniques and tactics of

modern power. Others have studied nature through his more general approach of

questioning the very things that seem the most obviously given.176 For many of these

theorists, part of the motivation of tracking nature's production lies in demonstrating how

power operates to separate out what counts as nature from what counts as culture in

specific places and times, and in showing how the division between nature and culture

has benefited some groups, human and non-human both, at the expense of others. In

revealing the operation of power within discourses of nature, these scholars

simultaneously participate in the struggle to redefine nature and culture. If the current

truth about nature is produced rather than natural, contingent rather than necessary, then

it becomes possible to imagine and to work toward other truths. This is part of the

possibility and promise of Foucault's genealogical method, also: in showing that things

74 "weren't as necessary as all that," students of social nature can begin, in Haraway's words, "to envision a different and less hostile order of relationships among people, animals, technologies, and land."178

Foucault's insights seem very helpful, then, for those interested in studying the social construction of nature. But his work offers little guidance for considering non- human nature as a subject, or, more accurately, as multiple subjects. His understanding that one becomes a subject and contests power relationships through discourse leaves little room for conceptualizing either the subjectivity of nature or how non-human nature might contest its own objectification. While nature may be "highly articulate," it is also

"speechless, without language, in the human sense." How, then, might we humans recognize nature's multiple articulations? Certainly any political project that has as a goal more just relations between humans and non-human nature must not fall into the trap of treating non-human nature merely as an object. To treat nature as an object is to repeat the same nature-culture dualism that authorizes the view that nature exists only as "the raw material of culture, [to be] appropriated, preserved, enslaved, exalted, or otherwise made flexible for disposal by culture in the logic of capitalist colonialism." To consider nature as "an active subject," on the other hand, as "an actor, a presence, a subject that needs to be taken into consideration as an equal rather than an object, as integral rather than background," is a necessary part of a politics that aims to transform hierarchical

101 relationships between nature and culture. At the same time, however, it is not a simple matter to write about non-human subjects as agents, for it is always in human terms that

75 nature is given agency. Mainstream environmentalists' tendency to speak as nature's defenders often elides questions of power and privilege: Who may speak on behalf of what nature? When the answer to this question is—as Braun contends that it often is— predominantly middle-class, white people speaking on behalf of wild nature, then it becomes necessary to attend to the colonial (and nationalist) displacements and erasures through which this form of nature's protection became possible.

In this thesis, I focus on human constructions of non-human nature because it is through human discourses and practices that Temagami has become a site of Canadian nature, a construction that has had implications for humans and non-humans both. But human constructions of Temagami nature are not endlessly flexible and instead, as I strive to show in the following pages, are shaped by the trees, animals, plants, waters and rocks that comprise the region. For the non-human nature of the area, Temagami certainly exceeds its (diverse) human constructions. While I make no attempt to speak on behalf of the non-human world, it is mere hubris to think that the human understanding of

Temagami pines as, for example, valuable timber commodities or tourist destinations encompasses all that those trees are. Certainly the red squirrels that live in them would consider this an obvious point.

Writing about Temagami

Most existing academic accounts of Temagami take the region to be self-evident, and analyse conflicts as having taken place over a commonly understood territory. The most comprehensive of such works is The Temagami Experience: Recreation, Resources, and

76 Aboriginal Rights in the Northern Ontario Wilderness, by Bruce W. Hodgins and Jamie

Benidickson. This text is an historical account of the development of the district and the efforts to implement management plans and policies to regulate forestry, mining,

Aboriginal activities, settlement, and tourism. Hodgins and Benidickson argue that from the mid-nineteenth century, recreational users, resource interests, provincial officials, and the Teme-Augama Anishnabai have all contributed to the development of the Temagami area. They further contend that due to the "relative isolation and ruggedness" of

Temagami nature, "those interested in the landscape and resources of the district have preserved or been forced to preserve a balance, at least until recent times [the 1970s]."

Hodgins and Benidickson's account is a story of competing interests, where different groups have met and clashed over their opposing ideas of what should happen in

1 R4

Temagami nature. By assuming nature to exist as a stable (isolated, rugged) object over which a human struggle is waged, however, Hodgins and Benidickson fail to comprehend how Temagami came into existence as a site of nature in and through the configurations of discourse and practice that they discuss in their book. As a result of this failure, their work does not fully account for how and for whom—through what relationships of power—Temagami became an isolated, rugged site of nature. Though the authors voice their support for Aboriginal rights in Temagami, they also suggest that there exists a need to balance the multiple interests in the Temagami region.

I argue in contrast that a much more thorough interrogation of the discourses and relationships of power that have produced the Temagami region is in order. This kind of 77 analysis leads to a challenge of Hodgins and Benidickson's contention that various interest groups preserved a balance until the early 1970s, when the Ontario government proposed to build a four-season resort in the region, and the TAA, cottagers and environmentalists opposed the development. By comprehending the history of

Temagami as a story of different interest groups, Hodgins and Benidickson do not fully account for the marginalization of the TAA from their land that began long before the

1970s, or for the fact that some conflicting interest groups have more in common than it seems at first glance. For instance, and as shall be taken up in further depth in chapters 2 and 3, while present-day canoeists may oppose logging in the region, wilderness tourism and industrial forestry in Temagami both have their roots in European colonialism and a white settler nation-building project. A solution to contemporary conflicts in Temagami that merely suggests a balancing of diverse interests risks reproducing colonial and nationalist relationships of power and inequality. The previously-mentioned Temagami

Area Working Group was premised on the idea of balancing interests. Not surprisingly, the TAA refused to participate in the meetings of this group. The First Nation had no desire to be one voice among many, but rather wanted to have its claim to land recognized and respected by non-Native governments and visitors to TAA territory.

Jamie Lawson takes a different approach to analysing Temagami, but agrees with

Hodgins and Benidickson in their thesis that prior to the 1970s, different interest groups co-existed relatively well in Temagami. While Hodgins and Benidickson begin their story in the distant past and move toward the present, Lawson commences with a more

78 contemporary problem and looks to history for the problem's resolution. Lawson wants to understand why two seemingly similar land conflicts that happened in the late 1980s, one in Temagami and the other in Algonquin Park, proceeded in such different directions.

Both conflicts, Lawson observes, involved First Nations, environmentalists and logging interests, and both sites are popularly understood by outsiders as part of the "northern wilderness."I88 He argues that one important reason for the divergence is that in

Temagami, the TAA and some non-Native environmentalists had experienced the region in similar ways, and were therefore able to forge alliances with one another in opposition to industrial logging, whereas in Algonquin Park, the Golden Lake Algonquins and environmentalists did not share these "social and spatial interactions with the land," and therefore did not side together. Lawson refers to the space shared by the TAA and non-

Native people as "nastawgan," a term borrowed from the TAA, and he characterizes nastawgan as the watershed-defined network of winter paths, portages and canoe routes around which traditional TAA life was organized. Nastawgan space, he elaborates, emerged and continues through the movements of its users and their interactions with the land and with other species. Lawson argues that nastawgan survived the spatial reordering threatened in the 1970s by the resort development because, in addition to TAA members, newcomers, especially canoe trippers, used nastawgan, thereby contributing to its production. He cites as an example that youth camps in the area have a long tradition of canoe tripping, and mentions that Aboriginal staff members led many of these canoe trips through nastawgan. Because these newcomers experienced and appreciated

79 nastawgan space and, through it, developed meaningful relationships with TAA members, they were willing to fight alongside the TAA against the resort project that put nastawgan in peril.

While I agree with Lawson's assertion that space is made through interactions among people and between people and non-human nature, I would like to note a couple of difficulties I have with his argument. First, in contending that TAA members and non-

Native recreationalists have experienced the Temagami region in similar ways, Lawson does not pay adequate attention to the dissimilarities between Aboriginal and non-

Aboriginal ways of knowing the region. My analysis, on the other hand, particularly in chapter 3, shows that studying these dissimilarities is essential for understanding how tourist-TAA relationships were made possible by and helped to secure colonial and national relations among people and between people and land. I will explore the idea that, while tourists and TAA members certainly travelled along the same paths, this does not mean that they experienced the region in similar ways. I will also consider the consequences of the differences in their experiences for the making of race, nature and nation in Temagami. Lawson's suggestion that the sharing between Aboriginal and non-

Aboriginal people of spatial interactions leads to alliances between the two groups does not pan out in practice. As, for instance, Mary Louise Pratt has shown in other contexts, the fact that indigenous people have travelled alongside European explorers, usually leading them on their missions of "discovery," has not led to a common purpose between colonized and colonizing people. My second concern with Lawson's argument is his

80 easy assumption that the TAA and environmentalists did in fact become allies in the late

1980s. Considering that, as discussed above, the TAA distinguished their struggle from the actions of environmentalists, Lawson's assumption, of the two groups' allegiance to one another perhaps hides more than it elucidates. My thesis will go some distance to explaining why the interests of the TAA and environmentalists in the 1980s were not the same.

Members of the TAA have also written about Temagami, or, more precisely, n'Daki Menan. Madeline Theriault, for instance, who was born on n'Daki Menan in

1908, wrote an autobiography called Moose to Moccasins: The Story ofKa Kita Wa Pa

No Kwe. In it, she shares vivid memories of her childhood and young adulthood on n'Daki Menan, describing, for instance, how she and members of her community prepared food and made clothing, what activities they did for fun, how they travelled through n'Daki Menan during different seasons, and important events that took place in her life. She also describes her later life, when she moved away from n'Daki Menan to

North Bay. In her lively and engaging personal account, Theriault shows herself to be a strong, creative and resourceful woman who is part of a dynamic and changing community. Many, though certainly not all, of the changes she describes are the result of non-Native encroachments onto TAA territory. Yet Theriault does not present the TAA as passive in the face of change, but rather describes how the TAA responded in different ways to different events. She talks about how TAA men guided tourists, for example, and how many TAA members, including herself, played important parts in the making of a

81 1930 movie that was filmed on n'Daki Menan. Not only did TAA members appear in the film, but they also built the set and prepared the food for the actors and directors, and

Theriault and three other women made "one hundred complete Indian outfits in one month for use in the picture."194 The film, called The Silent Enemy, is a story about pre- contact Ojibway life in which the Native tribe depicted struggles against the "silent enemy" of starvation.195 On its initial run, the film, which is now available on DVD, sold itself as an "authentic" depiction of Native life, but Theriault wryly observes that while the "picture was really a lot of fun to do," it was "not very authentic. When I think of some of the things they had us do, from dancing barefoot in the snow to carrying a bear cub in a canoe while shooting rapids, I really wonder. It's too bad they didn't pay more attention to us who knew better."196 Theriault's account interrupts the prevalent assumption that Temagami is a site of nature rather than culture, and instead shows a n'Daki Menan inhabited and respectfully used by the TAA. It also shows the TAA as a changing rather than static people, a people with a number of different opinions and ways of participating in life on and off n'Daki Menan and, centrally, a people that inhabit the past, present and future of n'Daki Menan.

Chief Gary Potts and TAA member Mary Laronde offer similar perspectives on the TAA and n'Daki Menan, though their narratives are less personal than Theriault's.197

Chief Potts gives a history of the TAA's land claim. His story of non-Native infringements on TAA territory and ways of life begins not in the 1970s, but in the 1870s, when Chief Tonene first brought the TAA claim before the Canadian government. This.

82 thesis will go over much of the history that Chief Potts describes, but it is important to note that, while this history is recorded and available at many libraries, it is not widely known. Part of the purpose of this thesis, then, is to try to show how the story told by

Chief Potts has become excluded from popular knowledge. Chief Potts focuses his writing not only on the history of the TAA struggle for land and recognition, but he also centres relationships between the TAA and n'Daki Menan by explaining the TAA's understanding of land stewardship. Land stewardship, according to Chief Potts, means using the land in a way that ensures that future generations may also rely on the land.198

This definition of land stewardship fits well with the traditional practices of the

TAA on n'Daki Menan, which involved individual families taking care of sections of n'Daki Menan, ensuring the continuity of species that provided the TAA with life.199

These species included but were not limited to: animals like moose, bear, beaver and rabbit for food, clothing, trade and medicine; fish and birds for food; red and white pine, cedar, birch, poplar and maple trees for making things like homes, barns, utensils, baby boards, tables and chairs, toboggans and snowshoes; birchbark for canoes, containers and cutting boards; pine pitch as an adhesive; maple trees for paddles and to tap for syrup; spruce tree roots for thread and fish nets; and berries and other plants for food and medicine.200 Mary Laronde's article elaborates on the understanding between the TAA and n'Daki Menan, and she focuses on more recent attempts by the TAA to implement co-management of n'Daki Menan by the TAA and non-Native residents. She is hesitantly optimistic about joint stewardship, but she also insists that an essential part of shared

83 stewardship involves the TAA as sole stewards of a significant portion of their traditional territory. When TAA members tell the story, n'Daki Menan appears not as pristine

Canadian wilderness, but as the TAA's homeland to live on and use.

84 Chapter 2

Boundaries Drawn; The Invention of Temagami Timber Nature and

Concern about Scattered Indians in the Forest Reserve

Introducing the Temagami Forest Reserve

In 1901, the Ontario government created the Temagami Forest Reserve (TFR). The over two thousand square mile forest reserve was the third and largest reserve established under Ontario's 1898 Forest Reserves Act, an act that granted the province power to set aside portions of Crown land for the purpose of securing future timber supplies. The TFR centred geographically on Lake Temagami, with most of its boundaries contained within n'Daki Menan. In 1903, the province expanded the forest reserve to almost six thousand square miles, at which time the TFR boundaries engulfed almost all but the southernmost portion of TAA territory (for TFR boundaries of 1901 and 1903, see Figure 2). Though the TFR and the forest reserve system of which it comprised a central part were initially celebrated by supporters of forest conversation as the beginning of scientific forestry in

Ontario, Hodgins and Benidickson show that Ontario's forest reserve system ultimately failed in its goal of producing timber according to a rational scientific model.

Management decisions within Ontario's forest reserves were made on an ad hoc basis from the beginning, and by the 1950s there existed next to no difference between management activities and regulations within and outside of forest reserves. In 1964, the provincial government abolished what was left of the forest reserve system.1 85 Hodgins and Benidickson and others contend that scientific forestry through the forest reserve system did not get off the ground in Temagami and elsewhere largely because the Liberals, under whose governance the Forest Reserves Act came to fruition, failed to create a management plan for the reserves before the Conservative government replaced the Liberals in 1905. The Conservatives brought with them a new set of government priorities, one of which was the settlement and resource development, rather than resource conservation, of northern Ontario. Not surprisingly, then, the Conservative government did not establish a long-term forest management policy for the forest reserves, and government support of forest conservation faded more generally. H. V.

Nelles argues more cynically that the Liberal government's commitment to conservation was little more than a facade in the first place, where the government talked a good conservationist line but in practice continued with the "same old convenient arrangement" of granting timber licences based on financial concerns rather than conservationist principles.

While both these arguments have merit—indeed, no plan for forest conservation in the forest reserves materialized under either the Liberals or the Conservatives—my analysis of the creation of the TFR comes from another direction. Instead of taking for granted the prior existence of the Temagami forest, I trace the processes through which the Temagami forest emerged as a site of valuable timber. By assuming the forest to exist as a stable entity over which governments determine (or fail to determine) policy, scholars like Nelles and Hodgins and Benidickson miss how the Forest Reserves Act and

86 the creation of the TFR in fad produced rather than merely regulated the forest. They

therefore do not fully investigate the relationships of power through which the Temagami

forest came to exist as a timber commodity. Consequently, it is possible for them to

contend that the TFR and the forest reserve system more generally did not amount to

much, though, as Hodgins, Gillis and Benidickson note, "not all was lost" of the forest

reserve system, since "parts of several of the great forest reserves reappeared as

provincial parks."4

I argue, in contrast, that while the creation of the TFR did not lead to the

successful implementation of forest conservation in Ontario, it did succeed in

constructing the region as a site of timber that figured into a burgeoning white settler

nation-building project. As such, the TFR had a great rather than marginal impact. It

shifted the region from its prior existence as the homeland of the TAA to a timber

commodity to be extracted for profit. Further, while others who have written about the

forest reserve system tend to assume that the early struggle for forest conservation in

Ontario was an inherently noble pursuit and that the ultimate failure of the forest reserve

system was a disappointment, I contend that, in order to comprehend fully how and for

whom the forest conservation movement made the forest, it is necessary to move beyond

an analysis that evaluates government policies based on the degree to which they satisfy

conservationist goals.5 Instead, conservationist discourses, policies and practices must themselves become objects of analysis, for, as I will show, they too can be embedded in

colonial relationships of power and inequality.

87 N'Daki Menan Prior to 1901

Before turning to analyse how the TFR worked to shift n'Daki Menan to a timber

resource, I argue that in spite of the fact that increasing numbers of non-Native people

encroached upon n'Daki Menan in the second half of the nineteenth century, the region

remained primarily under the control of the TAA during this time. Hodgins and

Benidickson similarly contend that in the nineteenth century, the Temagami region was

slowly "brought closer to the orbit of Canadian influences," but remained "just beyond

the Canadian periphery." This section presents the background information necessary for

the argument developed in the rest of the chapter. I base my case here on fur trade

records, survey reports and Department of Indian Affairs (DIA) correspondence for the

Temagami region. I rely also upon Hodgins and Benidickson's account and a report put

together by Jim Morrison, a historian hired by the TAA to conduct archival research for

the First Nation's court case.

The TAA lived as an organized society on n'Daki Menan for thousands of years

before non-Native people came along. They used and regulated the use of their lands

according to their system of laws, customs and beliefs. Within TAA oral tradition, n'Daki

Menan has always existed as the homeland of the TAA. Some non-TAA members,

Native and otherwise, have over the years married into or been adopted by the TAA, thus

becoming, according to TAA law, members of the First Nation.7 Since my focus is on the

processes through which Temagami became a natural and Canadian space, stories about

relationships between the TAA and n'Daki Menan that took place prior to contact with

88 non-Native people are beyond the scope of this thesis. I do not mean to suggest, however,

that these stories are somehow insignificant. Important in and of themselves for

describing the rich and varied lives of First Nations peoples, such stories are also often

vital for First Nations negotiating or litigating their land claims with Canadian

governments and courts and trying to reclaim their histories and identities within the

o

context of hundreds of years of colonial domination. In chapter 5,1 examine some of the

ways that the TAA mobilized their stories of their ancestors' pre-contact practices in

order to fight for present-day legal recognition of their claim to n'Daki Menan. For now, though, I concentrate on a later time.

When Europeans entered TAA territory, the region became a "contact zone" in

Mary Louise Pratt's sense of the term, a space where mutually constitutive relationships between European colonizers and TAA members began to take place within "radically asymmetrical relations of power." The TAA participated in the fur trade, beginning by at least the mid-seventeenth century, and they sometimes travelled long distances to reach both French and English traders.10 In 1834, the Hudson's Bay Company (HBC) established an outpost on Temagami Island in Lake Temagami, which was open intermittently from fall to spring until 1857 when the post began to be operated more regularly. Certainly the fur trade affected the life ways of the TAA. By 1876, for example, Chief Cana Chintz of the TAA was forced to ask for government assistance because his band faced starvation. The Chief indicated that beaver and deer were once plentiful but had all but disappeared with the encroachment of non-Native people onto 89 TAA lands. Nevertheless, the TAA retained a good deal of control over the fur trade, since HBC representatives depended heavily upon TAA members to trade furs with them instead of with the competition and to honour their debts from previous years. The TAA also got good returns for their furs by taking advantage of fur trade rivalries between the

HBC and independent traders, including Alexis (or Alex) Dokis, who will be further introduced below. A reading of the Temagami Post Journal indicates the level of anxiety experienced by post managers about TAA activities, from the kinds and numbers of animals they trapped, to where they might sell their furs, to what goods they might like to purchase from the post.

As well as largely dictating their own activities with respect to the fur trade, the

TAA comprised the majority of the population of n'Daki Menan prior to the creation of the TFR. Occasional survey parties entered the area, but, like most fur traders, they did not stay permanently and, like Hudson's Bay Company representatives, they depended on members of the TAA to guide them through n'Daki Menan.14 In the 1870s, representatives of the Geological Survey of Canada explored the Temagami area, and surveyors working for the Canadian Pacific Railway examined possible routes fairly close to Lake Temagami. In the next 30 years, Robert Bell and A. E. Barlow of the

Geological Survey of Canada travelled to the Temagami area a number of times in search of minerals and other exploitable resources, but their survey work in Temagami was not considered as important as their work in the Sudbury mining area.15 In 1867, with

Confederation, n'Daki Menan officially became part of the province of Ontario, though

90 the Ontario government considered the Temagami area, as well as much of northern

Ontario as a whole, "practically a terra incognita" before a 1900 survey was commissioned to take stock of exploitable resources in the district.16 When Indian agent

Charles Skene asked in 1880 for a good map of the Temagami area, his superior sent him the most recent map issued by the Ontario Department of Crown Lands.17 According to

Skene, this map showed that no survey work had been done north of the Indian reserve at

Lake Nipissing, and so Skene, with the help of local Aboriginal people, sketched a map of the Temagami area. Practically speaking, even as government-appointed surveyors checked out the resource potential of the region, including its potential for timber and mineral development, this was TAA territory; some non-Native people entered n'Daki

Menan for more or less time, but they required members of the TAA to guide them on survey expeditions and Hudson's Bay Company trips and to help them map the area.19

In the late 1870s, though the TAA continued to run their own affairs without much interference by non-Native people, Chief Tonene began to express his band's concern about increased lumbering activity close to TAA territory, and told Skene that the TAA desired to have some lands set aside for them before their territory was actually intruded upon by white lumbermen. Before this, Skene had never heard of the TAA. The band was not on his list of those to pay for treaty annuities. He suspected that the TAA's territory might have been included in the lands ceded under the Robinson-Huron Treaty, but indicated that members of the TAA said that they had "never ceded [their] Land and knew nothing about the Treaty." The government's intention in instigating the

91 Robinson-Huron and Robinson-Superior Treaties of 1850 was to extinguish Indian title to the lands between the north shore of Lakes Huron and Superior and the height of land, so that those lands could be exploited for mining purposes. Significantly, the government felt compelled make treaties with Aboriginal peoples in this area to avoid future

Aboriginal resistance to mining activity, as had occurred at Mica Bay on the north shore of Lake Superior. In 1849, after several years of failed attempts on the part of local

99

Ojibwa leaders to halt the prospecting and mining taking place on their territories, several hundred Ojibwa and Metis people, led by Chief Shinguacouse of Garden River, arrived at Mica Bay and used force to shut down operations at the Quebec Mining

Company. This episode caused colonial officials to hasten to negotiate a treaty with Chief 9"^

Shinguacouse and other Aboriginal leaders in the Lakes Huron and Superior regions.

Under the provisions of the Robinson-Huron Treaty, Ojibwa Chiefs were to cede all of their territory, with the exception of reserves for their bands to reside upon and cultivate.

In exchange for land cession, bands were to receive yearly treaty payments, or annuities, and the privilege to hunt and fish within the ceded territory so long as it was held by the

Crown instead of private companies or individuals.24

At the time of the signing of the Robinson-Huron Treaty, the British government was interested primarily in controlling the mining areas along the shores of Lakes

Superior and Huron rather than lands in the interior.25 Therefore, it is little surprise that the TAA were left out of the Robinson-Huron Treaty, since they occupied lands a fair distance from the shores of Lake Huron, lands that few non-Native people had reached by 92 that time. Yet the DIA felt quite sure that the TAA's lands existed within the specified

boundaries of the Robinson-Huron Treaty.26 J. C. Phipps, another Indian agent, told

Skene that many Indian bands found themselves in a situation similar to that of the TAA,

living in lands supposedly ceded under treaty but not receiving annuities or living on a

reserve.27 Skene seemed to think that the best solution to the problem articulated by Chief

Tonene would be to include the TAA in the Robinson-Huron Treaty, which would mean

that the TAA would cede their lands in exchange for a reserve and annuities. Skene noted

that it would be very difficult for the TAA if their lands were taken without a reserve

being set aside for them, something he considered inevitable unless the Indian

Department dealt with the matter in a timely fashion. He reminded Lawrence

Vankoughnet, the Deputy Superintendent General of Indian Affairs, of the urgency of the

situation by forwarding him a letter from a Hudson's Bay Company Officer which

indicated that TAA lands were "being ruined by whites and others disposed to hunt on

them," and later reporting that Chief Tonene had told him that trees had already been taken from a part of TAA territory. Skene, obviously feeling pressure from Chief

Tonene and other members of the TAA, who repeatedly asked him whether and when a reserve would be set aside for them, regularly urged Vankoughnet to do something about the TAA's situation.31

As a result of this pressure, Vankoughnet sent Skene to ascertain from Chief

Tonene the extent of country claimed by the TAA as their hunting grounds. Chief

Tonene pointed out his band's hunting territory on a map sketched by Skene and

93 corrected by both Chief Tonene and Gilbert Pawis, Skene's "intelligent Indian" guide.

Pawis as well as members of the Shawanaga and Lake Nipissing bands agreed with the

boundaries drawn by Chief Tonene, who insisted upon consulting with his band before

anything was decided regarding a reserve. Although Skene's instructions to outline the

TAA's territory obviously had something to do with setting aside a reserve for the band,

Skene carefully avoided saying anything about this to the TAA, telling them that he had

received no instructions about a reserve.33 But the next year, when Chief Tonene again

pressured Skene to do something about his band's situation, Skene once more wrote to

Vankoughnet, this time stating explicitly that he considered it only fair to make a treaty

with the TAA, since degradation of their territory would only increase over time.34

Vankoughnet in turn sent his correspondence with Skene on to the Superintendent

General of Indian Affairs, John A. Macdonald, and added that the land under discussion

did "not appear to have been ever surrendered by the Indians in question or by any other tribe" and that the area, though largely unsurveyed, appeared to be well-timbered. He

concluded by giving his opinion that the band had a right to fair compensation for their territory.35

When Skene learned that the matter of a reserve for the TAA had supposedly been engaging Macdonald prior to Macdonald's departure to Europe due to bad health, he wrote to Chief Tonene, telling the Chief that the delay in securing a reserve for the band had to do with the poor health of Macdonald, and asking him to detail the conditions under which his band would be willing to surrender their lands. Skene added that while

94 he could not accept any conditions Chief Tonene might offer, a list of conditions given by the band might expedite the settlement process.36 In response to Skene, Chief Tonene wrote that the band would like to receive money every year for as long as "you dispose of our Hunting Grounds," as well as a permanent reserve so that the band could make a farm to provide for the children.37 In 1882, the TAA, having heard nothing back from the DIA, applied to be placed on the list of annuitants under the Robinson-Huron Treaty, and in

TO 1883, the TAA began to receive regular treaty payments.

TQ

The matter of a reserve, however, proved more difficult for the TAA.jy This difficulty was related to the jurisdictional division within the Constitution Act, 1867, in which Indians became a responsibility of the federal government while lands and resources came under provincial control. This division of power led to many disputes between the federal and provincial governments over issues related to Aboriginal lands, and the long-lasting quarrel between the DIA and the Ontario government over a reserve for the TAA was quite typical of these sorts of intergovernmental struggles. Prior to the commencement of the argument between the DIA and the province over the TAA's claim, though, in April of 1883 the DIA sent instructions to surveyor G. B. Abrey, asking that he make a sketch of the Temagami band's locality and interview the Chief and heads of the band to ascertain the following: the band's number and location, how much land they wanted and should be given for a reserve, and whether they cultivated or wished to cultivate the soil.40 Abrey did not head to Temagami until September of 1884 and, in the meantime, the TAA pressured Thomas Walton, Skene's replacement as Indian agent, for

95 a reserve around Austin Bay at the south end of Lake Temagami. When in 1885 Abrey finally reported on his trip to Temagami, he informed the DIA that prior to his arrival, the

TAA had gathered in council and decided on a reserve at the south end of Lake

Temagami, the same one they told Walton that they wanted. Abrey considered the one hundred square mile area requested by the TAA to be "very much in excess" of their requirements, and he suggested a much smaller area be set aside for the band instead.42

Meanwhile Walton, who did not know that Abrey had already completed a survey, sent in a sketch by Chief Tonene of the band's desired reserve, and urged that the reserve be set aside for the band as soon as possible since lumbermen were exploring the territory and

Walton feared that if they found valuable pine timber, the Ontario government would make it difficult for a reserve to be created in the area.43

The DIA had in fact already asked the Ontario government to consider creating a reserve for the TAA.44 Indian Affairs believed that it needed Ontario's permission to create the reserve, since the Robinson-Huron Treaty made no provision for a reserve for the TAA and the land had since passed into provincial hands.45 The Ontario government did not reply to the request of the DIA for over a year, at which time the provincial government informed Indian Affairs that the Attorney General would hear about the matter when he returned to health.46 Over the next decade, the DIA attempted a number of times to call the Ontario government's attention to the TAA's claim.47 Sometimes

Ontario acknowledged the receipt of the letters, but more often the provincial government made no attempt to respond. In 1889, Vankoughnet attempted to bring the matter before

96 a tribunal that dealt with unsettled claims against the province of Ontario, but the Deputy

Minister of Justice suggested that before the matter was prepared for tribunal,

Vankoughnet should make another attempt to obtain a statement from the Ontario government about its position on the TAA claim.49 In 1894, the TAA claim was brought before an arbitration board, which similarly concluded that representatives from the

Dominion and Ontario governments should meet and settle the matter.50 After this conclusion, representatives from Indian Affairs attempted to set up meetings with

Ontario, but to no avail.51

It was not that Ontario did not receive the letters. In fact, in 1894, Ontario's

Assistant Commissioner of Crown Lands, Aubrey White, sent a government official on a secret mission to Lake Nipissing to gather information about the TAA. Specifically,

White wanted to know whether the band had resided at Lake Temagami before the signing of the Robinson-Huron Treaty or whether its members were actually part of another band for which a reserve had already been set aside.52 White figured that if the province could show that the TAA were merely members of another band, separated from the rest in order to gain access to better hunting grounds, then the TAA had no claim to a reserve. White's spy, D. F. MacDonald, went to Lake Nipissing and spoke with Chief

Dokis and the Chiefs son Alexis. Chief Dokis was much more interested in discussing how Indian agent Walton had been attempting to force him to sell the timber on his band's reserve than in talking about who lived at Lake Temagami.53 The Chief did however mention that former Temagami head man Peter Nebenegwune had not known

97 about and did not sign the Robinson-Huron treaty. This piece of information later became part of the TAA's legal case and will appear again in chapter 5. Alexis Dokis turned out to be much more helpful than his father to MacDonald, though he did not offer the information that White was after. Instead, he gave a list of a number of families that, in his words, "belonged to Lake Temagami proper," with no indication that they had come from elsewhere. He also mentioned that the Temagami families had started gardens in the locality chosen as their reserve, which he described as "well timbered with hardwood and pine and [he added that] the soil is very good."54 After receiving MacDonald's report,

White kept quiet about both the secret mission and the province's perspective on the

TAA's claim.

The TAA, meanwhile, asserted that they had always existed as a distinct band, and the DIA concurred, which was why the Department began paying annuities to the band in 1883.55 Ontario's refusal to discuss the matter of a reserve for the TAA certainly had negative consequences for the First Nation, although the TAA did their best to make sure that their desire for a reserve remained a live issue for the DIA. In 1884, for example, they promised Indian agent Walton when he pressed upon them "the subject of education" that they would build a schoolhouse and devote some of their annuity money toward paying for a teacher as soon as they had a reserve.56 They also expressed an interest in taking up farming, but not before they had a reserve, since, they said, it made little sense to work hard clearing land that might end up outside the reserve.57 Given that education and the cultivation of land were central to the "civilizing mission" of British

98 imperialism from which the DIA stemmed, the TAA's stated willingness to send their

children to school and plant potatoes can be seen as a way of appeasing the Indian agent

and negotiating a paternalistic system in order to have their needs met. But given that

game animals had become so scarce, the TAA's desire to grow crops likely had as much

to do with survival as it did with anything else. By 1890, having given up waiting for a

reserve, members of the band had cleared over eighteen acres of land, some of which

were within the boundaries of the proposed reserve. As Chief Tonene stated, "members

of the Band felt so uncertain on the subject of a Reserve that they would wait no longer

and commenced during the last 2 years to make clearances wherever suitable."59 In spite

of the TAA's creativity in dealing with their situation, not having a reserve made it easy

for them to be dislocated when other interests came into the area. In 1887, Walton

expressed regret that valuable minerals had been found on the shores of Lake Temagami

before a reserve had been created for the TAA, since the mineral discovery would impede

settling the matter of the TAA's reserve with Ontario.60 Walton indicated that the band

also felt gravely concerned about the future "now that the lumberman's axe is almost within hearing distance of their lake, and railway routes are explored to it, and mining

interests are examining its shores."

Clearly, contact with Europeans affected the TAA before the creation of the TFR.

N'Daki Menan was increasingly encroached upon by outsiders during the late nineteenth century, and the provincial government ignored the TAA's demands for a reserve. But still, n'Daki Menan remained TAA territory. Few tourists, who by 1904 would be

99 flocking to the area by the thousands, had by the mid-1890s succeeded in making it all the way to Lake Temagami.62 Further, while survey reports indicated mineral and timber potential in the region, very little resource development had taken place, and no outside law enforcement regulated TAA activities on n'Daki Menan. Although the Ontario government remained silent about its position on the claim of the TAA, it would not become possible for Ontario to deny explicitly the rights of the First Nation until after the area had come to make sense as a timber reserve.

The Temagami Forest Reserve in its Conservationist Context

I turn now to discuss the forest conservation movement that led directly to the creation of the TFR. I explain first the prior orthodoxy replaced by the idea, central to forest conservation, of forests as renewable resources. Then I briefly sketch what forest conservation meant in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and explore how conservationist thinking influenced policy-making in Ontario, including the policy decision to set aside the TFR.

Several works discuss the rise of forest conservation in Canada, and their authors generally agree that while the idea of forest conservation became increasingly popular in the ten years following the 1900 creation of the movement's central organization, the

Canadian Forestry Association, forestry practices in line with conservationist principles did not quickly follow. Nevertheless, within the very short time period of less than ten years, conventional wisdom shifted dramatically, a sudden change that occurred, according to Nelles, almost entirely because of the efforts of the elite group of white

100 men—politicians, civil servants, forest industry leaders, intellectuals, bankers and

professional foresters—that spearheaded the conservation movement.64 The prior

convention among settlers and colonial administrators held that the future of Canada lay

in agriculture. The task before settlers was therefore to carve a space for themselves in

the new Dominion by converting the forest into farmland.65 The forest seemed eternal

and, although thought of as non-renewable since, once "mined," previously-forested land

became farmland, the general understanding was that the vastness of Canada's forest

meant that the timber supply would never come to an end.66 This perspective, however,

became not only untenable as wood supplies, particularly in eastern Canada, began to

dwindle, but also unfashionable as the conservationist perspective began to take hold.

Emerging conservationist wisdom held that the forest, properly managed, could become a

permanent, renewable resource.68

Of course, this change did not happen overnight. Conservationist ideas travelled

from Europe to North America with people like Bernhard Fernow, the vocal Prussian-

born conservation advocate who became the first professional forester in the United

States, and who, in 1907, founded the first forestry school in Canada at the University of

Toronto. 9 The goal of forest conservation, according to Fernow, was to ensure the

maximum supply of wood in perpetuity through the management of permanent forests by

scientifically trained professionals. The idea of forest conservation gained popularity in both the United States and Canada after the American Forestry Congress met for the first time in 1882 (Fernow was in attendance), with the second meeting taking place in

101 Montreal in the same year. At these meetings, the Montreal one of which is often cited as marking the beginning of the forest conservation movement in Canada, delegates determined that wasteful cutting practices, forest fires, the clearing of land unfit for agriculture, and poor wood utilization were resulting in the depletion of North American forests. Steps needed to be taken to ensure the maintenance of the timber supply and therefore the continued existence of the forest industry.70

It is certainly no coincidence that conservationist principles appealed to forest industry leaders and politicians interested in the continuation of the forest industry, since conservation's main objective in producing the "best form and largest quantity of wood in the shortest time possible" was to "to make revenue from the use of the soil through

71 timber production." As Gifford Pinchot, a leading American conservationist, famously wrote in 1910, "The first great fact about conservation is that it stands for development." Within conservationist discourse, forests very clearly existed as commodities. Jamie Swift notes that conservationism "was a movement whose inspiration sprang from the achievements of the machine age and the industrial revolution." The aim was to make forests like factories, so that they could produce their goods—timber and pulpwood—with the utmost efficiency and the least possible waste.

The ideas of the conservation movement found their way into legislation, though not necessarily to the extent that conservationists believed they should.74 In Ontario, the passage of the Forest Reserves Act indicated the province's commitment to implementing conservationist principles.75 Indeed, Ontario's Clerk of Forestry, Thomas Southworth, praised the 1898 Act as "the inauguration of a scientific forestry system in Ontario."

Since his appointment as Clerk in 1895, Southworth had advocated for Ontario to begin a system of scientific forestry, and pushed especially for the government to reserve from settlement portions of the province "that are found to be not well adapted for agricultural purposes."77

The Forest Reserves Act was consistent with conservationist goals as established at the 1882 American Forestry Congress meetings, where delegates decided that they had before them two interrelated tasks: to preserve existing forests and to restore forests on lands whose timber had been cut or burned down.78 Both these tasks required that land determined better adapted to timber growth than to agriculture be maintained as perpetual forest land under public ownership. The Act fit these objectives well, since it had as its primary aim the protection of timber through the exclusion of settlement from land deemed better suited to timber growth than to farming. Also consistent with the objectives of the Congress were regulations under the Forest Reserves Act providing for the protection of forest reserves from fire. Ontario's forest fire protection system, developed in 1885 by Aubrey White as a direct result of the "great forestry convention"

70 in Montreal, involved stationing a number of men hired as Fire Rangers at places considered to be sources of fire danger, and charging them with the duties of educating the public about the perils of forest fires, enforcing provisions under the 1878 Fire Act, and putting out forest fires that they encountered along their travels.80

103 Though the Temagami Forest Reserve was not the first reserve created under the

Forest Reserves Act, it was by far the largest, as well as the only one that contained large

quantities of valuable timber. The other two reserves, the Eastern and the Sibley,

contained one hundred twenty-five thousand acres of lumbered-over and fire-swept land

between them, whereas the Temagami reserve alone took up well over one million acres,

many of which were covered in trees. The province created the first two reserves in hopes

that one day, given time and adequate protection from fire, the reserves would become

valuable timber resources for Ontario.81 The TFR was another story. Hodgins and

Benidickson state that it was the "centrepiece" of Ontario's new forestry system and a

"crucial event in the history of the North American conservation movement." Indeed, in

a memorandum written to the Commissioner of Crown Lands in support of the creation

of the TFR, Aubrey White observed that the area likely contained the largest body of pine

timber left in Crown hands in Ontario, and optimistically stated that, with proper

management, the government could make the region the most valuable asset in the province and a permanent source of revenue.83

It is difficult to overstate the significance placed on the TFR within the Canadian

forest conservation movement. In 1901, the Canadian Forestry Association (CFA)

announced that the setting aside of the. TFR was one of the most significant events in

Canadian forestry that year,84 and noted that this move by Ontario "illustrates well the progressive spirit which animates the Government of the Province of Ontario."

According to the CFA, this was a remarkable step on the part of Ontario especially

104 because the province had the opportunity to make a large revenue by putting the area

under licence in the usual way, but chose instead to manage the forest wisely, without

having to concede to other interests. The CFA went further to say that those interested

in forestry in Canada should watch the development of the Temagami reserve, and take

every opportunity to foster public support for its creation, because its success would have

a significant impact on the future of forest administration in the entire nation. An increase

in public support for the TFR, according to the CFA, would result in the government

taking further progressive steps toward a rational system of forestry, and would also justify public spending on fire suppression and the development of a management system

necessary to ensure the regular reproduction of timber.87

The Making of Temagami Timber Nature

Prior to the creation of the TFR, the existence of the region as a site of timber was not

self-evident. I argue in this section that rather than simply creating legislation around a

pre-existing entity, the Ontario government's making of the TFR legislated the region

into existence as a timber commodity. Since up until this point in time the district

remained largely the domain of the TAA, any number of options for the region remained

possible. Yet although the future of the region had not yet been determined, observers

had certainly commented upon its timber potential. As Hodgins and Benidickson point

out, the consideration of the area as a site for a forest reserve was based on evidence

accumulated from a number of sources, including Geological Survey of Canada reports, railway and provincial line surveys, and even the personal experiences of Department of

105 Crown Lands representatives, who travelled through the region by canoe in 1899. A

Globe article reporting on this trip commented that Aubrey White, Thomas Southworth

and Commissioner of Crown Lands J. M. Gibson saw a "surprising quantity of white

pine" along their canoe route, and "received assurances that the quantity of standing

OQ

timber [in the area] exceeded that sold since Confederation." In a less enthusiastic tone,

DIA officials also mentioned, in 1881, that they had heard of the timber wealth of the

region, figuring that this wealth would lead, as Chief Tonene feared, to the degradation of

the territory by timber interests. Indian agent Skene in fact considered that it was

necessary to make a treaty with the TAA so that the First Nation would be protected from

the inevitable encroachment of timber interests onto TAA lands.90 In the ensuing twenty

years before Ontario created the TFR, the deforestation that Skene predicted did not

occur, and in Southworth's memorandum about the potential forest reserve, he referred to

the area as "a territory of virgin timber, including among other valuable trees many

million feet of white and red pine, among which the axe of the lumberman has not yet

been heard."91 White similarly described the district as a "virgin territory well timbered

with Pine," containing "immense quantities of pine timber which have been estimated at

billions of feet." All sources, it seems, indicated that Temagami had great potential as a timber commodity.

Another possibility that existed prior to the implementation of the forest reserve was for the TAA to continue their existence as a self-governing people on n'Daki Menan.

Certainly the territory had always existed for the TAA as much more than a good place to

106 access timber. Not only did n'Daki Menan provide the TAA with their means of

support,93 but the TAA's homeland was also the cultural and spiritual basis of their

identity as a people. An unpublished report written as part of present-day negotiations

between the TAA and Ontario and entitled "Traditional Land Use and Resource

Management Philosophies and Practices of the Temagami Aboriginal People" describes

in detail the TAA's intricate relationships with n'Daki Menan. The report indicates that

the TAA's system of land stewardship was driven in part by necessity. As TAA Chief

Aleck Paul stated in a 1913 speech, "after the white man kills all the game in one place,

he can take the train and go 300 miles or more to another and do the same there. But the

Indian cannot do that. He must stay on his own section all the time and support his family

on what it produces." In the same speech, however, Chief Paul also indicated that the

reasons for the TAA family hunting system went beyond practicality: "these families of

hunters would never think of damaging the abundance or the source of supply of the

game, because that had come to them from their fathers and grandfathers and those behind them."94 Indeed, a complex belief system that included rituals of respect for

animals killed by the TAA surrounded the First Nation's land-use practices. What comes

across perhaps most strikingly in the report is the extent to which the TAA used the hundreds of species of n'Daki Menan. For example, the TAA used all parts of the moose, deer, beaver, bears, rabbits, birds and fish that they killed—for food, clothing, trade, tanning hides, snowshoe webbing, medicine and lamp oil—and made extensive use of plants as well, relying on everything from moss for baby diapers to a variety of trees for building purposes, and from stewed birchbark for healing wounds to berries and maple

syrup for medicine and food. To make canoes, they used cedar for the frames, and

birchbark, sewn together with spruce tree roots and waterproofed at the seams with pine pitch or spruce gum, for the outer layer.95 While my description here does not begin to do justice to the TAA's vast knowledge and use of, respect for or belief system regarding

n'Daki Menan, it does I think show that TAA ways of knowing the region did not centre

on the value of the pine timber commodity.

Agricultural settlement represented a third possible future for the region, though

surveyors who explored the area in the nineteenth century did not think that there existed much potential for agriculture due to the region's rocky soils. In general, forest conservationists strenuously objected to the agricultural settlement of rocky lands, but they spent next to no time considering either how Aboriginal territorial claims might affect conservationist goals or how conservation might impinge upon Aboriginal self- determination. While they considered that the expansion of agriculture onto marginal lands fundamentally threatened their vision of the forest, Aboriginal territorialities did not even occur to them. It is not entirely clear whether forest conservationists took a philosophical approach to the question of Aboriginal land rights and determined that

"uncivilized" peoples could not own land because of their failure to use it properly (i.e., fence it in and cultivate it according to European standards) or, as was perhaps more likely, whether they merely relied on the pervasive racial thinking embedded in their imperial culture to justify the "civilizing" of Native lands and peoples.96 Either way,

108 conservationists assumed that white people would control the lands of Canada and fought to ensure that a forest conservationist vision would come to fruition in lands well-suited to growing timber. As will be explored in further depth below, conservationists contended that agricultural settlement on lands unsuited for the purpose threatened both the future of the forest industry and the future of the developing Canadian nation more

generally. They asserted that attempts to settle this kind of land would lead to the permanent destruction of the timber supply, and thus to a lack of timber revenues for the government, as well as to the destitution of farmers who would be forced, after having undertaken the expense of clearing the forest, to abandon unproductive land and eventually to become burdens on the state. Although the TAA and HBC representatives had reasonable success at growing potatoes on patches of good soil within n'Daki Menan, conservationists need not have worried about settlers rushing to farm in the Temagami region. By 1900, one retired HBC employee had built a cabin and begun to grow oats and potatoes on land next to the Montreal River and, at approximately the same time,

Catholic missionary Charles Paradis started to grow potatoes and a few other vegetables at the north end of Lake Temagami. The creation of the TFR prevented further agricultural settlement in the region.

While forest conservationists considered neither agricultural settlement nor (had they even thought of the possibility) TAA control over the territory to be options for what was soon to become the TFR, they did think that some land uses were compatible with forest conservation and therefore could be permitted inside the forest reserve. These

109 included mineral prospecting, mining, hydro-electric development, tourism, the protection of the water supply and the conservation of game animals. All of these potential uses had been mentioned in various survey reports, some of which described the region in superlative terms. In the Report of the Survey and Exploration of Northern

Ontario, 1900, for example, survey party members stated that "the timber and minerals

[in Temagami] are the most valuable assets of the province," and also noted that "the

entire territory explored by us is an excellent field for lovers of sport and without a doubt, when this country is known to the sportsmen, it will be invaded by them 'en masse.'"98

Conservationists considered these seemingly incompatible activities as linked possibilities for the future of the region in part because, with the exception of mining, none of these activities required the removal of large tracts of forest and so they could take place simultaneously with scientific forest management. A deeper-seated reason is that these activities excluded Aboriginal peoples and poor and working-class farmers from the forest, while legitimizing the control of the forest by the bourgeois men who reaped the benefits of lumbering and mining and who also had the leisure time to hunt for sport in the wilderness."

The Temagami region legally became a site of timber when, in January of 1901, provincial officials charted the boundaries of the forest reserve and approved its creation by an order-in-council. 10° Under the Forest Reserves Act, the region became a " Crown

Forest Reserve" for the "purposes of future timber supplies," whose "protection, care and management" would take place under the Act. The Forest Reserves Act dictated very

110 clearly that reserves created under it were to provide timber, period. One clause of the Act

stated that "no lands within the boundaries of such reserves shall be sold, leased or

otherwise disposed of, and no person shall locate, settle upon, use or occupy any such

land, or hunt, fish, shoot, trap or spear or carry or use fire arms or explosives within or

upon such reserves."101 But while the Act itself defined forest reserves as areas whose

sole purpose was to produce timber—the clause cited above excluded virtually every

other possibility—conservationist thinking about the activities compatible with scientific

forestry meant that things in practice were much less clear. Southworth, for instance,

wrote that the Forest Reserves Act had the dual purpose of securing future timber

supplies and protecting the sources of some of Ontario's principal streams. Fortunately,

he observed, "the areas best suited for one purpose are equally adapted for the other."102

By establishing forest reserves in northern Ontario, the province could avoid the

"extermination" of forests and the resulting dried up streams and lower water levels in

lakes and rivers that clearing lands for settlement in southern Ontario had caused.

White added in his memorandum on the TFR that the region was the source of

several important rivers and that its lakes were full offish and its forests full of birds,

game animals like deer and moose, and fur-bearing animals. The creation of a forest reserve in the area, White implied, would protect not only the region's timber, but also these other features.104 Both White and Southworth noted as well the "wonderful beauty of this region." With its "beautiful lakes and rivers and delightful scenery," Temagami was a "veritable lacustrine paradise" that would certainly "attract an ever increasing army

111 of tourists in the near future." The CFA went so far as to announce that one of the objects of the Ontario government in creating the TFR was for the region to become "a beautiful and healthful resort for our people for all time."106 Southworth commented that while it was perhaps "inadvisable to exclude tourists or even summer residents from the district," the provisions of the Forest Reserves Act would enable "the Government to better regulate such occupation as may be allowed and would permit more perfect control by the Commissioner of Crown Lands of the tourist travel as well as the exploitation of the immense timber wealth in the district." Southworth added as well that mineral discoveries had been made in the region, and that mining, like tourism, might take place in the TFR under the regulations of the Forest Reserves Act.101

The Forest Reserves Act was not the first legislation in Ontario to bring together the seemingly diverse objectives of forest conservation, mineral development, game and wildlife protection, maintenance of the water supply, and recreational use. Similar priorities informed the creation of Algonquin Park in 1893.108 But under the Forest

Reserves Act, at least in principle if not in practice, timber conservation was the primary objective, whereas Algonquin Park was established as "a public park and forest reservation, fish and game preserve, health resort and pleasure ground for the benefit, advantage and enjoyment of the people of the Province."109 Not surprisingly, however, given the multiple purposes the TFR was expected to serve, and as Hodgins and

Benidickson argue, the region did not become solely a timber preserve.110 Therefore, in spite of the provisions in the Forest Reserves Act, the region was not created entirely or

112 successfully as a timber commodity. Yet the idea of the region as a timber commodity succeeded in displacing the idea of the region as home to the TAA, and this displacement had serious consequences for the First Nation.

The Virgin Canadian Forest Lies in Wait: Forest Conservation and the Making of

National Nature

The Conservationists

Before turning to examine the effects of the TFR for the TAA, I analyse how the TFR played a role in the building of a white settler Canadian nation, which in turn made it possible for the TFR to make sense not as n'Daki Menan, but as a site of Canadian nature in the form of the timber commodity.111 As discussed above, scholars have argued that forest conservation quickly became a popular idea in the early decades of the twentieth

119 century. Nelles contends as well that neither the success of the conservation movement in transforming the popular image of the forest, nor the political influence of the movement could have occurred had conservation appealed only to civil servants and professional foresters. Instead, the success and influence of forest conservation stemmed from the movement's appeal to urban businessmen, intellectuals and lumber barons.

Nelles notes that, overwhelmingly, CFA members came from cities and lumbering towns, and that the fanning classes that made up more than half the Canadian population were almost completely absent from the association's rank and file.113 Nelles does not make a point of noting this fact, but a reading of the membership lists of the CFA also indicates that men of European descent comprised the vast majority of CFA members.114 113 For large lumbering interests, the appeal of forest conservation was clear: a

permanent, scientifically-managed forest meant a permanent forest industry, and

therefore permanent profits. It also meant that the government could administer Crown

lands according to the needs of lumbering rather than settlement, which would be a boon

to industry because the management of lands for settlement often resulted in the

oversupply of timber and a fall in market prices.115 For urban businessmen and

intellectuals, the appeal of forest conservation may seem a little more obscure. Nelles

contends that businessmen "responded instinctively to an appeal for efficiency," and

liked "the flattering ring of phrases like 'scientific management' and 'business-like

methods.'" They more than others, it seemed, understood the economic importance of

forests and the danger of "living off one's capital."116 Certainly the forest conservation

movement relied on the language of capital to argue for scientific forestry. As

Southworth, for instance, explained, "a forest left entirely to Nature may be compared to uninvested, locked-up capital, yielding no return to the owner; a forest recklessly

exploited, growing upon land unsuited for cultivation, to squandered capital; and a forest judiciously operated by modern forestry methods, crop succeeding crop, to capital wisely invested."117

In spite of conservationists' use of this kind of language, Nelles's contention that businessmen's attraction to forest conservation came somehow by "instinct" is a stretch.

While they may have considered that a movement based on science and efficiency made solid business sense, the chances are good that they also supported forest conservation

114 because they wanted to have a northern forest in which to hunt and relax while on vacation from their urban executive positions. As Tina Loo has shown, big game hunting was at its peak in North America in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, providing businessmen with a way to constitute themselves as masculine, bourgeois and white.118 Patricia Jasen has demonstrated that wilderness vacations in general were very popular among the Ontario upper and middle classes during this time and were guided by a romantic appreciation for the wild in nature.119 Although it is commonplace in the present moment to consider resource extraction, scientific or otherwise, as antithetical to wilderness tourism, this was not always the case.120 It would not, therefore, have seemed a contradiction for businessmen to support forest conservation and engage in wilderness tourism. Although, according to Nelles, intellectuals "were just as susceptible to the gospel of social efficiency as were the businessmen," Nelles also states that professors, clergymen and other intellectuals found the "spiritual quality" of forest conservation to be very attractive. While conservationist leaders like Fernow attempted to steer the movement away from "sentimentalism," other proponents of scientific forestry considered that "the man who thinks that the aesthetic side of forestry has nothing to do with the practical upbuilding of the nation is simply a species of fool."' 2 But given the fact that those deemed sentimentalists by more practically-minded conservationists had, like businessmen, the class privilege to vacation in the woods, it seems likely that the appeal for them of forest conservation also had something to do with their desire to escape the city from time to time.

115 Nelles shows that the goals of forest conservation did not appeal to everyone equally. Urban-based men of the upper classes as well as lumbermen joined the ranks of the movement while farmers, women and Aboriginal people did not. To the extent that the movement was successful in shaping policy and practice, forest conservationist perspectives of the forest shaped the land and regulated the relationships that different people could have with land. While conservationists' vision of the forest was a partial one, it became naturalized through forestry discourse as part of the forest itself. Through an analysis of forest conservationist discourse, I show how conservationists made rather than described Canadian forests, and in so doing helped to construct a specifically racialized and gendered Canadian nation.

Their Strategies

From the movement's inception in 1882, forest conservationists considered public education of central importance to the success of the movement. Conservationists thought that the general public continued to believe in the inexhaustibility of Canadian forests, and therefore did not care about forestry. Calling public attention to the negative effects of deforestation and to the importance of scientific forestry would lead to a greater government willingness, conservationists reasoned, to spend public money on forestry initiatives. At the founding meeting of the CFA, the manager of Rod and Gun in

Canada, a popular hunting and fishing magazine, offered to publish any contribution by members of the CFA on the subject of forestry and suggested that Rod and Gun act as the official organ of the CFA, an offer the CFA accepted.124 An editorial explaining the

116 magazine's decision to provide a publication outlet for the CFA stated that "wise game

laws" could have far-reaching effects on game conservation, "but forestry is the very

foundation on which the game superstructure has to be reared. Forest fires are a direct

menace to a large portion of the game supply, so is an indiscriminate destruction of forest

by the axe." Therefore "every sportsman" owed thanks to the CFA for endeavouring to

conduct the work whose "importance to Canada cannot be estimated." For the Rod and

Gun editor, as for forest conservationists, the link between forest and game conservation

seemed natural. Central to both initiatives was an emphasis on the rational management

of resources by the state. As Tina Loo has demonstrated for game conservation, the fight

for conservation was largely a struggle by society's elite subjects to have their image of

nature authorized (and policed) by the state.

Public education about forestry in Canada took place largely through Rod and

Gun until 1905, when the CFA began publishing its own periodical, the Canadian

Forestry Journal, hoping that this venue would allow them to reach an even broader

public than they had achieved through the regular forestry section in Rod and Gun.127

This strategy seems to have worked, as membership in the CFA rose to 1200 in 1906

from 600 in 1905, and by 1910 members of the CFA felt quite pleased about the work

they had accomplished. They thought that public opinion about the need for conserving

Canada's forests had risen dramatically since the formation of the CFA, and that progress toward scientific forestry was being made in all parts of Canada.128

117 The Nationalist Terms of the Struggle

Forest conservationists attempted to gain popular support for scientific forestry, with the

goal of influencing state policy, by hinging their claims to the relatively new Canadian

white settler nation-building project. As Carl Berger has illustrated, Canadian nationalism

as expressed by the Canada First Movement and others in the decades following

Confederation represented a self-conscious attempt to build a "national spirit" felt to be

lacking in Canada where, according to Canada First's Robert Grant Haliburton,

Confederation had taken place "with as little excitement among the masses as if a joint-

stock company had been formed." Haliburton's 1869 lecture to the Montreal Literary

Club, entitled "We are the Northmen of the New World," provided, according to Berger, the seedbed for the northern race idea that would be central to Canadian nationalism for

generations. As described in chapter 1, the northern race idea relied upon the

imperialist logic of white racial superiority to construct Canada as a hardy nation of white

settlers who, by virtue of belonging to a dominant race and because of the northern

climate in Canada, were destined to become ever stronger and more free while remaining uncontaminated by the weaker southern races.

The creation of Canada within early nationalist discourse as similar to other northern nations, and to Britain in particular, reflects the connection between Canadian nationalism and British imperialism. Nationalists expressed their loyalty to Britain— considering, for instance, that Canada would be "a kind of rejuvenator of the imperial blood" when urbanism and industrialization inevitably led to the deterioration of the

118 English—but also suggested that Canada, in living up to its duty as part of the British empire, might surpass its mother country in greatness and world influence. Already policies were in place to prevent the large-scale immigration of "non-preferred races."

The first head tax designed to curtail the entry of Chinese immigrants was imposed in

1885 (after Chinese men had played a vital role in building the railway), for example, and

Black loyalists (considered allies for defending Britain during the American Revolution) were allowed only to lease and not to own land. While nationalists understood Canada as connected to Britain, then, the Canadian nation had begun to distinguish itself in policy as well as in a nationalist discourse that emphasized the future greatness of the Canadian nation. Canada, it appeared, was still in the process of becoming, though nationalists had already clearly established their determination to create a white settler nation. The national project to which forest conservationists attached their objectives was thus, like all nationalisms, inconsistent and slippery, and Canada's relationship to Britain was in particular not always clearly defined.

Conservationists tied their arguments for scientific forestry to a nation-building project in three main and related ways. First, they argued that scientific forestry was key to national prosperity, both in the present and for future generations. Second, they contended that since Providence had endowed Canadians with such an incredible resource in timber, Canadians had a national duty to care for the nation's gift. Third, they called on Canada to take its place within the ranks of civilized nations by adopting a rational system of forestry. I will explain each strategy in turn before showing how forest

119 conservation did not simply tie itself to a pre-existing nation-building project, but in fact

played an active role in constituting and naturalizing the nation form.

In arguing that scientific forestry was integral to national prosperity,

conservationists promised that its implementation would benefit the Canadian people as a

whole. As the editor of the Canadian Forestry Journal noted, "from the beginning of her

history," Canada has been known for the "extent and riches of her forests." 33 Forestry

advocates reasoned that while it had once made national sense to view the forest as the

enemy, since the forest presented a great obstacle to the appropriation of land for

agricultural settlement, it no longer made sense to think of the forest this way.134 Rather

than signalling the destruction of the nation, the continued existence of forests in Canada

comprised "a permanent factor of the country's prosperity."135 With the proper scientific treatment, forests could be harvested perpetually for domestic use and export, thus

guaranteeing perpetual revenue for the government to distribute amongst its citizens.136

While conservationists highlighted the immediacy of their claims by discussing the relationship between forestry and current national prosperity—Fernow, for example, lectured on the necessity of wood in Canadian industries like mining and farming137—the force of their argument concerned future rather than present wealth. Conservationists propounded the view that as other countries faced increasing timber shortages, these countries would have to rely on Canada for their supply, and the prices of Canadian timber would rise dramatically.138 This rise in price would more than justify the original expenditure required for the implementation of a scientific forest management system.139

120 Judson Clark, Ontario's first Provincial Forester, stated that implementing a

forestry system that would allow Canada to supply the world with forest products would

"inevitably prove a highly remunerative business proposition,"140 and Elihu Stewart,

Dominion Minister of the Interior and founder of the CFA, went so far as to say that, with

careful management, the sale of timber on Dominion Crown lands might pay off the national debt.141 Other commentators agreed, trying to make it clear that while the

development of large forest reserves across the country might be a slow process, it would be worthwhile since forest conservation in Canada would make the nation the richest in the world.142 Conservationists insisted upon the necessity of forest reserves by telling horror stories related to deforestation. They recounted tales, for instance, of lands in Asia

and some parts of Europe that once "flow[ed] with milk and honey," but after they were

stripped of their forests became parched, barren, desolate deserts "roamed over by wild beasts, and nomadic tribes little better than robbers, poor, miserable, degraded and relapsed into barbarism."14 Clearly, if Canadians wanted to avoid this horrible state, they needed to support the adoption of scientific forestry principles.

Conservationists also tied their forestry objectives to a nationalist project through appeals to Canadians' duty to care for their national heritage, the forests. This discussion of national duty was at times quite closely linked to the argument that the implementation of a forestry system would lead to national prosperity, especially in that both positions attached their claims to the future of the nation. But while the argument about national prosperity tended to focus on what the forests had to offer the nation's citizens,

121 particularly in terms of revenue, the argument about national duty aimed more at showing citizens what they could give back to the nation. In an address on Canadian forests and forestry, Stewart remarked that of the "many gifts bestowed by nature on the North

American continent, that of the forests stands foremost."144 Others concurred, calling the forest wealth of the country "our greatest heritage," and therefore deserving of the people's most careful attention and sense of moral responsibility.145 Since Canada had been "blessed by Providence with a wealth of forest,"146 the nation must adopt a rational forestry system so that "she may have a history greater and grander in the future, worthy of the great inheritance with which she has been endowed by a bounteous Providence, worthy of the race from which she has sprung, and worthy of the great destiny which lies in her hands to accomplish."147 Canadians, it seemed, faced a choice: to continue the forest destruction that accompanied the advance of nineteenth-century civilization or to implement scientific forestry so that in a hundred years the forests would be "well- ordered, productive, abounding in wealth for the state, furnishing the needs of Canada and the regions beyond, supporting a hardy and intelligent populace, forming a shelter for the wild animals and a place of pleasant resort for the people."148 Clearly, conservationists encouraged adoption of the latter choice, describing scientific forestry as

"true patriotism,"149 and opining that "nothing could be done that would be of greater importance to the welfare of Canada than to care for our forests." 15°

While conservationists understood forestry as a "great national duty born of necessity,"151 they generally avoided entirely condemning the wasteful practices of early

122 Canadian settler-farmers, preferring instead to align themselves with settlers in a nation- building project that needed merely to shift in direction. In his article on forestry conditions in Canada, Stewart pointed out that others might call settlers' "so-called appropriation of the nation's heritage... a crime against the State and the community," but Stewart himself understood that early settlers should not be criticized, since they were only doing what they thought best for the nation.153 Fernow went further than this to credit settlers, but especially lumbermen, for "bringing the wilderness itself within reach of civilized influences... and while we may regret the wastefulness with which this settlement has been made, we must consider it as a necessary step toward an extension of civilized conditions."154 Quite simply, conservationists asserted, the national task of the twentieth century differed substantially from that of the nineteenth. The "task before the men of the nineteenth century was to hew out from those great forests a home where they and their descendants might dwell in peace and comfort, [and] to clear the fertile lands that should yield of their fruitfulness to the wealth of the nation."155 The dawning of the twentieth century, on the other hand, brought with it the knowledge that Canadian forest wealth was not inexhaustible, that much of it had been destroyed, and that if this source of national prosperity were not properly conserved, Canada would cease to be a pre­ eminent lumber-producing nation.1 To face the present-day task of forest conservation,

Canadians would have to draw upon the same qualities of "intelligence, foresight and perseverance" as they drew upon to face the very different challenges of the nineteenth century.157

123 Along with making appeals for a rational forestry system by connecting forestry

to national wealth and duty, conservationists linked their cause to a nationalist project

through calling on Canada to step up and join the civilized nations by implementing a

scientific forestry system. An 1893 article in the Canadian Magazine asked why the

"progressive young Dominion" of Canada would allow itself to take a backward place in

the matter of forest conservation, while "other newly civilized states" already had schools

of forestry and trained officers working in their forests. The author insisted upon the

adoption of scientific forestry in Canada "before it is too late," while simultaneously

finding the Canadian neglect of this matter unsurprising given that Canada's "mother

country has lagged behind the rest of the civilized nations in the science of forestry."1" In

1901, the CFA expressed its disappointment in Canadian forest practices by stating that these practices were "hardly fitting for a country that aspires to the dignity of nationhood

and to make its influence felt in the councils of the world."160 Fernow concurred with this

sentiment, considering the rapid destruction of timber to be a perfectly normal part of the

early development of any new country, but contending that the continued progress of a nation depended upon its adoption of forestry principles.1 l Other authors argued that

Canada must adopt scientific forestry methods so that the nation could "retain its place among prosperous nations and maintain its population in comfort and happiness," asserting that the "standing of a nation is well measured by the distance it is able to look ahead and make provision for the future."163

124 By implementing a national forestry system, conservationists contended, Canada would not only take its rightful place among the civilized nations, but would also fulfill its imperial duty to Britain. Stewart maintained that the "eyes of the world" were trained on Canada, expecting Canada to provide the future world supply of timber.164 He continued on to say that while much discussion now focused on Canada's contribution to

Great Britain's food supply, it was "of equal importance to her [Britain] that we [Canada] should be in a position to meet her requirements in the article of timber."165 William

Hearst, then Ontario's Minister of Lands, Forests and Mines,166 added in a 1912 report that he hoped that northern Ontario, with its great timber, water and mineral supply, would become a major manufacturing centre on the North American continent. He added that, then, "we shall perform our duty as citizens of this fair province of Ontario so that we shall make this great dominion of Canada not only a source of strength to, but the dominating influence in that empire whose flag encircles the globe, whose standard is

i /in righteousness, whose path is duty." For forest conservationists, forestry was imagined as key to national development within the context of British imperialism, where the success of the empire and the nation were inextricably linked.

The Virgin Forest

By connecting conservationist goals to a project of Canadian nation-building, forest conservationists actively participated in that project. Most obviously, they did so by contending that citizens' duty to take care of the forest stemmed from the fact that

"Providence" or "nature" had bestowed this forest upon the nation.168 Within this imagination, not only was the nation itself seen as always already in existence, but also

its forest resources were understood as having always existed for its citizens to use. Any

prior Aboriginal claim to "Canadian" forests disappeared within this imagination, as did

the colonial and nationalist processes through which "civilized" (read white) men came to

control Native lands. This conservationist logic relied for coherence upon the female

gendering of forest nature and the Canadian nation, a process through which timber was produced by conservationists as both natural and national, and through which

conservation appeared as an inherent good, and an objective necessity.

Forest conservationists consistently represented both the nation and nature as female. One author, for example, urged readers to understand that the nation's "poetry and her history" were inwoven with stories of Canada's forest wealth, wealth that also

"clothes with beauty her sterile lands."169 At an Ottawa address, Stewart collapsed the gendering of Canada and "her" forest nature in a poem he described as "exceedingly applicable to our case" in Canada:

God gave us mother earth full blest With robes of green in healthful fold We tore the green robes from her breast We sold our mother's robes for gold. We sold her garments fair, and she Lies shamed and bleeding at our feet; In penitence we plant a tree— We plant a tree and count it meet.170

As Anne McClintock has convincingly argued, the "myth of the virgin land is also the myth of the empty land, involving both a gender and a racial dispossession." To be virgin within patriarchal narratives, McClintock continues, "is to be empty of desire and 126 void of sexual agency, passively awaiting the thrusting, male insemination of history,

language and reason." And within colonial narratives, the myth of virgin land "also

effects a territorial appropriation, for if the land is virgin, colonized peoples cannot claim

aboriginal territorial rights."171

In conservationist discourse, the "virgin" forest appeared to be under threat from a

variety of sources. One threat came from its own (feminized) forest nature. The problem,

as forestry advocates saw it, was that "our virgin forests" were wasteful, decaying,

1 7^

ripe, overmature, excessively lavish, and decadent. White commented about Temagami

that "some of the Pine timber on the area will require to be disposed of in the near

future." m In fact, the "lavishness of nature" was in part to blame for settlers' wasteful

clearing practices, since this lavishness was "beyond all immediate requirements," and

thus allowed settlers to become accustomed to wasteful lumbering methods.175

Southworth argued that "to preserve the forests, in the sense of leaving them untouched,

is a waste from year to year of their natural increase, as the trees pass through the stage of

maturity to decay and death."176 As McClintock's argument suggests, the construction of

forests as virgin within conservationist discourse created them as empty of agency and thus available to be filled with meaning by conservationists. Instead of appearing as part

of their own complex web of ecological and social relationships, differing from region to region depending on climate and a variety of other factors, forests were reduced to and unified as "our virgin forests" (i.e., belonging to the nation), which lay "idle and awaiting 177 the hand of a rational manager." In fact, the forest appeared in conservationist 127 discourse not merely as awaiting rational forest management, but as desperately in need of rescue from her own feminine (and feminized) excess. Within this framework,

conservationists could easily position forestry as saving the forest from her own decadence and decline: excessive forest nature simply needed to be reordered and cultivated into productive wood capital. The construction of a virgin forest also created territorial displacements in McClintock's sense, making it impossible for Aboriginal peoples to exist on the land (at least in ways intelligible to Europeans), never mind to claim rights to specific territories in the suddenly homogenous "virgin forest." By reclassifying peopled lands as virgin, conservationists opened them up as national spaces to be managed according to scientific principles.

At the same time, however, that conservationists figured virgin forests as in need of rescuing from themselves, they also imagined Canadians as requiring saving from virgin forests. Southworth contended, for instance, that "without the interference of man, there is a constant consumption of forest products by the decomposition of the trees which have reached their term of existence." Virgin forests left to their own devices, it seemed, became cannibalistic, eating themselves without concern for their own productivity or for the future of the Canadian nation. While forestry advocates figured that this problem of forest cannibalism could be solved with a system of conservation, they also sympathized with early settlers' fear and subsequent destruction of the virgin forest, since that forest was the "shelter and lurking place of wild animals and the

17Q dangerous aboriginal inhabitants who resented his [the settler's] coming." From this angle, the virgin forest seemed dangerous rather than idle or helpless. The sense of

danger that at times emerges from conservationist discourse speaks to a larger imperial

1 SO

anxiety explored by McClintock: "the 'empty' lands were visibly peopled."

Constructing forested lands as empty did not make them so, and conservationist

narratives contained inconsistencies that did not easily resolve themselves to create a

coherent national forest nature. Dangerous forests were represented as threatening both

because they consumed their own capital, thus robbing citizens of this capital, and

because they provided refuge to people and animals who threatened the nation by

threatening the safety of its settlers.

It makes sense within this logic that forestry advocates aimed at countering the

popular notion that the forest needed to disappear completely before "advancing

civilization," but did not advocate for leaving in place the virgin forest, instead

contending that this forest should be converted into an ordered forest that continuously

produced the highest revenue for the benefit of the nation. Most conservationists saw

the "perfected forestry system of Europe"183 as desirable but unachievable in Canada, and

wished that one day Canada would be able to implement a European-like system.184

Rational, ordered, European-inspired and nation-benefiting forest nature was juxtaposed with irrational, chaotic, savage, nation- and capital-destroying forest nature. Both forest natures were invented by conservationists, yet appeared within conservationist discourse to exist in nature. In order for civilized conditions to follow, forestry advocates asserted,

it became necessary for one forest nature to subsume the other. Thus it is no surprise that forest conservationists attempted to disrupt the dominant notion that forests had to

disappear so that national development could take place, but did not do the same favour

for "the Indian, the wolf, and the buffalo," whose disappearance was also considered a

necessary precursor to national progress.

The female gendering of forest nature allowed conservationists to make their

movement appear necessary in other ways as well. As discussed above, one major threat

to forests, according to conservationists, came from overzealous settlers who mistakenly

assumed that Canadian forests were inexhaustible. Yet although forestry proponents

•I QS

blamed settlers for the " extermination" of large tracts of forest land, they also wanted

to get settlers on board with conservationist ideas, and therefore could not depict them as

entirely reprehensible. Gender proved an important tool in this negotiation, providing

backing for conservationists' previously-discussed strategy of aligning themselves with

settlers through the imagining of a nation-building project whose objectives changed over

time from forest devastation to forest conservation. In the poem cited by Stewart, for

example, forest destruction is equivalent to the rape and humiliation of a woman; after

she is stripped of her "green robes," she "lies shamed and bleeding at our feet."188

Although the writer of the poem likely meant its last two stanzas ironically ("In penitence

we plant a tree/We plant a tree and count it meet"), Stewart seems to have taken them

quite literally. He spent the rest of his address arguing for the need to implement a

scientific forestry system that included tree planting. According to Stewart, the rape of the nation's forests by early settlers was "necessary under the circumstances," if a little 130 regrettable. By assuming a narrative of progress in which national development and civilization required changes in past practices of the treatment of both women and the

forest, Stewart was able to articulate the need for conservation without condemning the practices of earlier settlers: the poor treatment of the forest (and women) was acceptable and even necessary in the past, but increasingly civilized conditions required more enlightened behaviour.190

Conservationists also relied on the construction of the forest as female in order to normalize the idea of forest fire suppression. For forestry advocates, fire posed the biggest danger of all to Canadian forests, destroying more timber than did lumbering and challenging the possibility of implementing a forestry system.191 Fire, conservationists contended, was an indiscriminate killer of forests old and young, and, even more frighteningly, the threat of fire came from a number of sources simultaneously, including: settlers, travellers, explorers, camping and hunting parties, tourists, mining prospectors, lumbermen, Indians, railroad construction gangs, trains, and lightning.192 Forestry advocates agreed upon the absolute necessity of protecting the forest from fire and, figuring that the only way to achieve this goal was to supervise the forest, they pressed federal and provincial governments to implement fire ranging systems across the country.

By 1905, fire ranging had become "an established and unassailable feature of Canadian forest policy"iy3 and by 1909 all provinces and the federal government had put in place fire ranging systems. By understanding the forest as female, conservationists mapped their vision of the forest onto the forest itself, so that the protection of timber from fire

131 appeared as the goal not only of forest conservationists, but of the forest herself. While conservationists advocated for the implementation of fire ranging systems in order to ensure the perpetual production of timber, they often described fire ranging as the protection of "our forests from their greatest enemy."195 In this way, forestry advocates created a forest with an enemy, an enemy that, conveniently for them, could be defeated by the very system that would also protect timber and timber revenues. Fire ranging thus appeared as a noble and benevolent endeavour, since it protected a helpless forest from a dangerous enemy.

But Who Should Protect the Forests from Whom?: A National Question

An analysis of conservationists' preoccupation with the question of who should protect

Canadian forests from whom reveals ways in which the forest conservation movement at this time mobilized and reformulated racialized and gendered definitions of civilization and Canadian citizenship. Here we see how race in particular comes into existence through the production of nature. Given the threat posed by forest fires within conservationist discourse, it makes sense that those in charge of protecting the forest from fire would be celebrated as heroes of forest conservation. Indeed, one commentator observed that fire rangers were "constantly on guard in the forest regions" of Ontario and

Quebec, not only extinguishing fires but also enforcing laws and educating lumbermen, trappers and Indians about how properly to make and extinguish camp fires.196 Another author lamented the fact that so little was known of the "rugged life" and work of fire rangers, in spite of the fact that the work was "national in scope," like that of the

132 Mounties. The author endeavoured to inform readers of the importance of fire rangers by describing the skills and high level of physical fitness needed for fire ranging as well as essential tasks rangers carried out, from preventing poaching by Indians and

10R

Americans, to fighting fires in order to protect timber, to saving lost tourists. Another observer described the prototypical Canadian ranger in the following terms: "All alone, a sturdy and self-reliant figure—representing the law, representing civilization even in the wilderness."199 Similarly, a traveller to the Temagami area described fire rangers as "a kind of peaceful patrol, saving these wilds from oppressive loneliness, and serving as a kind of guarantee of order and protection."200 For these and other writers, fire rangers embodied not only the ordered principles of forest conservation, but also civilization itself.

Yet while forest administrators aimed to have fire rangers embody these characteristics, more often than not they were disappointed in the "character of the men" hired as rangers.201 White, in his memorandum suggesting the creation of Ontario's fire ranging system, the system eventually adapted and adopted across the country, made a point of discussing the importance of hiring as fire rangers "active, energetic men, of cool temper and good judgment," who also had "a thorough bush training."202 White felt that the success of the fire ranging scheme as a whole depended on the quality of men employed as rangers, but he later admitted that it was difficult to "obtain a number of well skilled bush men, who are educated and otherwise well-equipped for this work," since these kinds of workers tended to work for lumber companies during the fire ranging 133 season, where they received better pay than rangers' wages. As a result of this

situation, White thought that the Department of Lands, Forests and Mines had little

choice but to select its staff from other sources, and he mentioned specifically hiring

"active men" from the university as fire rangers.20 It seems that this plan did not work

out because in 1912 the Department announced new regulations stipulating that students

would no longer be allowed to work as fire rangers. The reasons cited by the Toronto

Daily Star for this change were that students were inefficient and inexperienced at the job, and many considered fire ranging to be "an extended vacation" paid for by the

government.205 The fire ranging system was not panning out as planned. Fernow pointed

out that it was unlikely that "a large army of incompetent, inexperienced men, recruited

afresh every year and appointed through political influence, even if a sprinkling of

competent woodsmen is added, will successfully cope with the evil" of forest fires.

The inability of those government officials charged with implementing forestry principles to secure the staff they had in mind shows that the conservation movement was not a

smooth or finished project. Though conservationists attempted to connect their movement to a larger national project, they could not attract the personnel that they thought would make this possible.

While conservationists did not explicitly state that the active men they had in mind to serve as fire rangers were white men, they might as well have, since it was white men that they had in mind.207 They did, however, state explicitly that it was men they wanted as rangers. Perhaps, given the female gendering of forest nature in conservationist

134 discourse, this comes as little surprise. Women had to be protected, not do the protecting. When conservationists mentioned women at all, they expressed hope that the National Council of Women would "take an interest in the forest needs of Canada" like their counterparts in the United States had done.209 Here, the "forest needs" were defined by male forestry advocates, and women were expected to play a supportive role in a project the goals of which had already been established.

That the race of the ranger affected his ability to stand for civilization as he protected the forest wilds becomes clear upon looking at conservationist discussions about whether Aboriginal men, referred to most often by the gender-neutral term

"Indian," would make appropriate fire rangers. On the one hand, forestry advocates positioned Indians as threats to timber conservation, blaming them for purposely setting forest fires. One oft-repeated story, for example, told of how one of the "worst fires that

Ontario has ever seen was lighted by an Indian who wanted to keep the white man out of his hunting grounds."210 Similarly, White worried that if anything arose to disturb the

Indians within the Temagami Forest Reserve "in what they consider to be their rights as the original inhabitants... the result might be very dangerous and even disastrous."211 He therefore recommended that the Indians and half breeds in the area should be "dealt with in a broad and generous spirit so that they would continue to be friendly and anxious to preserve the forest instead of enemies, ready to set fire wherever they considered it would do harm."212

135 But while Indians were on the one hand positioned as threats to the forest, the threat they posed was sometimes seen as not their fault. For example, commissioners in

Ontario appointed in 1897 to investigate the possibilities of protecting and regenerating white pine reported that Indians north of the height of land were "to some extent careless in regard to fires—with the result that considerable territory along the borders of the streams has been from time to time burned over." This burning, according to the commissioners, was not caused by maliciousness on the part of the Indians, but rather was "due largely to want of knowledge on their part that the immense forests of that country have any particular value."2 4 The commissioners expressed confidence that if the matter were brought before the Indians by posting signs in their own language, "a great improvement in this respect might be effected."215 Similarly, some tellings of how

Indians caused one of the worst forest fires in Ontario history removed culpability from the Indians. As Southworth told the story in Canada Lumberman, the Indians set fire to the forest upon the suggestion of a Hudson's Bay Company officer who had his own motives for wanting the area maintained as a hunting ground. In this version of the story, Indians are without agency. They burn down forests simply because they do not know any better or because (a European) someone told them to. Within the contradictory narratives explaining why Indians set fires to forests (to keep white people out of their hunting grounds, because they did not know any better or because someone else wanted them to), Aboriginal peoples are consistently constructed only in relation to non-Native people and interests. Erased are relationships between First Nations and their territories that recognize Aboriginal ways of valuing their lands and do not necessarily have to do with newcomers at all. The TAA, for example, traditionally set fires on small islands in n'Daki Menan in the spring in order to generate the growth of berries for their personal consumption as well as to attract food animals.

Indians also had another place within forest conservationist logic: that of potential protectors of the forest. In 1906, L. O. Armstrong, a railroad colonization agent, expressed pleasure that "we have at last begun to fight the enemy [of forest fires] with some show of success," and added that, "we have not, however, invoked the aid of the natural fire guardian to the extent we should. We have not enlisted the services of the

Indian." Armstrong continued on to argue that before contact with white man, "the

Indian [was] an exceedingly careful man about fires—a ready made fire guardian."219

Others concurred with Armstrong's thinking, arguing that Indians were "ideal fire rangers" who, when encouraged to preserve the forest and game, "which they do naturally," would become "a valuable servant of the country."220 Tourists and conservationists alike noted how careful Indians were with fire when they guided canoe trips through Canadian forests, though some disagreed with hiring Indians as fire rangers, for they considered that Indians lacked appreciation for the value of time, duty and routine necessary to be useful rangers.222

The construction of Indians as simultaneous threats and potential helpers to the forest represented two sides of the same coin. Although the positions at first seem counterintuitive, together they reveal the deeply ambivalent role that Aboriginal people were asked to play in the construction of the nation. Armstrong suggested that hiring "the

Indian" as a fire ranger will "make him feel that we are not robbing him entirely of the forest" and will "enable him to live by the forest and that for ever."223 Armstrong reminded readers of the large fire set by Indians who wanted to keep their hunting grounds free of white men, hinting that it would be a wise move for those interested in protecting the forest from fire to seize "our opportunity to do [Indians] justice for past

994 injuries" by employing them as rangers. White followed a similar line of reasoning in advocating for the hiring of Indians as fire rangers, game wardens and guides for tourists in the Temagami Forest Reserve. White considered that the very fact that the Indians could easily become enemies of the forest, maliciously setting it on fire if any of their

"interests [were] interfered with," made it necessary to enlist their support in forest 99S conservation by employing them as fire rangers.

Armstrong and White's logic recognized to a certain extent that something had been taken from Aboriginal people, thus giving them a reason to want to destroy the forest. In that way, Armstrong and White's reasoning differed from the logic underlying the construction of Indians as ignorant fire-setters who could, with the right information, be taught to value the forest properly. Within this latter framework, forest conservationists could easily enlist support for fire protection from the unthreatening

Indians simply by giving them an education about "the importance of looking after their 99 ft camp-fires and extinguishing any incipient fires that might be started." The logic underlying the construction of Indians as potential protectors of the forest reveals a more complex attitude on the part of conservationists. Those who supported the employment of

Indians as fire rangers often relied on the racist idea, discussed in further depth in the

next chapter, that Native people possessed instincts rather than skills. As one observer

stated, not employing Indians as rangers was a waste of Indians' "specialized knowledge

and hereditary instincts."227 Armstrong considered that Indians had been " spoiled by

contact with the white man" into behaving with less caution toward fire than they

otherwise would, and therefore considered that employing them as fire rangers would

benefit the Indians as well as the forest by allowing them to redevelop their innate fire

ranging abilities.

At the same time, though, this way of thinking in some ways shifted the dominant

perception that white people had much to teach Indians while Indians had nothing to offer

whites. In fire ranging, Indians were seen as being able to "teach the tyros who are now

playing with a great national institution many things."229 Still, this vision was hardly

challenging to the status quo. Here Indians were being called upon to use their

supposedly innate knowledge of the forest in the service of fire suppression for the good

of the Canadian nation. White considered that to hire Indians as fire rangers, in addition to allowing them to hunt and fish inside the forest reserve, was to "conciliate these

Indians in every way possible,"230 but the TAA certainly did not agree. Armstrong went

so far as to state that employing Indian fire rangers somehow created justice for the

injuries inflicted upon Aboriginal people in the past. Instead, this way of thinking attempted to implicate Indians in a nationalist logic in which forest conservation was

139 •w

considered necessary, inevitable, and inherently beneficial, and gave them the non-choice

of being either friendly Indians working in the service of the forest and nation, or enemy

Indians working to destroy forest and nation. Either way, their relationship to the land

was prescribed by conservationists' ideals for the forest.

While some forestry advocates certainly expressed their desire to see Indians

working as rangers, it does not seem that this desire translated into the mass hiring of

Aboriginal people. Certainly, had this mass hiring taken place, the Canadian Forestry

Journal would not have opened a discussion in 1910 about whether Indians should in the future be employed as fire rangers.232 A TAA elder recalled that the government promised that in the Temagami region half the fire rangers on the TFR would be Indian, but the government kept this promise for only a couple of years before dropping the

Indians and hiring white rangers exclusively.233 It thus seems safe to say that although conservationists may have considered that Indians fulfilled White's requirement that rangers have a thorough bush training, or at least the equivalent in innate instinct, Indians were not the "active, energetic men, of cool temper and good judgment" White had in mind as ideal rangers. White's suggestion of hiring Indians as rangers in the Temagami

Forest Reserve had much more to do with attempting to pacify a potential fire danger than it did with a true wish on his part that Indians would become rangers. Indeed, a hint of just the opposite emerged in his specification that Indians should be employed as assistant rather than full fire rangers.235 A similar sentiment was expressed by a forestry advocate who stated that he could "imagine no more potent service to the cause of

140 conservation than the establishment of a Government bush ranger corps, directed by

forestry experts, the rank and file of which would be made up of Indians." Thus while

some conservationists considered Indians fit to do the work of fire ranging, they did not

seem to think Indians could be either forestry experts or even full-fledged rangers. That their labour was less highly valued than that of white rangers is evidenced by one

conservationist's observation that the salary for an Indian fire ranger was one-quarter of that of a white ranger.

Both the discussion about whether or not Indians should be employed as rangers

and the various opinions that conservationists developed about the subject—that Indians

are fire rangers by nature, that Indians will burn down the forest unless they are employed

as rangers, that Indians should do the labour of but not the thinking behind fire ranging— were related to broader debates taking place in the context of European imperialism about the ability of colonized peoples to become civilized. Though scientific racism had become popular by the mid-1800s, the older idea that all peoples could move toward civilized conditions did not disappear entirely as biological thinking began to hold sway.

Some evidence of developmental thinking is evident in the writings of conservationists who thought it a good idea to hire Aboriginal fire rangers, thus allowing them to become

"useful" subjects in the project of scientific forestry. But it is also likely that scientific racism influenced the decision not to hire Aboriginal people as fire rangers. It was highly unlikely that Indians in any case, considered uncivilized and perhaps uncivilizable, would be called upon to play the imaginative role of representatives of civilization in the

141 wilderness, no matter what bush skills they possessed. Instead of hiring Indians, it seems

that provincial governments stumbled along, facing criticism of the system as well as the

difficult task of finding experienced men to serve as fire rangers each year.

While conservationists expressed a certain degree of ambivalence about a

potential role for Aboriginal people in forest conservation, their position on "foreigners"

was much more clear: foreigners caused forest fires. White explained that during railway

construction, "there is a large foreign element employed in the capacity of navvies etc.

These foreigners are notoriously careless in the use of fire." He continued on to

highlight the absolute necessity of hiring fire rangers to work along railway construction

lines, since "even the railway navvies and people of that kind, who have no interest in the

country or the timber beyond earning their bread and butter, are made more careful when

they know they are watched and are liable to be punished if they set out fire wantonly or

carelessly."239 If fire rangers were not employed along railway construction lines, nothing

could stop these areas from becoming "howling waste."240 White defined foreigners as those "with no knowledge of the laws or ways of this country, not speaking English, with

no care or thought about the danger of using fire during the dry season, and yet constantly

using it for a variety of purposes."241 Through the construction of fire as the enemy of the

forest and, as previously discussed, the forest as necessary to the nation, it followed for

forestry advocates that foreigners, as those who did not care about protecting the forest

from fire, were enemies to the nation. Given that, as conservationists themselves recognized, the forest fire threat had many sources, the disproportionate association

142 between foreigners and forest fires had more to do with a racist nation-building project

than it did with who actually set the most fire to the forest. At the same time, however,

conservationist thinking worked to naturalize the exclusion of "foreigners" from the

nation by constructing them as dangers to the forest.

By creating forests as timber-producers necessary to the nation, and forestry as necessary to forests, forest conservationists made their vision of the Canadian forest seem

logical and desirable, at least to the extent that, by 1910, government policies were moving toward conservationist goals. Forestry advocates' imagination of the forest was certainly a partial vision, but instead of appearing as such within conservationist discourse, it appeared as inherently beneficial for all Canadians and for the forests themselves. I shall turn now to explore how the common acceptance of forest conservation as a laudable goal worked to shift n'Daki Menan to the Temagami Forest

Reserve.

Not Actual Ownership: Just a Small Band of Indians Living in the Forest Reserve

As discussed above, the Forest Reserves Act created Temagami as a site of valuable timber. The setting aside of the TFR also brought the region centrally into the Canadian forest conservation movement, and therefore into the nationalist project to which this movement tied its objectives, for example by attaching Canada's progress as a nation to its progress in adopting a system of scientific forestry. But the TFR also participated more directly in the marginalization of Aboriginal peoples that was integral to

143 imperialism and white settler nationalism, and to the related construction of the land as a virgin space bestowed by providence upon European settlers.

In banning settlement within the TFR, Ontario did more than simply set aside for timber production lands unfit for settlement, but rather produced as unfit for settlement lands upon which the TAA had been settled for many generations. In so doing, the government imposed an implicitly racialized definition of settlement, which worked to invalidate the TAA's form of settlement, and therefore their claim of ownership to n'Daki

Menan. Within conservationist discourse, lands deemed unfit for settlement were those whose rocky and thin soils prevented the successful growing of agricultural crops. But conservationists did not merely determine that such lands were unfit for agricultural settlement, but rather that such lands were inappropriate for any form of settlement.

Implicit here is the familiar logic that permitted only European-style agricultural settlement to count. "Uncivilized" peoples could occupy but not own the lands they inhabited. Indeed, White and Southworth saw no contradiction in recommending the setting aside of the TFR even as they knew that "a small band of Indians" resided within the proposed reserve.243 In Temagami, the racialized definition of settlement was made more explicit because of the fact that the TAA had in fact been cultivating lands,

European-style, on n'Daki Menan for several years before Ontario created the TFR.244

Yet Southworth and White assured the Ontario government that the Indians living within the proposed TFR had neither "actual ownership" of the area nor "proprietary rights over any particular territory."245 Agricultural practices alone were clearly not enough to

144 guarantee the TAA status as settlers. Race outweighed potatoes when it came to define who could own land.

Only through the denial of the TAA's claim to n'Daki Menan could the

Temagami region appear, as it did within conservationist discourse, as a "virgin territory well timbered with Pine."246 The Forest Reserves Act and the TFR provided the means through which this denial could take place. These measures created the region as a site of timber, thereby erasing the region as TAA territory. Yet provincial government

administrators were faced with a problem: the continued physical presence of the TAA inside the boundaries of the TFR. It was one thing to erase people in law, but another thing entirely to erase them in practice. And, in spite of forest conservationists' fantasy that the "wandering race of hunters [was] gradually melting away," the TAA showed no signs of disappearing and refused to sit back quietly and allow their lands to be controlled by outsiders.247 White and Southworth tried to mitigate this "problem" by constructing the TAA in relation to the forest reserve. Indeed, Southworth seemed quite pleased that the TAA resided within the forest reserve. He thought that their presence would benefit both themselves and the government, since "the work of caring for and operating the territory will be profitable for them."248 Further, he figured that the TAA would be "put at no disadvantage from the creation of the Forest Reserve," since some of them already worked as guides for tourists, and the creation of the TFR would allow more TAA members to be so employed.249 White seemed less sure. As previously discussed, White considered that the TAA would not likely pose a threat to the TFR so long as they were

145 not disturbed. But he also feared that the Indians might become enemies of the forest, trying to set damaging fires at every opportunity. He, like Southworth, proposed hiring

TAA members as guides for tourists, but his reasoning had more to do with trying to dissuade the Indians from burning down the forest than to do with arranging a mutually beneficial relationship between the Aboriginal community and the Department of Crown

Lands.250

Whether the TAA were positioned as helpers or hinderers of the forest reserve, they were created in relation to it and not to n'Daki Menan. Simultaneously, n'Daki

Menan was created as a timber commodity and not in relation to the TAA. Thus while the

TAA remained on n'Daki Menan after the creation of the TFR, the previously inextricably linked bodies—the TAA and n'Daki Menan—were torn apart and placed

(separately) into the context of conservation. This tearing apart not only created both n'Daki Menan and the TAA in relation to forest conservation but it also constructed them both as generalities rather than specificities. The TAA became just one group of Indians among many similarly-constituted groups, while n'Daki Menan became just one site of timber among many across the province and nation. Thus constituted, it became possible for the TAA and n'Daki Menan to exist without reference to one another and for the

TAA's claim to and special relationships with n'Daki Menan based on years of intimate encounters simply to disappear.

As a result, White was able to say in 1911 that his department had "treated the

Indians there [in the TFR] in a very generous way." In 1910, he assured the DIA that

146 the Department of Crown Lands had not disturbed the "Indians who are resident in the

Forest Reserve and they are permitted to roam about there over a much larger area than they could expect to get in an Indian Reserve, and they are employed as fire rangers and guides and our information is that they are quite contented to be left as they are." The

TAA, who did not see themselves or their claim to n'Daki Menan as existing in relation to the TFR, did not consider their treatment by the Ontario government as generous in the least. Band members expressed their frustration that they were being asked to vacate their houses, that they were forced to get permission from the Chief Fire Ranger to cut even firewood, and that they were forbidden to cut timber and build houses.253 The TAA continually pressed their claim for a reserve and by the time White made the above statements, the Temagami band had sent delegations and petitions as well as a number of letters to the DIA, all in attempt to urge a decision from the Department about their reserve.254 One fairly typical petition, written in 1907, read "We have been asking for a reserve on Lake Temagami for [illegible number] years. We were offered a reserve a few years ago, but did not get it. We see that the Government gave reserves to all the Indians north of us last summer, and we do not know of any Band but ourselves who have not their own reserves. We have no land that we can settle on. We wish you would help us to get a reserve." The petition is signed by fifty-one TAA women and men.

In spite of the TAA's refusal to accept the logic of the forest reserve, within the ten years after the reserve's creation—not coincidentally, the same ten years during which forest conservation became a popular movement—the region had come to appear,

147 naturally, as a timber reserve, with the result that the TAA found themselves unable to get Canadian governments to recognize even a small part of n'Daki Menan as belonging to the First Nation. As previously discussed, the creation of the TFR did not result in the region existing solely as a timber commodity. While advocates of forestry like White and

Southworth encouraged the implementation of special cutting regulations and a forestry plan in the forest reserves, this did not occur. Instead, a number of other activities began or continued to take place within the TFR. Even before the creation of the forest reserve, a pulpwood licence existed in the area. In 1898, Ontario had granted the Sturgeon Falls

Pulp and Paper Company permission to cut enough pulpwood so as to supply their mills annually for 21 years. This licence did not include pine, however, and White concluded that since the rights of the company could not be abrogated through the creation of the

TFR, the only thing to do was to protect the pine from the increased fire danger caused by pulpwood cutting. In spite of the company's not having permission to cut pine, it is clear that fairly large-scale logging took place within the TFR since before its inception.

Small-scale logging took place within the TFR as well. For example, in 1901, Temagami fire rangers built as their headquarters a log house on Bear Island, using lumber and

•yen *)Kft shingles "manufactured on the spot." Rangers also cleared portages of trees.

In December of 1902, the Department of Crown Lands made new regulations under the Forest Reserves Act designed not toward a system of scientific forestry, but in order to control other activities in reserves. Under the new regulations, mineral prospecting was permitted within forest reserves, as long as prospectors obtained

148 licences. Mining was also permitted, as was cutting timber to facilitate mining activities, though companies needed to acquire leases in order to mine. Other regulations were meant to prevent fires in forest reserves, and included rules about how and for what purposes fires could be set, rules forbidding the dropping of burning substances like matches and the discharging of firearms, and regulations obliging railway companies to use the best means available to prevent fire from escaping train furnaces or ashpans. Still other regulations prohibited people from cutting down, removing bark from or otherwise injuring standing timber unless they had the written permission of the Commissioner of

Crown Lands. The other side of that rule was that the Commissioner was permitted to construct roads, cut trails, erect buildings and make any improvements he considered necessary in the public interest.

The new regulations also provided for the licensing of guides and made it illegal for anyone to guide tourists through forest reserves without a licence. Visitors to reserves were to give rangers personal information as well as details about travel plans through reserves. According to Rod and Gun, the immediate occasion for passing these regulations was that the TFR was about to be opened up by the Temiskaming and

Northern Ontario Railway (TNOR), a government line which was to be built from North

Bay through the TFR and passing by the end of Lake Temagami's northeast arm.260 The

Department of Crown Lands (correctly) figured that the construction of the railway would bring a large number of tourists and prospectors to the TFR, and therefore wanted to make sure rules were in place to control the behaviour of these groups. Yet tourists and

149 prospectors were not discouraged from entering the TFR. Indeed, the Ontario government decided to build the TNOR in part to encourage mineral development and tourism. In

1903, railway construction workers came upon veins of cobalt-silver ore quite a distance north of Lake Temagami and outside the TFR. This discovery led to the founding of a mineral camp appropriately called Cobalt, and by 1905, prospecting was taking place on a huge scale in and around Cobalt.262 The government opened the TFR for prospecting in

1906, and soon prospectors in large numbers began to explore the TFR. By 1909, they had staked thousands of claims and begun substantial mining work in the TFR.264

In 1903, the Department of Crown Lands decided to sell portions of timber in the

TFR for the first time, explaining that "a reserve from which no lumber is taken would not be serving its full purpose." In 1905, the Department also gave permission and money to have trees cleared from along the railway line where it passed through the

TFR. When Southworth successfully petitioned in 1903 to have the TFR expanded, the

Department had already given out several pulpwood licences for lands within the new boundary. Of the total of 3700 square miles to be added to the forest reserve, 1850 of them were covered by pulp concessions.267 Over the decade, Ontario granted several timber and pulp licences in addition to those that already existed within the TFR. Parties were permitted to cut pulpwood for railway ties, mature pine or pine damaged by fire or wind, and timber for mining and power generating purposes. Also, portions of the TFR were withdrawn from the forest reserve to facilitate mineral development, and companies received permission to dam lakes in the TFR, provided that they cleared the shorelines of

150 trees killed by raised water levels. The Department of Crown Lands also permitted summer residence in the TFR. In 1904 the Department announced that it planned to survey the islands in Lake Temagami and, the following year, interested parties could apply for long-term leases of these islands and were permitted to build summer homes and camps upon them.

The fact that so many non-timber related activities took place within the TFR was not a sign that forest conservation had failed. Settlers had been excluded, fires kept under control and activities understood as compatible with forest conservation regulated, although, as government officials recognized, many activities permitted in the TFR threatened to destroy the timber that the reserve was designed to protect. In 1910, for example, White noted that the TFR was in great danger of fires due especially to prospecting, silver mining and tourism, and suggested that the staff of rangers be increased to protect the forest from fire.271 The variety of activities taking place within the TFR, all authorized by the provincial government, does indicate, however, that the region had become part of the province of Ontario and the Canadian nation. It had been marked for resource development and tourism rather than settlement. Because there were next to no non-Native agricultural settlers in the region prior to the creation of the TFR

(the two who were there were allowed to remain), the legislation of the region as a forest reserve did not greatly affect the non-Native farming class. TAA lives, on the other hand, were drastically affected. For example, while non-Native forestry interests, mineral developers, hydro companies and tourists were authorized by Ontario to reap the benefits

151 of the region's resources, the TAA were prevented from cutting down even a few trees to build houses for themselves.

There was still the matter of a reserve for the TAA, a matter that the TAA would not let the government forget, and a matter that challenged both Ontario's assertion of control over the region and the region's existence as a natural space of timber (and other resources). Yet by 1910, n'Daki Menan had come to make sense as the Temagami Forest

Reserve to the extent that Ontario was able successfully to use the TFR as the reason for refusing to create an Indian reserve on n'Daki Menan. By 1897, White had received at least three letters from the DIA outlining the TAA's claim and requesting that representatives from the two governments get together to discuss the matter of a reserve for the Temagami band. Alhough White ignored or responded only cursorily to those letters, in his memorandum recommending the creation of the TFR, he stated that part of the reason that Ontario had refused to co-operate with the Indian Department in setting aside a reserve for the TAA was that the provincial government knew about the "great quantities of Pine" in the area. When in 1906 the DIA, pressured by members of the

TAA who had gone to Ottawa to press their claim, again petitioned Ontario about creating a reserve for the TAA, White finally responded for Ontario by stating that the province could not "see its way" to granting the Department's request. White offered no explanation for the Ontario government's decision, even when asked by the Deputy

Superintendent General of Indian Affairs.275 Upon receiving a petition from the TAA in

1907 again requesting a reserve, Secretary of Indian Affairs J. D. McLean wrote to

152 White, asking his government to reconsider the question of a reserve for the TAA.

White wrote back to say that his Minister was away, but that he would bring the matter to the Minister's attention upon his return.277 Apparently something went wrong, because the DIA did not hear back from Ontario until 1910, after the TAA had again reminded

Indian Affairs of their claim.278 When White responded with a tentative answer from

Ontario, he explained that since the Robinson-Huron Treaty did not provide for a reserve for the Temagami band, and since it was important to preserve the timber in the area, he could not promise a favourable reply to the Department's request.279 McLean wrote back saying that the fact that the Temagami band was not represented at the signing of the treaty should not "prejudice their right to the benefits arising from that treaty."

Nevertheless, Ontario's response was that the Minister was "unable to recommend the setting apart of an Indian Reserve in the Temagami Forest Reserve" for the reasons given in White's previous letter.

Not surprisingly, the reasons White offered to the DIA for Ontario's supposed inability to create a reserve for the TAA were the same ones he gave in his internal memorandum recommending the setting aside of the TFR: that Ontario had no legal obligation to create an Indian reserve, and that great quantities of timber existed in the area which needed to be protected. What is interesting is when the Ontario government chose to explain to Indian Affairs its refusal to create a reserve for the TAA. The federal government first requested that the provincial government consider creating a reserve for the Temagami band in 1885, and the provincial government had a firm answer at least

153 by the time White wrote his 1901 forest reserve memorandum. Yet for another nine years, the province refused to answer federal requests about its position on the matter.

This time lapse was significant, because by 1910 it had become possible for Ontario to cite the existence of the forest reserve and the need to protect timber within it as central reasons behind why the TAA could not obtain a reserve. White's 1910 declaration was not possible in 1901, because the forest reserve was then too new to make sense as a reason to deny a reserve to an Indian band that everyone recognized as having resided in the area long before the creation of the TFR. Yet in 1910, despite the continued protests of the TAA, Ontario's reasoning made enough sense to the DIA that instead of pressing the claims of the TAA further, the Department wrote to the TAA to inform them that

Ontario "positively refused to set apart an Indian reserve in the Temagami Forest

Reserve."2 3 The fact that the TAA had continuously pressed their claim since at least

1877, twenty-four years before the TFR was created, was conveniently forgotten through this historically-reversed logic. This logic became possible not simply with time, but through the active steps taken by Ontario within this time to legislate and regulate non-

Native people into and the TAA out of the TFR.

Before Any Government was Born in Canada: The TAA on the TFR

The TFR affected TAA life profoundly. In 1911, Ontario banned shooting and fishing in the TFR. When Indian Affairs followed up on a request by the TAA to find out what provisions would be made for them regarding hunting and fishing in the TFR now that those activities were banned, White wanted to know "under what authority they [the

154 Indians] claim the right to fish and shoot there, and what their expectations are." In response, the band again requested a reserve at the south end of Lake Temagami as well as fishing and hunting rights as outlined in the Robinson-Huron Treaty. Though Indian

. Affairs Secretary McLean conveyed this message to White, White did not respond.285

The federal government continued to advocate on behalf of the TAA, particularly when the TAA sent letters, petitions and delegations to Indian Affairs and when they spoke to various Indian agents, all of which they did regularly. Still, the DIA accepted Ontario's refusal to grant a reserve to the TAA. Chief Alexander Paul wrote in 1912 that the Chief

Forest Ranger forbade band members from building dwellings on Bear Island in spite of the fact that the TAA had to send their children to school on the island. The Chief insisted that it was "our right to live as people and surely it is only fair that we should be allowed to build for our own use on Bear Island." In response to this, Indian Affairs merely asked Ontario to "indicate some suitable spot to which it may be possible to induce these

Indians to remove and to build homes for themselves."287 In 1913, McLean seemed to think that the best that Indian Affairs could do for the TAA was to go along with

Ontario's plan to allow the Indians to live in a small area of the TFR which would not be made into an Indian reserve. Ontario at first found this prospect appealing because if the

TAA were confined onto a small area, band members would cease to be "scattered all over" the TFR. Ultimately, however, the province decided against even this small concession because government officials did not trust that the Indians would move to the

155 set aside area, which meant that they would remain, much to the chagrin of officials,

"scattered all over the forest reserve."

Left with no reserve and only precarious fishing and hunting rights, the TAA became increasingly dependent for their livelihoods on working as guides for tourists, prospectors and surveyors who went to n'Daki Menan. In 1895, Indian agent Walton noted in his yearly report that members of the TAA worked as guides to the "occasional parties of tourists who have succeeded in penetrating even to Lake Temogamingue." But by 1904, as Temagami was "fast becoming prominent as a tourist resort," guiding had become one of the principal occupations of the TAA in addition to fishing and hunting. In

1905, Indian agent Cockburn commented that the Temagami area was "now a prominent tourist resort." The large number of tourists in the area meant that the TAA were unable to supply even half the demand for guides, and people came from other reserves to work as guides in Temagami. By 1910, according to Cockburn, the main source of employment for the Temagami band was to act as guides, an occupation for which they received good wages.290 But, as the band repeatedly insisted, the TAA wanted more than good wages: they wanted a reserve, and hunting and fishing rights as outlined in the Robinson-Huron

Treaty. Finally in 1971 after almost one hundred years of pressuring the government to honour their treaty obligations by setting aside for the band a one hundred square mile reserve at the south end of Lake Temagami, the TAA received a reserve: one square mile

901 on Bear Island.

156 Starting with Chief Tonene in 1880, TAA Chiefs had for many years explicitly asked not to have their reserve on Bear Island.292 This obvious injustice was facilitated in part by the logic of the forest reserve. Because members of the TAA worked guiding tourists through the TFR, the Ontario government did not feel obligated to facilitate the creation of a reserve for the band. Southworth, for example, felt confident that the creation of the TFR would put the TAA at no disadvantage. Yet the TAA were clearly disadvantaged when the TFR became the reason that the TAA could have no reserve.

Still White confidently suggested that the TAA were better off without a reserve, since that way they could roam about and work as fire rangers and guides.294 Thus guiding, which members of the TAA did at least in part because they no longer had land in their own territory, and because their subsistence activities were policed and regarded as criminal by officials now patrolling n'Daki Menan, became a reason that the TAA did not need their own territory. But guiding benefited Ontario more than it benefited the band, since guides worked in the service of forest conservation by protecting the Temagami forest from fires set by careless tourists and prospectors. This arrangement served Ontario well, for guides provided the government with free fire ranging services, and as a result of these free services, the province did not have to give up any valuable pine timber by creating an Indian reserve.

By acting as guides, the TAA found themselves in the awkward position of playing a role in a forest conservation scheme that depended on the erasure of their claim to n'Daki Menan. Under the Forest Reserves Act, the government required that people

157 working as guides in the TFR carry a licence, which could be revoked if guides did not obey the Fire Act and the Forest Reserves Act?95 In 1906, White suggested that remuneration for guides be fixed at $2.50 per day, and that a provision be added stating that the government could revoke the licence of any guide who deserted one tourist party for another that offered higher wages.296 While it is clear from the fact that White felt it necessary to make such a suggestion that members of the TAA attempted to make guiding suit their interests as best they could, it is also evident that they were forced onto the fringes of a white tourist economy through conditions not of their own making.

Unlike the government, the TAA did not suffer from historical amnesia. Chief

Aleck Paul pointed to the ridiculousness of the government's logic by stating in a 1913 speech, part of which appeared in a Philadelphia newspaper, "If the Indian did like the white man and should go to the old country, England, what would the white man do? He would send soldiers to shoot him and send him back where he came from. You can write this down for me: If an Indian went to the old country and sold hunting licences to the old country people for them to hunt on their own land, the white people would not stand for that." Similarly, in 1917, Chief Paul directly challenged the province's reasoning for not allowing the band a reserve. Upon learning that the Ontario government refused to grant the TAA a reserve because of the value of the timber in the region, he responded by stating that "We think that we deserve to have something on our reserve. We have been here before any government was born in Canada."298 The TAA not only saw through

Ontario's logic, but consistently insisted upon their own claim to n'Daki Menan.

158 In spite of their efforts, however, their articulations went unheard. The introduction of the TFR was not only a matter of introducing rational management— however poorly it was done—into an empty forest, but was instead part of a larger process through which Aboriginal title to the land began to be conveniently forgotten and legislatively removed. Indeed, the introduction of the forest reserve by the provincial government not only limited TAA access to and control over their lands, but it also helped to place them in a service role with respect to white tourists who were attracted to

Temagami because of its supposed pristine wilderness.

159 Chapter 3

The New Sportsman's Paradise: Temagami Tourism and the Temporal

Displacement of the Teme-Augama Anishnabai

Tourism, Travel Writing and the TAA

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Temagami tourism industry blossomed alongside the Canadian conservation movement.1 In this chapter I analyse the travel writing and promotional material that accompanied the rise of tourism in

Temagami and, I argue, played a constitutive role in the making of the region as a

Canadian wilderness space to be consumed by tourists. The flexibility of the category of nature begins to become clear in this chapter, as I show how the same place is constructed in different ways at the same historical moment. The nature that emerges here exists not as the decaying forest of conservationist discourse, in need of saving by scientific forestry, but instead as an unchanging wild space for white men to explore. In

Temagami tourism discourse, as in conservationist discourse, the categories of race and nature are made in and through those of gender and nation. While these social categories appear within the chapter as flexible and changing, the durability of some racialized and gendered configurations of national nature also becomes evident. For instance, in the discourses of both conservation and tourism, the region is gendered female as a "virgin" territory, and appears as natural and national rather than cultural and historical. These tourist representations worked, as in the previous chapter, to evict the TAA from their lands, and simultaneously to naturalize that eviction. Temagami tourism, then, like the

Temagami Forest Reserve, played an important role in the colonization of TAA lands and in the imaginative shift of the region from a relatively unknown Aboriginal space to a site of nature in Ontario, Canada.

At the same time, however, this shift did not occur easily or completely, in large part because Temagami tourism depended heavily upon the labour of the TAA. While travel writers often depicted TAA members, particularly those who worked as guides on canoe trips, in ways that facilitated the creation of TAA territory as part of the Canadian nation, TAA members were active participants in Temagami tourism, and they variously assisted, resisted and ignored tourists' imaginations of TAA people and land. Because of the multiple roles that the TAA played in Temagami tourism, tourists did not always get the Temagami vacation that they had in mind. I conclude the chapter by suggesting that travel writers had much more control over their writing about Temagami tourism than they did over the travel experiences themselves, and that it was therefore travel writing more than tourist-TAA encounters that produced the region as a wild, national space.

Scholars have recognized and written about the relationships between European travel writing and the colonization of far-away peoples and lands. In one of the best examples of this scholarship, Mary Louise Pratt traces how European travel writing worked to produce "the rest of the world" for European readerships, while at the same time it also constructed, in relation to and against that rest of the world, conceptions of

Europe and European subjectivity.3 Pratt contends that, unlike more obviously imperialist

161 ventures, for example scouting for exploitable resources, travel writing appeared innocent: travel writers did not actively seize foreign lands or appropriate foreign resources. Indeed, because of the seeming innocence of travel writing, Pratt uses the term

"anti-conquesf' to describe the representational practices through which travel writers asserted European hegemony while simultaneously making their actions appear benign.

While Pratt focuses her own gaze most often on the European male writing subject whose

"imperial eyes passively look out and possess," she also attends to the gendered character of travel writing, showing how European women's narratives differed in substance and form from the stories of their male counterparts.4 Women tended not to tell the linear conquest narratives that men did, and they often focused their writings on the domestic sphere generally associated with women. In spite of these differences, however, Pratt demonstrates that women's travel accounts were no less implicated in empire than men's, and instead helped to constitute both "a female domestic subject of empire, and forms of female imperial authority in the contact zone."5

Pratt's important work provides an excellent foundation for my own study of travel writing. Like (and in large part because of) Pratt, I understand European travel writing (by women as well as men) not as an innocent endeavour, but as part of the operation of colonial rule. I also draw from her work the perspective that, while European travel writing tends to say more about colonizing peoples and cultures than it does about those people and places forming the subject of the texts, colonial travel writing is a product of "transculturation," not of one-way (Europe to colony) knowledge production.

162 By "transculturation," Pratt refers to the processes through which colonized and colonizing subjects were mutually constituted in their encounters with one another in colonial "contact zones."6 As will become clear in this chapter, encounters between tourists and TAA members in the contact zone of n'Daki Menan/the Temagami Forest reserve were highly ambivalent affairs. Though TAA members did not write Temagami travel narratives, they certainly influenced what tourists could write, as well, often, as where they could travel in n'Daki Menan. The TAA also had and continue to have their own stories about n'Daki Menan, stories into which tourists sometimes fit.

My analysis differs from Pratt's in a few ways. First, while her work focuses on writing about Africa and South America from the eighteenth century to the 1980s, my

(much less ambitious!) chapter concentrates on Temagami travel writing from 1894 to

1915. Also, while Pratt concentrates primarily upon the relationships among differently located people within contact zones, my study focuses on the production of the contact zone itself, analysing how non-human nature and human subjects were co-constituted.

That said, Pratt, more than other writers about travel writing, does pay attention to the representation of non-human nature in her study.7 Her attention to non-human nature comes across most clearly in her discussion of Carl Linnaeus's plant classification system, which he first published as Systerna Naturae {The System of Nature) in 1735.

While Linnaeus intended that his system would classify all plants in the world according to their reproductive parts, Pratt argues that the system in fact allowed European naturalists to impose a specific order upon nature, an order produced by the system but which allowed naturalists to think of themselves as discovering that which already existed. This system, she further contends, led to a new form of European "planetary consciousness," where Europeans could extract the planet's life forms from their ecological relations with one another, as well as from their places within "other peoples' economies, histories, social and symbolic systems," and place them instead within a

European system of knowledge and power.8 Finally, while Pratt's study focuses for the most part on European travel writing about lands that those travel writers did not call home, my chapter concentrates on Temagami travel writing by Euro-Canadians and some

Euro-Americans who considered North America, if not always Canada, to be their home.

Indeed, I argue that Euro-Canadians came to think of the Canadian nation as their home in part through Temagami travel writing. This writing also facilitated the Euro-American imagination that Temagami existed as part of the great Canadian wilderness that

American tourists had every right to enjoy.

Temagami Tourism in Context

In Wild Things: Nature, Culture, and Tourism in Ontario, 1790-1914, a study about the cultural foundations of Ontario's tourist industry, Patricia Jasen critically analyses travel writing, including writing about Temagami.9 While I agree with her central argument that in nineteenth-century Ontario, the culture, economics and politics of tourism relied upon the "romantic sensibility,"10 my study differs from hers in its focus on how one specific place, including its human and non-human inhabitants, was made through the articles, stories, poems, journals and sometimes promotional materials that comprise Temagami

164 travel writing. Jasen, in contrast, studies how a particular sensibility shaped the tourist industry in a number of different sites in Ontario. And while Jasen focuses on the representation of nature in marketing strategies, she does not make the argument that nature itself was constituted through Ontario tourism. Jasen's work and this chapter are in agreement, however, that tourism in Ontario played a central rather than peripheral role in the European colonization of Native lands and peoples.

Jasen's text provides an important historical context for my reading of Temagami travel writing, showing first of all that, long before the first tourist travelled to

Temagami, tourism was a well-established industry in Ontario. Jasen demonstrates that tourists' interest in finding wild places in Ontario began as early as the 1790s when visitors started to make their way to Niagara Falls, the site where North America's tourist industry began. l But as increased tourist presence over the years succeeded, to borrow her chapter title, in taming Niagara (one estimate concluded that by the mid-1830s twelve to fifteen thousand people visited the falls each year), tourists started to seek out new places to experience nature in its most wild form.12 Jasen traces tourists' quest for wild places and wilderness experiences from Niagara Falls to the St. Lawrence River, up to

Lake Superior, through the Muskoka region, and to Temagami, showing that the places selected as wilderness tourist destinations were those places with geographical features found to conform to romantic values. She describes romanticism as the prevalent tendency among upper- and middle-class Europeans by the late eighteenth century to value what they considered wild nature, as well as to hold a new respect for imagination

165 and feeling, and to associate with the secular realm feelings formerly understood as belonging to religious experience. Jasen further discusses various elements central to romanticism, for example the appearance of the sublime and the picturesque as important aesthetic categories; a growing interest in Aboriginal peoples; and linkages among ideas of history, landscape and nationalism. Places that fit into romantic ideals—for example those containing sublime elements like waterfalls and dark forests or picturesque features like roughness and variety in the natural landscape—became imbued with meaning, and tourists travelled to such locations to experience the sights and feelings associated with romanticism. Promoters of tourism in turn packaged and sold romantic images in an attempt to stimulate tourists' imaginations enough that they might board trains and boats and travel to distant places to spend their money on experiencing the wild in nature.14

As well as arguing that romanticism played a central role in nineteenth-century

Ontario tourism, Jasen situates romanticism within the context of pre-World War I

European imperialist expansion and "an overwhelming preoccupation—in 'Western' middle- and upper-class patterns of thought—with matters of racial health and the rise and fall of civilizations."1 In so doing, she shows that my analysis of Temagami tourism must account for the fact that during this time, concerns about the degenerative effects of modern city life on the health of the individual, the nation, and the white race had grown to a new high, and with them grew the popularity among the middle classes of wilderness vacations, in which tourists flocked to places like Temagami to encounter the primitive in nature and in themselves. It is therefore necessary for me to pay close attention to the

166 race, class, gender and national dimensions of Temagami tourism in order to comprehend how these broader imperialist anxieties played out in the making of the region. As I will discuss in further detail below, very few people could afford to take a vacation in

Temagami in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and the stories most often published about Temagami vacations were those written by white men of the upper and middle classes. As Jasen points out, "It would be naive to mistake such sources for objective fact, and yet it would also be misguided to read them as mere reflections of travellers' already fixed views." n Temagami tourists who published accounts about their trips wrote about what they saw and experienced. Certainly their vision and experiences were shaped by the formidable amount of "cultural baggage" that they brought with them

(and that, as we shall see, they expected their guides to carry along with the rest of the luggage), and also by their encounters with real places and real people.18

It is of course impossible for me to access tourist experiences except through reading travel writing, but it is important to try to attend to the different levels at which turn of the century tourist experiences produced Temagami. First, there were the trips themselves, in which tourists came to know the area based on direct experiences shaped by what they had heard and read about the area, by their culture of imperialism, and by the specific itineraries of, and occurrences that took place on, their journeys. Second is how they wrote about those trips: what details they included and omitted; how they represented the land, animals, waters, Aboriginal peoples, and fellow tourists they encountered along the way; and the narrative structure and style they employed to write

167 their accounts. Third is how these travel narratives were consumed by readers, some of whom had likely visited Temagami themselves or would do so in the future, and others of whom would only come to know the area through reading the travel narratives of others.

Of these three levels of production of place—experience, writing, and consumption—I have access only to one, and so it is through travel writing that I attempt to comprehend the role that tourists' and readers' experiences of Temagami played in the construction of the area.

From Almost Unknown to Far Famed

In less than ten years, the Temagami region went from a place known to relatively few people to a famous wilderness destination. In 1899, a brochure produced by the Lumsden

Steamboat Line advertised Lake Temiskaming and the Temagami area as "an hitherto little known district amid the wilds of Canada." Thanks, however, to the recently built branch line of the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR) that reached the south end of Lake

Temiskaming from Mattawa, those seeking "new fields for Sport and Pleasure" could now reach the area relatively easily. The brochure was quick to reassure its readers that despite the ease of access to the region, the district remained "in all its natural wildness,

... and abounding in game and fish of all kinds."19 Promotional literature from both the steamboat company and the CPR praised the following canoe route as "unequalled, in any sense, by any other route available for the tourist or canoeisf' in the Dominion of

Canada or in the whole of America: the CPR to Temiskaming Station; a steamboat from the station up Lake Temiskaming to the town of Haileybury; then a portage to the

168 Montreal River; along the river, and through Lady Evelyn and Temagammg Lakes; and out again to Lake Temiskaming via Rabbit Lake and the Metabechawan River. This route promised a more favourable climate than even that of the Muskoka District: a country uninhabited, except by Indians; matchless scenery, including magnificent islands and virgin lakes; pure, crystal clear waters; fish and game in abundance; Indian lore, as well as Indian guides; and a chance to recuperate from the pressures of modern city life. In

Oft other words, the area contained all "the makings of an ideal summer resort."

The CPR began to advertise the Temiskaming and Temagaming trip as "the finest canoe trip in the world" in Rod and Gun in the fall of 1899, the first year of the 01. periodical's publication. By that time, visitors from a number of places in Canada and the United States had toured the Temagami region, and some had recorded their impressions of the area in the register kept at the Bear Island Hudson's Bay Company

(HBC) post.22 These early tourists likely heard about Temagami from magazines such as the New York publication Forest and Stream, which in 1894 carried a three-part series introducing the "almost unknown and wonderfully picturesque" region to readers. The series' author, who called himself "The Chief," had travelled through the area the year before as part of an exploration party and thought that readers might appreciate a description of the trip so that they might make a similar journey. As early as 1895,

Indian agent Walton reported that members of the TAA occasionally worked as guides for the few parties of tourists that managed to reach the Temagami region, but according to Thomas Southworth, it was not until the last two years of the nineteenth century that tourists began to arrive in Temagami in any significant numbers. The increased tourist traffic in the region at the turn of the twentieth century no doubt resulted largely from the extensive advertising of the area by the CPR. As Aubrey White stated in 1901, the

"Canadian Pacific Railway has discovered [Temagami's] attractions, and are advertising it everywhere as a place where you can get close to nature and away from civilization

94 with the least expenditure of money."

As well as promotional materials, articles that began to appear in popular newspapers and magazines around this time served to encourage tourism in Temagami.

For example, one author in an 1899 article in the Canadian Magazine celebrated

Temagami as "an ideal country for the paddler and sportsman." Another writer praised the district as "Nature's playground," and especially appreciated Lady Evelyn Lake, commenting that it was "matchless in all the north for its purity and the beauty of its shores and islands."25 In the popular press, the line between advertising the area and merely recounting trips to Temagami was purposely blurred. Trip recollections often included recommendations to readers about how best to get to the district, what to pack, which route to take, and whether or not to employ guides. Rod and Gun had as its mandate to inform readers about the best regions in Canada to canoe, catch fish, and Oft shoot game. With similar intentions, the editors of the Canadian Magazine prepared a special tourist issue in order to notify readers about various areas of natural beauty in 97

Canada, including Temagami. In addition, explicitly promotional materials often appeared in a similar format to travel articles. CPR Colonization Agent L. O. Armstrong, for instance, described in detail his canoe trip through the Temagami area in a pamphlet published by the railway company. Later, an almost identical article whose author remained anonymous appeared on the pages of Rod and Gun. Even the Department of

Crown Lands played a part in promoting tourism in Temagami, although, as discussed in the previous chapter, its employees felt ambivalent about the tourist presence in what would soon become the Temagami Forest Reserve. The Globe and Mail reported in June of 1899 that the Commissioner of Crown Lands, along with the Assistant Commissioner, the Director of Forestry and a local Member of Parliament, had recently returned from a canoe trip in which they examined the resources and considered the prospects of

Ontario's northland. The Commissioner reported that the Temagami area appeared to be

"a veritable paradise for tourists who are fond of canoeing trips."29 Significantly for a later discussion, this was the same canoe trip mentioned in chapter 2 as playing a role in the Ontario government's creation of the Temagami Forest Reserve. In an article about the TFR, the Globe praised the province's action, calling Lady Evelyn and Temagami

Lakes "probably Canada's most beautiful sheets of water," and adding that although the area was as yet little known, the reports of those who had visited it unanimously supported the idea of turning the area into "a mammoth pleasure resort."

Between 1899 and 1904, tourism in Temagami became increasingly popular. The

Commissioner of Crown Lands observed in 1901 that many tourists, attracted to the area by "the lacustrine beauty, the solitude, the fishing and the comparative ease with which the country can be reached," travelled long distances to vacation in Temagami.31 By

171 .1903, two boys' camps, one the American Camp Keewaydin and the other the Canadian

Camp Temagami, had been established on Lake Temagami and had begun to draw a number of boys from urban centres on both sides of the border. Although the camps certainly played a role in Temagami tourism, and I discuss some of the travel accounts written by men affiliated with the camps, the camps deserve a more sustained discussion than I can offer in this chapter. Indian agent Maclean noted that, along with the boys' camps, tourists and survey parties frequented the Temagami Lakes in increasing numbers each year, and Indian agent Cockburn commented in 1904 that Lake Temagami was "fast becoming prominent as a tourist resort."34 Ontario's Director of Forestry considered the

"presence of numerous tourists during the summer season" to be a sufficient threat to the timber in the TFR that he suggested extending the forest reserve so that government officials could begin regulating the behaviour of tourists who travelled outside the boundaries of the TFR. In December of 1903, the TFR was extended by three thousand seven hundred square miles to include areas popular with tourists (see Figure 2).35

1903 also saw the beginnings of construction of the Temiskaming and Northern

Ontario Railway (TNOR), a government line passing through the northeast arm of Lake

Temagami which was meant to open up New Ontario for resource extraction, settlement and tourism. The Grand Trunk Railway (GTR) began in the fall of 1904 to advertise that the "Famous Temagami Region of Ontario [was] Now Easily Accessible," the road having been completed to Temagami station.37 Both the CPR and the GTR ran trains to

North Bay, where passengers could catch the TNOR for Temagami. The building of the

172 TNOR through Temagami and the extensive campaign undertaken by the GTR to advertise the area had a great impact on tourism in Temagami in the early twentieth century. The Toronto Daily Star observed that in large part due to the advertising efforts of the GTR, "hundreds of nimrods ha[d] been induced to try" the waters of Lake

Nipissing and the French River, and indicated that Temagami would likely follow a similar destiny, given that representatives of the GTR had recently toured the Temagami country. This prediction came true as early as 1905. An article in the Globe mentioned in August that the result of the GTR's promotion of Temagami was that hundreds of

Canadians and even more Americans arrived that summer to experience Temagami. One commentator noted that it was easy to see the tourist "invasion" by "spending a few days at Temagami Station and watching the daily human inflow." Indian agent Cockburn less regretfully noted in his 1905 report that Temagami was "now a prominent tourist resort."39

As early as 1905, some visitors complained that Temagami was being "tamed fast." The Globe reported that the "camper of former years, who had the vast domain to himself, is fretful under the [tourist] invasion," and quoted a camper as saying that

Temagami was "poisoned with people—fairly poisoned with people already." By that time, Dan O'Connor had built two hotels in the area and was running a steamboat service to give tourists access to various points on Lake Temagami. In addition, at the end of

1905, the Ontario government began leasing Lake Temagami islands to visitors who wanted to build summer homes in the region.40 But while some tourists mourned the introduction of steamers, American camps, and other vile accompaniments of the

'summer people,'"41 the majority of visitors to the Temagami area did not mind sharing the district with others. An advertisement for Camp Temagami stated that while the railway was "not regarded as an unmixed blessing for those who have looked upon the

'Algonquin Paradise' as something of a private preserve of their own," the influx of visitors was not too much of a problem, since there were certainly enough fish in the lakes for all to share. Others echoed this sentiment, and as one person remarked in

1905, "Temagami, although being 'discovered' by a wider circle every year, is in no danger, owing to its great extent, of being overrun by tourists."43 Many people did not just tolerate but very much appreciated the new ease with which they could access the region, and they praised Temagami's new modern conveniences. One American tourist, for example, expressed his pleasure that in only "a day's travel you are transported to one of the wildest, most picturesque and best stocked game preserves on the North American

Continent."44 An article in the Toronto Daily Star similarly commented that although "in the primeval wilderness, Temagami has many of the advantages which civilization brings."45 Though tourists held different opinions about the impact of greater numbers of visitors to Temagami, as well as about the services that burgeoned to accommodate tourists, no one denied that as early as 1905 and definitely by 1910, Temagami had become a "far famed sportsman's paradise of the north," the "most famous forest reserve" in Ontario.46 By 1910, writers in popular magazines assumed that nearly all readers had heard of Temagami, and at least planned to visit had they not already experienced the area.47

But Who Went, Who Was Already There, Who Worked, and Who Wrote?

Who Went: Class and Wilderness Vacations

While wilderness vacations became more popular near the close of the twentieth century, not everyone had the privilege of a yearly vacation in the wilds of Canada. Tourism in

Temagami, as in the rest of Ontario before World War I, was largely an activity of middle- and upper-class women and men. Before the TNOR stretched north as far as

Temagami, getting to the area via train, steamer and portage before even putting a canoe in the water was something that only those who had leisure time and spare money could afford to do. Even after the TNOR began its Temagami service, the more than day-long train ride from Toronto or Buffalo to Temagami would have made the area largely inaccessible to urban working-class people, who usually did not have paid holidays and most often worked six days a week until well into World War I.49 But some farmers and working-class people who lived close to Temagami visited the area at least occasionally, for example with the annual excursion organized from nearby New Liskeard by the

Independent Order of Odd Fellows.50 In 1906, two hundred people participated in the

Odd Fellows' excursion to Lake Temagami, many of whom, the local press reported, had never before visited the area.51 In spite of trips like these, however, it seems that the majority of tourists in Temagami belonged to the middle and upper classes, and members of these classes were overwhelmingly the ones who wrote about their experiences and who were the target audience for Temagami travel writing. Even the article reporting on the Odd Fellows' excursion commented on the class base of Temagami tourism, noting that the district "will undoubtedly become the summer resort of the American and more wealthy Canadian tourist." Some authors writing about Temagami cited cost as a factor in determining where a family would spend its summer vacation,53 but all took for granted the fact of summer vacations and their necessity, an assumption that many people could not afford to make.

Who Wrote: Gender and Wilderness Travel and Writing

Of the several dozen travel narratives written about the Temagami area between 1894 and

1915, only a handful were written by women. As far as I can tell, not one was written by a member of the TAA. That does not mean, though, that white women and Aboriginal men and women did not participate in Temagami tourism. They certainly did, although, as I will discuss below, they did so in very different ways from one another, and in different ways from white men. Jasen shows that upper- and middle-class white women were well represented among the travelling public throughout nineteenth-century Ontario, though perhaps they participated less in wilderness trips than they did in other forms of tourism. Jasen argues that women likely travelled for many of the same reasons that men did: to experience the wild in nature, as had become popular with romanticism; to find adventure and greater freedom; and to escape the restraints of city life in order to bring out the wild within.54 But, and as Jasen also notes, while these women travelled, their writing about their experiences did not often appear on the pages of popular magazines.

176 The genre of the wilderness travel narrative was to a large extent gendered male, and women were at least sometimes actively discouraged from writing in this form. Not surprisingly, then, many women did not feel that they could write publicly about their travels.55 As far as Temagami tourism goes, it is difficult for a few reasons to assess how many women travelled to the region. First, and as mentioned above, women wrote very few of the published travel narratives about Temagami trips. But the fact that they wrote any at all shows that women did go on camping and hunting trips in Temagami, likely in greater numbers than the written record reveals. Sometimes women travelled in the area with white men, and other times they went with other white women. Usually, it seems, they were also accompanied by Aboriginal guides.56 As one woman writer commented about her Temagami vacation, "It may be unusual for two women to make the trip with only a guide, but we have enjoyed it immensely."

Another reason that it remains difficult to judge the level of women's participation in Temagami tourism is that men's travel narratives may not always be reliable sources for this kind of information. Pratt observes that even though they were often accompanied by women, European men writing about their (profit-seeking) adventures in nineteenth century South America "scripted themselves into a wholly male,

CO heroic world." Jasen suggests as well that men's narratives might not be good places to look for women, and she asks "When the author of a travel narrative is male, do we assume, if no female companion is mentioned, that she was not there?"59 In the case of

Temagami, I think that the answer is a decided no. This is not to say that white men did not go on camping and hunting trips individually or in groups with other men. They did both, often in the company of Aboriginal guides. One male author, James Dickson, in fact chastised other men for neglecting to take their wives and children along when they went on camping trips, stating that "I have never felt the slightest respect for those fellows who rush off for annual outings and leave wife and little ones at home to a humdrum course of existence." According to him, women and children needed these kinds of outings more even than did men, for while "the daily occupations of the head of household brings him in contact with variety both in persons and places and gives him both mental and physical changes," women and children had to endure "the same monotonous routine day in and day out, unchanging from month to month."60

In spite of this author's criticisms, women did travel with men on Temagami trips.

Each of two early travel narratives about the region, for example, both written (by men) prior to the building of the TNOR and thus when access to the area remained fairly difficult, mentioned the presence of a white woman in their party. In one article, the woman was the wife of the article's author, and in the other, she was part of a married couple the author met on his journey.61 Perhaps these women were inspired to camp in

Temagami by articles like Ella Walton's 1899 piece, "A Woman's Views on Camping

Out," in which Walton explained that "primitive instincts are the same in a woman as in a man" and that camping out, while currently unfashionable among women, "is a perfect rest for weary mothers, energetic housekeepers, brain-workers, and fagged-out society women." That Walton referred to upper- and middle-class women is evident in the

178 occupations she noted women as having. These women had the privilege of working with their minds and in their own homes, and not in factories or in the homes of others. The woman, Walton continued, "who will best enjoy life is she who follows most closely in the footsteps of her gentlemen friends and relatives." Travel narratives like those referred to above do note the presence of upper- and middle-class white women in

Temagami, but do not offer much if any insight into their experiences of the district.

Even on the rare occasion that women did publish their travel narratives, their stories must be read, as must men's (though in different ways), through the recognition that gendered expectations played a role in what women writers, no doubt with the help of editors, considered it appropriate to write. If, for example, Walton's advice to follow in the footsteps of men is any indication, women's experiences of Temagami may have been quite different (and a welcome relief) from their daily lives. Yet women's most wild and perhaps most "masculine" adventures would likely not make it onto the pages of Rod and

Gun.

It also seems probable that sometimes male authors failed to mention the presence of white women either in their parties or that they encountered along their journeys.

Acknowledging the presence of white women in Temagami, especially far from "sign[s] of civilization" like the railway, served to make Temagami appear less than the true wilderness that, as we shall see, white men wanted to encounter. While some male authors acknowledged that white women could participate in wilderness tourism—one went so far as to remark that "ladies" could "thoroughly enjoy" even long canoe trips—

179 they did not in general consider that women tourists could handle the same degree of wildness as could their male counterparts.65 Some merely assumed that girls and women did not like camping in the way that boys and men did, and that it was therefore "quite natural" that boys' camps far outnumbered girls' camps in Canada and the United

States.66 One author made special mention of the fact that "two ladies" of a party "had walked twelve miles over a rocky road on a scorching hot day," but did not seem to think it necessary to praise the men of that party, not to mention the author himself and his all- male party, for making the same journey. Another writer offered a ranking of campers, where "the third and highest degree in the order of campers" was two or three young men on a trip with nothing but a canoe, a compass and a map. Women did not have the option within this imagination of becoming high order campers, both because these campers were by definition gendered male, and because women were assumed to belong to one of the two lower orders of campers. Women could either set up a permanent camp, a plan which "most women and some men preferred]," or they could go one step up and take a camping trip with an Aboriginal guide, an option that it was "surprising" how many women enjoyed.68 Even Dickson, the author who most strenuously encouraged men to have their wives and children accompany them on wilderness vacations, considered that this practice had necessary limitations. If "the contemplated trip is so far away in the wilds that no white woman could either go herself or take her children with her," Dickson recommended that money be set aside "to provide some cozy nook for those other members of the household," while the man went alone, or with his friends (and with their

180 guides of course), to the wilds. Ella Walton also followed this form of logic when she recommended that women should only follow men's model of going "into the unbroken solitudes of the forest, far from civilization,... under modified conditions." Women should camp far enough from home "to give a complete change of air," she stated, but close enough to a village and a farmhouse to ensure easy access to bread, eggs, milk and butter. Further, women should not camp in thick woods because of the mosquitoes and blackflies, and should pack hair ribbons and new clothing so as to avoid looking like "a

7ft tramp, or a rag-bag" within a week of leaving home.

The understanding of white women as unable or at least unwilling to enter into nature's wildest places facilitated the male gendering of those who encountered wilderness spaces, whether or not (and it was not) it was only men who participated in wilderness tourism. In Temagami, this logic worked in another way as well, though it did not work, as one might expect, to construct wilderness-travelling women as masculine.

Instead, when white women were acknowledged as existing in wilderness spaces, those spaces ceased to be wild. As one woman writer recalled about her hunting trip in

Temagami, "I went out to call my husband to breakfast, when one of them [a party of hunters from Toronto] exclaimed, 'Is that a woman's voice? Why, we're not out of 71 civilization yet!'" Here we see the white woman as, to use Anne McClintock's term, a

"boundary marker." McClintock argues that within colonial discourse, women consistently, though in historically different ways, served as "threshold figures by means of which men oriented themselves in space, as agents of power and agents of

181 knowledge." In this case, the white woman appears as the boundary marker between civilization and wilderness; where she is, wilderness is not. At the same time, though, as I will discuss below, the wilderness itself was gendered female in Temagami tourism discourse. While these two representations appear mutually exclusive—white women as civilization and wilderness as female—both allowed white men to figure as the only agents of history. If white women marked civilization, then certainly they could not conquer wilderness. And if all that it took was one white woman's voice to make

Temagami wilderness into civilization, it makes sense that men writing about their encounters with wild nature would hesitate before including white women in their stories.

By excluding the presence of white women, "real" wilderness could remain, imaginatively if not in actuality, a domain for white men. Indeed, many authors chose simply not to mention whether white women joined them on their journeys or passed them during portages. Perhaps they hoped that no one would ask.

Sometimes even when writers did reveal the presence of white women on their camping trips, these women remained peripheral to the story. One author opened his article by stating that "the fit of restlessness... came over me and, abandoning my duties, the daily worries for the daily bread, I set forth to hold communion with nature, and, as a fitting setting for such a quest, I chose as my companions nature's own children." A reader would not necessarily guess from this introduction that the author took this trip with his wife, but indeed he did. She appears, however, only a couple of times in the story, and it is easy to forget that she was there at all. Other male writers who allowed

182 white women to feature more centrally into their accounts reassured readers that gender norms remained in place even as women travelled. In one account, for example, the only woman in the hunting party shot two ducks, and in so doing apparently impressed a group of Aboriginal people paddling a nearby canoe. The author acknowledged that "the lady was a good shot," and then added that the stewed duck which comprised that night's dinner "was a creation of the fair adventurer responsible for the principal ingredient." It is possible that the author made the latter comment only in an attempt to reassert gender norms after this episode, since he had earlier mentioned that the guides on the trip did all the cooking and washing of dishes.74

On occasion, women travel writers themselves reproduced gender norms in their accounts, though it is again difficult to say to what extent this was a strategic decision to get published as well as to ensure the digestibility of their writing to the majority of readers. Myrle Cameron, for instance, described going over portages "with a shining dishpan clasped in your arms" so as not to let it get dented, and added that conducting such an activity "comes from being a girl—fancy a lord of creation toting a dishpan through the primeval forest!" She also recounted that the women in her party had to "step aside now and then [on portages] as some steadier man of burden" came along.75 At the same time, however, and as Jasen observes, white women's participation in wilderness holidays was connected to feminist concerns of the day, including the idea expressed above by Walton that women's "primitive instincts" were the same as men's, and that women therefore deserved to vacation in wild nature as much as did men. Wilderness

183 tourism gave some women room, at least temporarily, to challenge of take a break from the gender roles that they were expected to fulfill at home. Jasen notes, for instance, that on such trips guides often performed the cooking and cleaning work generally associated with women, which freed women to hunt, fish and take part in other activities considered

77 to exist within the male realm. Similarly, Walton discouraged women from doing any sewing, mending or fancy needlework while taking part in camping trips, and encouraged them instead to "take text books or material to enable [them] to classify or collect any new or interesting specimen." She insisted as well that women did not need a male companion in order to go camping, and urged women to protect themselves with a 7R revolver, "which every woman should know how to use." Cameron and her party also let go of some of the constraints of femininity as their canoe trip progressed. After they had "tumbled over countless rocks" in the service of protecting the dishpan, they

"thankfully watch[ed] the dented dishpan retire into the 'kitchen' box." After this, they could experience "a wild exhilaration singing at your heart and thrilling through your blood at every lunge and rise of the bow" as they paddled in swift wind across a lake.79

The idea that women could find emancipation through travelling to wilderness spaces, a privilege very few could afford, of course reveals the class bias of this particular version of feminism. It also gives some indication of the race politics at work in Temagami, where some white women could access greater freedom by hiring Aboriginal guides to cook and clean for them, and to help them travel through TAA territory.

184 Who Was Already There and Who Worked: The TAA and Temagami Tourism

If travel narratives offer a skewed and incomplete record of white women's participation in Temagami tourism and reveal more about the hopes and anxieties of male travel writers than they do about women's experiences in Temagami, then they also provide a problematic body of knowledge about the Aboriginal women and men involved in

Temagami tourism. There existed as well important differences between Native and non-

Native participation in Temagami tourism around the turn of the twentieth century.

Significantly, for Aboriginal people, tourism was work, while for their upper- and middle-class white clients, women and men alike, tourism was leisure. As discussed in chapter 2, during this time period, the TAA became increasingly marginalized from their own land. In spite of the TAA's persistent petitions for a reserve, the federal government had not granted them this, and yet Ontario made land-use decisions as though n'Daki

Menan belonged without question to the Crown. The creation of the Temagami Forest

Reserve in 1901 and the leasing of Lake Temagami islands beginning in 1905 are just two examples of Ontario's assertion of control over the region.

Within this context, tourism became an important means of economic survival for members of the TAA. In 1905, the regional Indian agent reported that Temagami tourist guides were so highly sought-after that members of the TAA could not supply more than half the demand, and Aboriginal people came from other locations to act as Temagami guides. The fact that the demand for guides outmatched supply allowed the members of the TAA who worked as guides to negotiate decent wages. In fact, some tourists

185 complained that Temagami guides got paid too much and considered that wealthy

American tourists were "spoiling the guide market for the tourist of moderate means" by outbidding one another and paying guides as much as $3.50 per day. Consequently, one tourist remarked in 1907, Indian guides refused to engage with tourists for less than $3 a

oi day. Another visitor to the region went so far as to say that his Temagami trip was completely ruined by the high price of guides in the area.82 In spite of the Ontario government's (seemingly failed) 1906 attempt to fix guides' wages in the Temagami

Forest Reserve at $2.50 per day, as well as to ban guides from abandoning one party to join another that offered a higher rate of pay, guiding tourists remained a principal and well-paying occupation for members of the TAA until well past 1915.

Guiding was not, however, the only tourist-related occupation of members of the

TAA. Although Indian agent Cockburn indicated in 1911 that all Temagami Indians worked as guides in the summer months, it seems likely that he was referring only to the men and boys. Travel narratives suggest that guiding was an activity usually conducted by men, most but not all of whom were Aboriginal and many of whom were Metis. It seems smart to be suspicious, given the unreliability of men's accounts when it comes to the representation of white women, about whether in fact all Temagami guides were men.

There are some hints within the literature to indicate that Aboriginal women at least occasionally took part in wilderness tourism. For example, C. C. Farr went on a canoe trip with his wife and a number of members of an Indian family from Matachewan, located just north of the Temagami area. Farr told his readers that whenever their party 186 reached a particularly difficult stretch of rapids, Meechell, the Aboriginal man Farr represented as being in charge of the party, ousted Farr from the canoe so that Meechell's wife could take over and guide the canoe to calmer waters. Farr felt that being "ousted by a woman" was no disgrace to him, because Meechell's wife was "as good as any man"

(and obviously better than Farr himself) at such work.85 This kind of journey, where a white couple joined an Aboriginal party, though perhaps offering some insight into

Aboriginal women's canoeing skills, seems to have been the exception rather than the rule. Farr was a special case in that he had spent several years working for the HBC in

Temiskaming, and prided himself on knowing the region and its inhabitants very well.

While members of the Aboriginal family that Mr. and Mrs. Farr travelled with might have disagreed with Fair's comment that his own and his wife's "presence [on the trip] put no restraint on these Indians," he had indeed known them, or so he said, for a number of years, which is likely why he and his wife were permitted on such a trip.

Given the different meanings ascribed to white and Native women within colonial discourse—white women stood for civilization while Native women symbolized

oo conquered land —it seems unlikely that white male travel writers failed to mention the presence of Aboriginal women working as guides on Temagami expeditions. The presence of Aboriginal women in what tourists considered wilderness did not pose the same kind of threat to the authenticity of white men's vacations as did white women.

Indeed, travel writers often described encounters that they had with TAA women in

Temagami.89 Many writers also listed their guides by name and included photographs of

187 them in articles, and all the names and photos given were men's. It is possible that TAA women did not trust parties of white men and so did not attempt in large numbers to become guides. It is also likely that on occasions when Aboriginal women accompanied tourist groups that included male guides, tourists understood the men as guides and the women as helpers, no matter what kind of work women might have done on those trips.

This assumption was no doubt based on their own cultural ideas about gender roles rather than on an understanding of TAA ways of life, which were quite different from tourists'.

By the time Madeline Katt Theriault of n'Daki Menan was ten years old (in 1918), for example, she could "do everything to make a living off the land and from nature," thanks in large part, she writes, to the teachings of her great-grandmother.90 To cite just a few examples, she learned from her great-grandmother how to skin animals and to make rabbit skin blankets, and both her great-grandparents taught her how to set fish nets, pick berries, trap animals, paddle a canoe and prepare bear fat.91 It seems from her account, as well as from evidence given by the TAA at their 1980s land claim case, that the TAA did not have a very strictly gendered society. Although it was largely tourists' expectations that their guides would be men that led to the male gendering of guiding, it seems from

Madeline Theriault's description that in the tourist off-season, which accounted for most of the year, TAA members continued regardless of gender to fish, trap and paddle together.

Conversations that I have had with members of the TAA whose relatives participated in Temagami tourism at this time also suggest that guiding was a male

188 activity, with boys as young as fourteen guiding groups of tourists. One TAA member mentioned, though, that TAA women sometimes joined fishing day trips as cooks. These conversations, as well as some remarks offered in travel narratives, indicate that members of the TAA participated in Temagami tourism in other ways than guiding. Women worked as cooks at camps like Keewaydin and Temagami and as helpers and waitresses at hotels on Lake Temagami. They also did laundry and put on plays for tourists, cleaned cottages at private camps, and sold butter, homemade bread, and handicrafts to tourists.

In addition to guiding both in and outside the Temagami area, TAA men boated tourists from Temagami Station to Bear Island, and cut ice and wood in the winter months for camp owners to use in the summer.92 Men and women alike participated in dances that frequently took place on Bear Island at least in part for the entertainment of tourists.

These dances were well-attended by Native and non-Native people alike.93

The fact that members of the TAA guided tourists and performed other tourism- related activities in the summer months, however, does not necessarily mean that being involved in tourism was their first choice of ways to make a living. The TAA did not choose to have thousands of tourists encroach upon their territory every summer, and some evidence indicates that they would have preferred to get by in other ways. Chief

Whitebear, for instance, in a 1910 letter to the Department of Indian Affairs, indicated his band's desire for a place to call their own, citing as a reason that band members were being "annoyed by people." Similarly, in an interview recorded in 1973, one TAA elder recalled his life before the TNOR was built, stating, "I had a nice life. I'd like to see that

189 again, no game warden, no white people, only two white people at the Hudson s Bay, only two white people."94

This is not to say that Aboriginal people necessarily disliked all aspects of working in tourism, or that once tourists began arriving in the area, members of the TAA stopped conducting activities not related to tourism. Actually, it seems that most TAA members began working in tourism in the summer and sometimes fall months, while continuing to spend their winters hunting and trapping on their family territories.95 One member of the TAA that I interviewed recalled the days of working for tourists as good times, times when everyone on Lake Temagami knew each other. The men, she said, looked forward in the winter to guiding again in the summer months and to seeing "their tourists."96 Temagami guides probably also enjoyed the control that they had over tourists' activities. Since tourists depended on guides to navigate the "entirely wild"

Temagami region, and many felt they were "helpless to get about" without their guides, guides dictated to a certain degree the locations to which tourists did (and did not)

07 travel. According to travel narratives, guides also let tourists know which activities, for example attempting to ride on a swimming moose, were unacceptable. And it is not likely that so many members of the TAA would have attended dances on Bear Island had they not found them enjoyable. The point here is not to comment on whether or not members of the TAA enjoyed their participation in Temagami tourism, but rather to observe that their participation in it showed that they made the best, economically speaking and otherwise, of a situation largely not of their own making. Relationships between TAA members and tourists certainly did not take place on an equal footing, although I shall discuss below how these relationships were likely much more equitable than travel writers let on in their accounts. The presence of tourists in

Temagami was intimately tied to a project of national and imperial expansion in which

Aboriginal people were expected to die off in the steady march of progress. Tourists' desires for guides to teach them Temagami's "forest secrets" were connected to their attempt to come to know the Temagami area, and the Canadian nation, as their own."

And at the level of personal interaction, tourists considered guides to be in charge to a certain extent, but did not in general think of them or treat them as equals. According to a member of the Temagami band, guides acted as tourists' servants during Temagami trips, in part because tourists often left their own servants at home when they visited

Temagami. The ambiguities of tourist-guide relationships are evident in an anonymously-authored article likely written by CPR agent L. O. Armstrong. Early in the article, the tourists in Armstrong's party were "crestfallen," but "meekly" obeyed their guides when the guides ordered them out of the canoes to walk across short portages. Yet later on, the author was thrilled that the guides on the trip "had learned the art of pleasing the canoeist almost to perfection."101 Tourists hired Temagami guides to fulfill a number of roles, but primary among them was that of servant. As one contented tourist put it, "the trip was the best I have ever taken, the guides could not be beaten. They were gentlemanly, intelligent, excellent hunters and at the same time good servants."102 The service relationship between members of the TAA and tourists was crucial not only to the

191 Aboriginal community's economic survival in an uncertain time, but also to tourists' experiences of Temagami. Members of the TAA did much of the work that made the leisure of white tourists possible and enjoyable.

In spite of the fact that Aboriginal people, men and women both, played central roles in Temagami tourism, TAA members did not have their experiences of tourism published in newspapers or magazines of the day. This comes as no surprise, given that the mainstream culture to which these publications belonged considered Aboriginal people to be part of what tourists travelled to encounter, not fully-formed humans whose opinions on tourists and tourism mattered to any great extent. Yet individual travel writers worried a good deal about what their guides, as well as other Aboriginal people they came across on their journeys, thought about them. Gregg Clarke, the founder of

Camp Keewaydin, for example, mentioned that on a particularly slippery portage, two campers pulled their canoes along the mud with ropes, and at this their guide "grunted with silent and contemptuous laughter." Apparently in reply to the question of what

Aboriginal people thought of tourists, C. C. Farr, the self-proclaimed Indian expert, answered that "the Indian" is not "the grinning imbecile that he often gets credit for being, and when the inexperienced white man is thinking that the Indian is laughing with him he is often really laughing at him and thinking what a fool he is." The preoccupation evident in travel narratives about what Aboriginal people thought of tourists is no doubt due to the confusion and anxiety tourists felt upon encountering the

192 real people whose imaginary version they had likely consumed through fiction and other media for much of their lives.

But this did not mean that upon meeting real TAA members, tourists immediately dropped their preconceived notions about Aboriginality or white superiority, and saw instead a diverse group of people with different strengths and weaknesses, a complex and changing culture, and a justified claim to their territory. Tourist literature for the most part reproduced rather than disrupted dominant ideas about Aboriginal people, and various authors expressed pleasure when Native people looked like "a cigar store Indian," especially while performing remarkable feats in the bush, and expressed discomfort when they did not. For example, writers found it "ludicrous" when Aboriginal people

"imitate[ed] white people in dress" or listened to music on a gramophone. One author found it to be "a serious drawback" for tourists that a hotel proprietor allowed guides to eat and drink at the same table as tourists, and considered that his guide was "spoiled" because the guide "thought nothing of drawing up a chair on the verandah of the hotel where we were sitting, and unhesitatingly making himself one of our group, without any invitation and with as much freedom as if he were one of ourselves."104 It is no coincidence that tourists felt most uncomfortable when members of the TAA acted like tourists' equals, as well as when they revealed themselves to be part of a changing rather than static culture. For at these moments, tourists could not easily see Aboriginal people as subordinate or dying off, and this created a problem for travellers who had come so far to visit the "scattered remnant of once mighty tribes" in the last of the "wild forests of

193 Canada." They liked it better when Aboriginal people merely paddled tourists' canoes, carried their gear, prepared their beds, cooked their meals, showed them the haunts of fish and game, guaranteed them a shot at a moose, and told them Indian lore, all the while looking and acting just like Longfellow's Hiawatha.

Who Wrote about Whom: Travel Writers' Preoccupation with their Guides

Clearly, while Aboriginal people's versions of Temagami tourism were not included on magazine pages, Aboriginal people, unlike white women, featured significantly into white men's travel narratives, and also into the few accounts written by white women.

Those Native men who acted as guides for tourists figured particularly prominently in tourist accounts of Temagami wilderness holidays, but Aboriginal people appeared in other capacities as well. Writers often commented, for instance, on Native people they met on their journeys or saw from a distance. In fact, it seems that authors took every possible opportunity to philosophize about the character and habits of Aboriginal men, women and children. Less evident in the tourist literature are the work-leisure relationships between Aboriginal people and tourists where the work being done was not guiding. As discussed above, that work was primarily done by TAA women, and included cooking, cleaning and doing laundry. The work conducted by Aboriginal women was no less important in or necessary to Temagami tourism than was guiding, and its comparative invisibility in the literature speaks both to the common erasure of work done by women and to the particular fascination that white male writers had with their male guides. In a few Temagami wilderness stories, guides were largely invisible,

194 coming into focus only at brief intervals before again disappearing. For example, one author did not mention that his Temagami trip was guided until the second last page of his story, when the "Indian guides" suddenly appeared to "steer the canoes safely" through a set of rapids.106 Far more often, however, Temagami guides—and especially their bodies and so-called instincts—played central roles in travel accounts, and many writers emphasized the need for tourists to hire guides for journeys through " Temagami's

Tangled Wild."107 One writer, for instance, recommended that a "canoe and guide should be provided for each of the party, and an extra guide with canoe to carry supplies, cook and attend to camp." This would leave "the 'sports'... and their personal guides, free to get away from camp in the morning or come in late at night, without the domestic

1AJJ economies being upset thereby." It seems that many, though definitely not all, tourists heeded this kind of advice and hired at least one guide per tourist on Temagami trips.

Travel writers cited three main reasons for the necessity of guides. First, they said that guides were invaluable on portages because guides could carry hundreds of pounds of provisions and equipment with little effort. L. O. Armstrong stated that the "Indians each carried a canoe over those six miles with apparently as much ease as we did our rifles and fishing-rods," and added that one guide "carried seven bags of flour on his back at one time over a portage. He was six feet two in height, stout in proportion, and as intelligent and modest as he was big." Another author observed that even a "slight, consumptive looking Indian or half-breed brought up to the work, will trot gaily off with

3001bs. or more, and there are well authenticated instances of 500 to 6001bs. being carried 195 without injury to the carrier." A third writer confidently asserted that "no burden is too unwieldy and few heavy for these sons of the North."x

Writers also cited as a reason for the necessity of Aboriginal guides on Temagami trips that guides guaranteed tourists encounters with wild animals and, if tourists so desired, also ensured that tourists would get a shot at these animals with either cameras or guns. As one author stated, "no matter where the huntsman may journey, if a native accompanies him, he is sure of gaining his point—of securing a head—as none know[s] the haunts of the moose better than the Children of the Forest themselves." A promotional booklet for the GTR similarly assured its readers that "Reliable Indian guides are obtainable throughout Temagami, country-wise old woodsmen who can lead you to where the wild things live. And they know, too, where the fishing is best."'

Third, authors encouraged tourists to engage Aboriginal guides to teach the tourists the secrets of the forest. According to an article in the New York Times, "Big

Paul," the Indian guide, "instructed the boys in the preparatory school camps in many of the secrets of the forest." G. W. Creelman suspected that Big Paul had never worked as a guide until Creelman's party "found him out," but considered him to be "a born teacher, anxious to teach us his native Ojibway and all the forest secrets at once." Similarly, the boys at Camp Keewaydin were said to be taught the "secrets of the woods" on long canoe trips that they took with the "real redskins" for whom such secrets were "intuitive."111

Tourists also appreciated having guides on their Temagami wilderness vacations for reasons other than the three main ones mentioned above. Writers said, for example, that

196 guides ensured tourists' safety on canoe trips, and prevented them from getting lost in the

"endless chain of waterways"-that comprised the Temagami area. Guides also cooked, cleaned fish and dishes, and acted as friends and storytellers. According to one writer, the tourist would qualify as a wise man if he hired a male member of the Friday family as

"guide, philosopher, friend, fisherman, canoeist, cook and tentmate."

In spite of the popularity of guided trips in Temagami, not all writers considered it necessary to travel with guides. As early as 1904, Dan O'Connor advised tourists that

"With a good map, available at Temagami P.O. for 10c, a canoeing party in ten days or two weeks (without the help of natives except for cooking), can see and dwell in the wildest and most entrancing part of Northern Ontario." Opinions like O'Connor's did not appear often in travel narratives, though they began to emerge with greater frequency after 1909. In 1910, one writer considered guides unnecessary because adequate maps of the area existed, and another contended that the "highest degree in the order of campers" was achieved when (male) campers went out without guides. A 1913 article in Forest and

Stream indicated that the necessity of a guide depended on both the level of experience of the campers and the difficulty of the trip. The article offered two Temagami canoe routes, stating that travellers taking the more difficult of the two definitely required guides, and that those choosing the simpler route needed guides only if the tourists were inexperienced.

One of the more negative representations of both guides and tourists who engaged guides was printed in the Canadian Magazine in 1914, when the article's author

197 commented that Temagami tourists would no doubt run across "the inevitable Objibway

[sic], possibly with his frowsy squaw, looking for engagement as a guide to some timorous or lazy tourist." While this kind of depiction of guides and tourists who engaged guides was rare in the tourist literature during this time, likely because travel writing was overwhelmingly shaped by romantic tropes, its increase in frequency corresponded roughly with the rise in popularity of Temagami as a tourist destination.

Interestingly, and as O'Connor's above advice shows, this increase did not correspond in time with the availability of maps of the area, and instead matched the time that

Temagami became a famous tourist destination. Perhaps as more and more people visited

Temagami and wrote about their experiences there, writers began to find it difficult to explain the need for guides, since Temagami's "secrets" had started to become public knowledge. While tourists certainly engaged guides for reasons other than wanting to learn from them the forest's secrets, and writers continued both to hire guides and to encourage readers to do the same, it is possible that some writers considered that once guidebooks and travel writing relayed information to tourists that guides once did, then guides became dispensable. One author went so far as to hint that it was ungentlemanly or rude to hire guides for the sole purpose of having them do all the hard work of canoe tripping. In writing about coming across a guided party on a portage, he noted with condescension that, "the 'gentlemen' fussed with cameras while the guides had to go back" to get the rest of the party's equipment.114

198 Neither did travel writers agree one hundred percent about whether the best guides were Aboriginal. Not all guides in Temagami were Native. As one writer remarked, "One of our Indians turned out after being washed to have been born in Bond

Street, London." Grey Owl, who would later go on to become Canada's favourite British- born imaginary Indian, also guided tourists in Temagami in the early 1900s.115 It seems that some settlers from around the Temagami area also worked as guides, a practice about which C. C. Fair expressed his displeasure by suggesting that these "pseudo" guides should "stay at home and hoe potatoes" instead of trying to pass themselves off as guides.116 To Fair and others, real guides were those Aboriginal and mixed-race men who had worked for the HBC, "men whose natural habitat was the bush." It was because of their years of service to the Company, L. O. Armstrong maintained, that these guides knew how to treat campers properly.117 More often than not, tourists preferred Aboriginal over non-Aboriginal guides for the reasons mentioned above. One author bragged that his hunting party, which was led by Aboriginal guides, succeeded in seeing and shooting many moose, whereas another party, led by white guides, came back empty-handed and complaining bitterly about the laziness of their guides. A few travel writers, however, considered white guides to be superior to Aboriginal guides. One author, for example, extolled the virtues of his white guide by saying, "As for Hec, he was an ideal guide; not a full blood, nor even a half breed Indian to loll around and grunt out guttural and monosyllabic answers to your questions. He was a Scotchman: bright, intelligent, truthful, honest almost to a fault, and very energetic."118 As I will examine in further

199 depth below, tourists' opinions, both positive and negative, about Aboriginal guides were certainly shaped by and productive of contemporary racial thinking, which included particular ideas about progress, civilization and nationhood.

Wild Temagami: Wild with Some, Wild for Others

Temagami

Far in the grim Northwest, beyond the lines That twin the rivers eastward to the sea, Set with a thousand islands, crowned with pines, Lies the deep water, wild Temagami: Wild for the hunter's roving, and the use Of trappers in its dark and trackless vales, Wild with the trampling of the giant moose, And the weird magic of old Indian tales.

All day with steady paddles toward the west Our heavy laden long canoe we pressed; All day we saw the thunder-traveled sky Purpled with storm in many a trailing tress, And saw at eve the broken sunset die In crimson on the silent wilderness.

—Archibald Lampman119

Wild Temagami

I will now turn to analyse how travel narratives and promotional material produced

Temagami as a site of wild nature available for tourists to consume as a pleasure resort.

The story that I will tell is one of the making of race, gender and nation, as well as and along with the making of wilderness. Temagami featured within the tourist literature primarily as a feminized wild place. Authors called Temagami "utterly wild" and "as yet wholly unsurveyed," containing forests "in all their primeval glory." They considered

Temagami to be "part of the great wilderness which extends indefinitely northward," 200 where nature "is to be found in practically her virgin state." The "virgin wilds of New

Ontario" were understood to be "uninhabited wilderness," an "unspoiled country" which showed "no sign of servitude to the use of man." Even after the area had become a well- known tourist destination, writers for the most part continued to represent it as

"thousands of square miles of primitive forest intersected by innumerable lakes and rivers, many of them practically unexplored."

Somewhat ironically, given the representation within forest conservationist discourse of virgin forests as wasteful and degenerate, the construction within tourism discourse of virgin Temagami nature as glorious and unspoiled became possible in part because of the creation of the TFR. As discussed in chapter 2, the Ontario government set aside the forest reserve primarily for the purpose of ensuring future timber supplies, but allowed a wide variety of resource-extractive activities to take place within it, including mining and logging. These activities, along with the activities and presence of the TAA, made Temagami a far cry from unspoiled and uninhabited, but the government's banning of agricultural settlement from the TFR made it possible for tourists and tourist promoters to represent the area as one of the few wilderness spaces that would be preserved as "a bit

191 * of God's wilderness." The Ontario government in fact took active steps to maintain the image of Temagami as a wild place. For example, while the government permitted power companies to dam lakes and cut timber in the TFR, conditions applied which ensured that tourists encountered the wild Temagami of their imaginations rather than a landscape altered by industry. Companies had to remove trees that had been drowned by the raising

201 levels of the lakes, so that tourists would not encounter dead trees at the shoreline, and also had to cut the timber they needed from areas far enough from the shoreline that tourists could not see deforested areas from their canoes.122 Thus the physical space of

Temagami was shaped by tourists' expectations, and these expectations became reality through the regulations designed explicitly for that purpose.

The physical presence of trees on the landscape allowed Temagami to be imagined as a pristine wilderness. While large-scale deforestation was occurring in much of Southern Ontario and the Eastern United States (much to the dismay of forest conservationists), Temagami remained tree-covered, at least relatively speaking. Tourists were therefore able to consider the region to be "covered with virgin forest" and to present a particularly wild and tempting tourist destination for Canadians and Americans alike. Thanks to Temagami's "untouched and unscarred" forests standing in "all their primeval glory," or at least their appearance as such, tourists visiting the area could feel that they were deep within the wilderness and "far from the haunts of human beings."123

It is particularly striking that the same Temagami forest was constructed by the same

Ontario government as both a collection of overmature trees in need of harvesting and as one of the "last fastnesses," a rare place where civilization had not wiped out wilderness.

Wild With

Confederation poet Archibald Lampman wrote the above sonnet about Temagami, which was printed in the New York Times in 1898 and in Rod and Gun in 1907.125 In

202 Lampman's poem, Temagami appears as "silent wilderness," and is "Wild for the hunter's roving, and the use/ Of trappers in its dark and trackless vales,/ Wild with the trampling of the giant moose,/ And the weird magic of old Indian tales." For my purposes, Lampman's piece is significant because of how it describes Temagami as "wild for" some things and "wild with" others. Many Temagami travel writers represented the area in a similar way, depicting the region as wild with ancient forests, pristine waters, animals, Aboriginal people and Indian lore, and as wild for the pleasure of white tourists.

As I will show, this representation was neither accidental nor apolitical, but rather part of the process through which the Temagami region came to make sense as a white national rather than an Aboriginal space.

The romantic sensibility also helped to shape how travel writers represented the

Temagami area, including which elements they described as most wild and for whom these features were considered wild. As discussed above, and explored in much further depth by Jasen, just as tourists sought out destinations that conformed to romantic ideals, so too did travel writers and tourist promoters strive to describe and market particular regions through the tropes of romanticism. Thus it is no coincidence that the commodification of Temagami occurred through the selling of the romantic. It is easy to understand why those with vested interests in Temagami tourism relied on romanticism to promote the region, given the success that promoters in other regions of Ontario had already had in commodifying the romantic. Indeed, particularly when it came to railway advertising, the same companies sold different places at the same time (often in the space

203 of the same advertisement) by using the language and images of romanticism. The

CPR and especially the GTR advertised Temagami alongside other well-known "wild" places like the Kawartha Lakes, Muskoka, the French River and Georgian Bay.

Independent promoters of Temagami tourism like Dan O'Connor and C. C. Farr, about both of whom more will be said below, also represented the region in accordance with the romantic sensibility.

Travel writers too relied on romantic tropes to describe Temagami. While many of them did not have a financial investment in representing the region along romantic lines (some, like L. O. Armstrong, did), they likely did so in order to conform to the norms of the genre and the expectations of their readers. Most often, Temagami travel writers relied on romantic notions of the picturesque to describe the area, characterizing

Temagami as a "bit of nature in her wildest, most picturesque dress," and as a "wondrous

197 nature picture" produced by "the mighty World-Maker." Authors also described the region using romantic ideas of the sublime, but these kinds of descriptions appeared with less frequency than did picturesque depictions. Likely the greater emphasis on the picturesque in Temagami travel writing resulted from the decline of the concept of the sublime in the latter half of the nineteenth century. As ever more tourists, along with the railways and hotels that brought and accommodated them, arrived in places previously associated with the sublime, the sublime character of these places became considered domesticated, replaced by the less awe-inspiring if more comfortable picturesque.128

Nevertheless, the sublime appeared occasionally in Temagami travel writing. One writer,

204 for example, noted that "the awful stillness of the recesses of the dark interior of the forest impressed itself upon me more than ever, and yet, it was all so thrilling and gently exhilarating." Another felt that an encounter with the Temagami wilderness brought "the spirit face to face with the primeval and eternal." Writers' reliance on romantic constructs to describe Temagami depended as well on the physical and cultural landscape of the region. The lakes, rocky shores, forests and TAA members of the area facilitated tourists' descriptions of the region's "picturesque wooded wilderness," "matchless panorama of scenic beauty," "fairy islands" and even "real Objibway [sic] Indians."130

Also consistent with romanticism, and specifically with the romantic association between landscape and history, the Temagami forest became particularly infused with romantic feeling. The forest was imagined not only as "brooding," but also as ancient, part of a fading past. Dan O'Connor, for instance, advertised that tourists in the TFR had the privilege of seeing "the same stately monarchs that red men gazed upon with awe when the Hudson's Bay Co. ruled supreme 200 years ago." Similarly, travel writers often characterized the Temagami forest as "virgin" and "primeval," and one author described a voyage down the Temagami River as a tour through "regions of grand antiquity," where it became possible to "lose yourself among the shades of former ages when the forest patriarchs and the red-man dwelt in unmolested security."131 Tourist promoters banked on the idea that these " silent places" were disappearing with the "march of Empire" and

"white man['s] ceaseless search for the earth's endowments," and advertised Temagami as a place where tourists could escape the forward movement of time and access both

205 traces of a past era and the nostalgia associated with the passing of a previous time. As an advertisement for the GTR put it, "A little while and the 'forest primeval' shall be no more. In all probability we of this generation will be the last to relate to our grandchildren the stirring stories of the hunt in the wild forests of Canada. Therefore, it behooves you,

O mighty hunter, to go forth and capture your caribou or moose while you may."

The political significance of this kind of representation begins to come into view when we attend to the effects of constructing the Temagami forest as existing in a virgin state and in the past. As in forest conservationist discourse, the creation of a virgin forest in travel narratives relied on the female gendering of wilderness space in order to empty the Temagami region of agency and an Aboriginal claim to land. As the moose, waterfalls and old trees of the region became incorporated into a tourist gaze that valued them according to their ability to conform aesthetically and imaginatively to romantic ideals, they could no longer have their own reasons for being or uses for one another.

Similarly, as the TAA came to exist within travel writing as part of the romantic nature that tourists travelled to encounter, the territorial claims of the First Nation disappeared.

With no other reasons for the region's existence and no prior claims impinging upon it, n'Daki Menan could be reinvented within travel literature as a tourist destination.

Interestingly, while forest conservation and tourism discourses both depended on the gendering of the land as virgin in order to impose and naturalize their visions for the region, the forests that emerged were not the same. The timber commodity of forest

206 conservation and the tourist destination of travel writing, however, had in common the fact that both worked to open up the region to Euro-Canadian male authority and control.

According to Jasen, the association between wilderness and the past was a consistent feature in nineteenth century romantic tourism. The idea that wild places would inevitably pass away made them all the more attractive as tourist destinations, since tourists could visit these ancient places, experience the nostalgic feelings associated with their inevitable decline, and come to know themselves as modern subjects.134

Embedded in the understanding that the virgin forest exists in the past is a narrative of progress, where the destruction of the virgin forest appears as the necessary result of

European history's inevitable unfolding. Both conservationists and travel writers took it for granted that the emergence of "civilized conditions" in Canada necessitated the disappearance of the wild forest. But while conservationists called for the replacement of this forest with an ordered, European-inspired timber commodity, the GTR merely encouraged tourists to visit the Temagami forest before it was too late. One key difference between conservation and tourism discourses was the way that they figured the relationship between the Temagami forest and time. Within tourism discourse, the forest existed in the past, but in forestry discourse it existed as the present and future of the region. I will return shortly to explain how this distinction led to different understandings within tourism and conservation discourses about the role of the TAA in the region. First, however, I look specifically at how travel writing's positioning of the forest as existing in

207 the past worked simultaneously to create the TAA as "the living embodiment of the

lie archaic 'primitive.'"

While the previously discussed idea of the virgin forest worked to open the

Temagami region to tourists and forest conservationists by enacting a spatial displacement, the construction of the TAA as outside of the contemporary moment worked to displace the TAA in time. If the First Nation did not exist in the present-day, the logic followed that the TAA could not possibly have a claim to land. Although tourism discourse did dislodge the TAA from n'Daki Menan in part by constructing the region as virgin, it relied much more fundamentally for this purpose on the creation of the

TAA as "backward in historical time."136 It is unlikely that the spatial displacement embedded in the idea of virgin land would alone have been sufficient to constitute

Temagami as a wilderness tourist destination, since Temagami tourism required the intimate knowledge of the region by TAA members, and TAA guides in particular. In contrast, the Temagami timber commodity of forest conservation discourse required management and guardianship of the forest by the white male hands of science and law enforcement, and depended very little on TAA members (except, tellingly, as guides for tourists). While conservationist discourse operated primarily through the spatial displacement of the TAA, it was simply not feasible for tourists to make the TAA disappear from the space of Temagami and, in fact, they had no desire to do so, since the success of their trips (literally and in their minds) depended vitally on Aboriginal people.

Yet tourists needed somehow to reconcile the facts of the TAA's presence within and detailed knowledge of the Temagami region with their own understandings of Temagami as a tourist destination. Travel writing negotiated this dilemma by accepting, and indeed lauding * the TAA's presence in space while adamantly denying an Aboriginal presence in the contemporary moment.

In Temagami tourism literature, writers constructed Native people as fixed in a previous time in part through constructing romantic nostalgia about the supposedly inevitable decline and disappearance of Native people and ways of life. One author, for instance, devoted an entire article to reflecting upon all the work the "woods Indian" did to help the white race get its footing in the north, and noted with a sense of regret that

Aboriginal people "led the way and did the work for the civilization which eventually will swallow them up." Other writers similarly found it sad that the "race [was] dying ouf' and that the "genuine Ojibway, a fine type of old woods Indian [was] now fast disappearing." Some writers went so far as to pre-empt the disappearance of Aboriginal people by writing them out of Temagami stories completely. As an article in the Globe stated, "For here it was that the Ojibways had their home... The wigwams, with the circling smoke, have disappeared, and in their place are the tents of holidaymakers or prospectors."

Aboriginal people's physical presence in the present did not discourage travel writers from constructing Native people as a race in decline whose contemporary existence was only temporary. A particularly telling advertisement encouraged tourists to hire Aboriginal guides in Temagami, stating that "They will be the best guides you ever

209 had, and they will take you through the rivers, lakes, forests and hunting grounds their forefathers once called home, they will tell you the tricks and habits of the bears, beavers, moose, caribou and deer. Ah! the Indians know, for once they were mightier hunters than ancient Nimrod." This advertisement makes sense only through a colonialist logic in which it was possible for living Aboriginal people to guide tourists through a land known not by the guides themselves but by the guides' "forefathers," who "once" understood the region as home. It is as though the guides were ghosts. This advertisement, in which

Aboriginal people exist in the past and yet are required in the present to "paddle your canoe in their own superb way," reveals the work that went into imaginatively emptying peopled lands of people, thus making room for white tourists.138

The displacement of Aboriginal people in time worked in Temagami travel narratives alongside the attempt to construct them as something that the Temagami region was wild with. By collapsing Native people into wilderness, travel writers did not have to concern themselves with the contradiction of representing the region as virgin and uninhabited while simultaneously recognizing the Aboriginal presence in Temagami. As

L. O. Armstrong stated in 1900, "Many will sympathize with us in the delight we experienced in being in an uninhabited country; uninhabited, that is except by those oldest families of the north." Obviously Armstrong and his party's "delight" at being in an empty land was not ruined by the presence of Aboriginal people. Another writer echoed Armstrong's sentiments, stating that his party craved land "untrammeled by the

210 foot of man, unsullied by his hand," and were fortunate enough to find Temagami, which was inhabited by "the bears, the moose and even Indians."

The association between Native people and wilderness space worked not only to construct Aboriginal people as part of the past, but also to hold them at an early stage of development. As McClintock states, according to this logic, colonized people "do not inhabit history proper but exist in a permanently anterior time within the geographic space of the modern empire."140 Thus Temagami Aboriginal people were displaced within travel literature not only from the contemporary moment, but also from any hope of developing into full adults, or even full humans. They therefore consistently appeared as " children of the forest," "children of the wild," and " children of nature,... notwithstanding that some of them are grey."141 As one writer bluntly stated, "the average

Indian differs from the average white in character as the child differs from the man—he is less developed." Other contributors offered more nuanced analyses. C. C. Fair, for example, figured that context was everything. When he travelled in the bush with his guides, he was impressed by how "spontaneously and unconsciously [the guides'] knowledge would peep out... without effort, instinctively." In the guides' "natural habitat," Farr figured it only common sense to let them handle everything. In town, on the other hand, Farr thought that the guides "appeared somewhat ungainly, and incongruous," and he felt "obliged to extend a kind of protectional aegis over their ignorance of surrounding conditions." Another writer similarly saw the "wild and unspoiled Indian...

[as] a mass of contradictions." "Capture one of these wild men of the woods," he said,

211 "bring him to our civilization, and his intelligence seems far below that of a child; but in his own wilderness he is a different creature, and, pitted against him, we are forced to acknowledge his infinite superiority."

The common message given by travel writers that Aboriginal people belonged in the bush but could not survive in civilization represented another attempt to contain

Native people in time. Such representations disallowed the possibility that Aboriginal people had the potential to become "civilized," and thus to survive the modern era. In fact, when tourists found evidence that members of the TAA negotiated modernity quite well—one writer commented, for example, that in addition to their own language, many members of the Temagami band spoke English and French fluently—they seemed unsure of how to respond, and generally tossed off this kind of behaviour as out of keeping with true Aboriginal character.143 On the other hand, writers seemed to relish moments when

Aboriginal people appeared properly Aboriginal. One writer, for instance, felt disappointed that he had dropped his camera into the lake, because he had planned to photograph "a few favorite poses of my guide David, which I knew would interest my friends."144 By insisting that Native people belonged in the wilderness, travel writers attempted to keep them in wilderness time (i.e., the past), a time, they assumed, that was almost at its end.

Interestingly, the virgin nature in which travel writers attempted to imprison

Native people was the same physical place from which government officials attempted to evict members of the TAA, or at least to restrict severely TAA activities that did not relate to the forest reserve. Although both tourist and conservationist discourses constructed Aboriginal peoples in ways that served their own imaginations of and interests in the region, the position of Aboriginal people in the two discourses differed quite substantially. Within tourism discourse, there was room for an Aboriginal presence in Temagami, but not an Aboriginal present. In forestry discourse, on the other hand, there was little room even for an Aboriginal presence, and "scattered Indians" in the forest reserve provided a considerable source of anxiety for government administrators.

While conservationists and travel writers concurred that Aboriginal peoples were part of the past rather than the present or future, their different understandings of when in time the Temagami forest existed caused them to disagree about whether or not TAA members belonged inside the TFR.

Wild For

Even when travel writers extolled the virtues of Aboriginal people, and particularly of

Native men, when it came to their abilities in the bush, they simultaneously asserted their own cultural superiority. One writer, for instance, admired the "wonderful power the adult Indian possesses," but contended that it was the "Anglo-Saxon spirit of adventure... more than any other force under Providence, [that] has been the civilizing factor in the world's progress."145 This writer was willing to grant brute strength to Aboriginal people, but restricted the ability to move forward to British colonizers. Thus European culture appeared civilized and progressive through the construction of Aboriginal people as savage and fixed in time and space. Indeed, travel writers understood themselves as

213 having the ability to learn from their guides about the ways of the bush, but did not consider the possibility that learning could and did happen on both sides. C. C. Farr, on a rare occasion that a tourist attempted to teach something to an Aboriginal individual, permitted a Native boy to try fishing with a hook, a practice apparently new to the boy and familiar to Farr. When the boy broke the hook, Farr immediately assumed that this was because of the boy's inherent clumsiness, strength and ignorance, rather than because the boy was not yet skilled at something new to him.146 In fact, authors did not generally consider that Aboriginal people had the capacity to develop or learn skills, instead referring to guides' abilities in the bush as innate instincts. One writer, for example, commented that his trip offered many opportunities for "our Indians to display their ability of keen scent," and another author made note of the "instinctive sureness" with which two guides carried canoes over a portage.147 In this way, Aboriginal people appeared in travel narratives as more like wild animals than like white tourists, and indeed were characterized as: eagle-eyed; able to see in the dark; aquatic, like other animals; uncommunicative, or communicative only through grunting; dirty; and as bad cooks who devour meat in a "semi-raw state."148 The representation of Temagami as wild with Aboriginal people made it easy for the region to become imagined as wild for white tourists.

Yet writers also valued the savagery and wildness that they imagined they could find in their encounters with the Temagami wilderness and its Aboriginal inhabitants.

Many tourists went to Temagami for the explicit purpose of having such encounters.

214 Tourists' appreciation for savagery and the wild must be understood within the context of a pre-World War I concern in Canada, as well as in the United States and Britain, about the degenerative effects of urban life on the racial health of the nation. It was understood that while a higher degree of civilization gave a class or nation the right to rule, that right was put into question when the ruling group became overcivilized. Thus it was imperative, as part of the developing Canadian nationalist project, for white Canadian men to avoid overcivilization, since overcivilization was imagined as a threat to the future of both the Canadian nation and the British imperial project that Canadian nationalists strove to assist. The concern about racial and national health was gendered as well as racialized, since racial degeneracy became coded as male effeminacy.149

L. O. Armstrong articulated the concern about overcivilization and racial degeneracy in a 1904 Rod and Gun article in which he asked rhetorically, "Are we

Anglo-Saxons degenerating? Is the Englishman, the American and the Canadian less hardy than his forefathers?" The answer, according to Armstrong and others, was a clear yes. North American men were "becoming effeminate, as [had] done so many of the advanced civilizations of the past." Unlike their forefathers who had been "hewers of wood and drawers of water," many citizens now conducted clerical, artistic or literary work, and thus were becoming unfit for physical labour. This put the nation in danger, for it was possible that its citizens would be unable to defend the nation when wartime inevitably came. Proponents of "the outdoor life," however, considered that the effects of modern life could be countered through camping, canoeing and portaging, activities that

215 Armstrong argued should become "national pastimes." Contact with wild nature thus became increasingly associated with a healthy, white, male-led nation. In an article entitled "Why We Take to the Woods," one writer predicted that it would be "a shame and a blow to the health of the nation when hunting is a thing of the past." After all, he continued, no activity except for hunting removed men from civilization entirely. Travel writers insisted that it was imperative, particularly for men, to take regular breaks from civilization in order recuperate from the pressures of modern urban life and to become

"energized and built up, stronger in body and mind."151

Given the potentially dangerous effects of modern life and the promise that a wilderness vacation could prevent degeneracy, it makes sense that tourists and travel writers came to appreciate what they considered the savage in nature. Particularly attractive was the idea that a wilderness encounter could bring out the savage assumed to be embedded in every civilized man. As two contented tourists said of their Temagami vacation, "With each mile breath came freer; with each hour we grew delightfully more savage." Another writer commented that a trip in the wild was made worthwhile by "the mere animal pleasures derived from physical exertion amid perfect surroundings,.'., the robust health, the tranquil sleep, the vigorous appetite... These are the true joys of the open air—these prompt the response of the primitive in us to the call of Mother

Nature."152 Tourists thus appreciated wild Temagami nature for what they perceived it did to them: made them (temporarily) uncivilized.

216 This positive evaluation of wilderness was connected as well to tourists' appreciation of supposedly savage Aboriginal people. Tourists not only enjoyed regarding Native people's abilities in the bush, but also liked that wilderness trips sometimes allowed white tourists to become similar to Aboriginal people. For instance, one article enthusiastically stated that at Camp Keewaydin a "boy may become a true white Indian," and another mentioned that on a Temagami canoe trip, a person was "as free as the wind to act like the original red-man himself." Similarly, an author expressed pleasure that he was able to compete with his Indian guide at rifle shooting.153 But while many Temagami travel writers placed value on wilderness, they simultaneously drew a boundary between civilization and savagery, placing themselves on the side of civilization and Aboriginal people on the side of savagery. They did this primarily by asserting the value of encounters with wilderness to the success of their own civilization.

White men, unlike Aboriginal people, became savage for a reason: to become more effective contributors to civilization. They temporarily became white Indians. As one writer put it, a wilderness vacation allowed "the brain-fagged, nerve-racked, denizens of our great cities" to recover from "the hurry and the worry of the ten months' grind in the treadmill of business life" so that they might return to work with "added zest and vim." A brochure for Camp Temagami advertised that after a summer at camp, boys returned home "with an abundance of vigor and energy, and in the best possible condition to commence study," and one tourist knew that he could do more work in a week after a wilderness holiday than he could in a month with no holiday.154 Tourists' status as

217 visitors to the Temagami wild further separated them from the area's Aboriginal inhabitants. White tourists encountered nature, became temporarily savage, and emerged from their encounter better fit for the challenges of civilization. Aboriginal people, on the other hand, were characterized as at home only in the wilderness and as unfit for civilization.

Travel writers' representation of Aboriginal people as an element of Temagami wilderness conveniently justified the white tourist invasion of TAA territory. Because the land appeared as wild with Indians, it could exist as wild for tourists. There was little room in this imagination for the acknowledgement that the TAA had a right to their land, as well as relationships with and responsibilities toward their territory and its human and non-human inhabitants that tourists did not understand. Some travel accounts did hint, however, at the existence of rules among Native people about hunting and trapping. One author, for example, indicated that Aboriginal people had hunting territories, and that information regarding good hunting areas was " 'confidential and sealed' among the

Indians." Another informed readers that arrangements of pegs in the ground indicated

Aboriginal trapping areas, and added that upon seeing the pegs, no other Indian would encroach upon those grounds.155 But writers in general did not pay close attention to

TAA practices, practices that continued, though in an altered state, long after the area became popular for tourists.

In spite of their lack of knowledge of Aboriginal activities and ways of knowing, however, many authors considered themselves experts on Indian character and seemed to

218 have no qualms about sharing their expertise with readers. Aboriginal men often appeared in travel narratives in a more flattering, though no less stereotypical, light than did Aboriginal women. As one writer said of her guides, "They are guides, but not inferiors; they serve but are not menials, may be taken to your friendship as unreservedly as any product of our civilization. Their childlike pride, their honesty and clannishness are traits so unfailing as to make them characteristic of the fullblood Ojibway."

Aboriginal women, with the exception of the occasional "comely Indian maiden," did not fare so well in tourist representations, most often appearing as unattractive, and dirty in dress and habits.156 The differing representations of Aboriginal men and women in tourist literature is unsurprising given that, within colonial discourse more generally, colonized women both symbolized the "uncivilized" state of their non-European cultures and figured as the innocent victims that needed to be saved from their barbarous men, a representational practice that not only justified colonial expansion, but made it appear a benevolent endeavour. No matter how writers characterized Aboriginal people, however, the very act of defining Native people and culture in the context of European colonial expansion was an assertion of control.158

But the specific ways that Temagami travel writers represented Aboriginal people and the Temagami area mattered too, since these representations influenced how readers understood the region and its inhabitants. For many, reading travel literature was the closest they came to a Temagami wilderness vacation. As described above, Temagami travel literature constructed Aboriginal people as: part of the wilderness, fixed in

219 wilderness space and prehistoric time, dying, savage and undeveloped. This kind of representation made it easy for tourists to imagine Temagami as a wild space existing only for them to discover. While tourists required an Aboriginal presence in the space of

Temagami to serve their needs and desires, a fact which many of them recognized at least when it came to their guides, this spatial requirement existed without contradiction in the travel literature with the simultaneous assumption that Temagami was wild for tourists.

This became possible through the ensavagement and the temporal displacement of

Aboriginal people that occurred in travel writing, where Aboriginal people were there in space but not in time and not as people who had the ability to possess land. They, like the moose, were something that Temagami was wild with.

The representation of guides' ability to carry heavy packs with no effort reveals the ease with which tourists used the labour of members of the TAA while at the same time negating the fact of the labour itself, and thus the humanity of their Aboriginal guides. As noted above, tourists relied on guides to carry most of their baggage on canoe trips, and indeed considered guides a necessary part of their Temagami vacations for this reason. Yet writers consistently stated that for guides, carrying was not work at all since, for them, a three hundred pound pack was as light as was a fishing rod for a tourist. In travel literature, it thus appeared that guides carried packs and canoes in order to fulfill some kind of animal instinct or biological destiny. Tourists seemed to forget that guides went on Temagami trips for work rather than pleasure, a lapse that allowed tourists also to ignore the fact that guides were people working to make a living from their land in the

220 present. Forms of representation that had the potential to challenge the idea that

Aboriginal people were anachronistic or savage—for example, the TAA's self- representation in letters to the Department of Indian Affairs, in which they articulated themselves as a creative and intelligent group of people coping in the present and planning for the future—did not appear in the tourist literature, and so readers of travel writing were not forced to confront the possibility that another group had a prior claim to the Temagami wilderness.

Of course, tourists' sense of entitlement to the Temagami region did not come only from travel writers' convenient representations of Aboriginal people, but stemmed as well from the larger project of imperial expansion and white settler nationalism in which Temagami tourism was situated. Elite white subjects travelled in droves to

Temagami because they considered that they had the absolute right to do so, a right they asserted simply by getting off the train at Temagami Station. For them, the question was one of logistics rather than one of ethics: not a question of whether they should go, but rather one of how to get there. Once the TNOR reached as far as Temagami, the question of how to get there was answered for many, and so, therefore, was the question of whether to go. According to a 1905 Toronto Daily Star article, it only made sense that now that "the pathfinder has passed that way, has opened a steel trail... you, who are tired of the old, worn trails, may have your first peep into this new sportsman's

Paradise."159

221 Travel literature encouraged this kind of thinking, representing Temagami as a region of national significance, and wilderness travel as a national duty. As one author stated, a Temagami canoe trip was a "typically Canadian" form of vacation, for no "other civilized country has a great north woods, combined with lakes and rivers, where the lover of nature can study her unadorned loveliness in all its grandeur." Another writer contended that the Ontario government's decision to lease islands in Lake Temagami would result in the area becoming "an ever increasingly] valuable national asset," one whose success would have an effect upon the whole nation. A third author hypothesized in 1900 that Canadians had begun to travel in increased numbers to other parts of the country for a variety of reasons, primary among them being that patriotism had broadened from provincial to national boundaries. Thus vacationing in Temagami and other Canadian destinations became associated with nationalism, and one writer went so far as to suggest that Canadians who spent their vacations in other countries were "not made of the stuff which counts for so much in the upbuilding of the nation." The national duty to vacation in the Canadian wilderness was tied as well to the previously discussed concern about racial degeneracy, where Canadians owed it to their country to become "a strong and vigorous race, men and women whose minds shall only be equalled by the power and development of their bodies."160

Temagami tourism and nationalism were linked in other ways as well. Although the Temagami wilderness was understood as unquestionably belonging to Canadians— was in fact their "natural birthright," according to one author—travel writers often promoted the Temagami area and other wild places as a gift that the nation had to offer the rest of the world, something that Canadians should be proud to have and to share.161

Whether they travelled themselves to remote places or merely encouraged others to travel, tourists' and travel writers' assumption that the land was theirs to consume as they pleased was inextricably linked to an imperial project of national expansion. This was most obviously evidenced in the relationship between tourism and resource extraction. As one author argued, the best way to publicize Canada's "immense resources, our unrivaled scenery, and our delightful summer climate" was through "the tourist sportsman," a man of means whose endorsement of a particular area inevitably led to the development of the region through investments in extractive industries like forestry and mining. National development, of course, was understood as a force for good, and this author considered it imperative that steps be taken to ensure that the tourist sportsman was satisfied with his

Canadian wilderness vacation, so that he would return on business to invest his capital in

Canada.162

In an example more directly related to Temagami, Dan O'Connor, the prominent promoter of Temagami tourism, became interested in mining in the area through his involvement in the tourist industry. Eventually he gave up the direct running of his hotel and steamboat company, though he remained a shareholder, in order to pursue his mining interests.163 Similarly, C. C. Fair, who enthusiastically endorsed tourism in the Temagami region and authored many Rod and Gun articles containing advice for tourists, simultaneously promoted white settlement and railway development in the area. He

223 founded the village of Haileybury in the late nineteenth century, naming it after the school he attended in England, and set about attracting British settlers by giving lectures in England and producing pamphlets directed at potential settlers who were considering leaving England for one of its "numerous colonies." One advantage of Canada, Fan- contended, was that it was, unlike the United States, "essentially loyal to the mother country." Even though Haileybury, which was situated on the western shore of Lake

Temiskaming and sometimes served as a jumping off place for Temagami tourists, did not become the thriving metropolis that Farr aimed to create, Farr's various roles as wilderness tourist and promoter of tourism and settlement reveal links between tourism and the white settler project of Canadian nation-building. Jasen contends that the many roles played by Farr captured also the "dynamics of wilderness tourism on the larger colonial stage;" while Farr expressed a (paternalistic) fondness for local Aboriginal people, his determination to have the region opened up to white industry and settlement was part of the process through which Aboriginal people became marginalized from their own lands.164

The Anti-Conquest of Temagami Tourism

Tourism was not an innocent endeavour, but a power-laden one directly connected to the expansionist cause. In the travel literature, however, Temagami wilderness vacationing appeared as a completely innocent activity, and the Temagami region seemed to belong unproblematically to the Canadian nation and its white citizens. In Hodgins and

Benidickson's account, a similar message emerges, though these authors simultaneously

224 argue in apparent contradiction that the TAA have a just claim to land in Temagami. In the first chapter, I discussed how Hodgins and Benidickson's narrative makes it difficult to assess the impact of non-Native activities on the TAA in part because of how the chapters are divided. The chapter on tourism at the turn of the twentieth century, for instance, is separate from the chapter about TAA pursuits at the same time. Perhaps in part because of this, Hodgins and Benidickson's account fails to consider in depth the commonalities between resource and tourist industries, how, for one thing, both played major roles in the marginalization of the TAA on n'Daki Menan. Instead, they argue that the early twentieth century saw the first signs of conflict between resource industries and those who had an "environmental concern" about the region.165 In support of their argument, they trace an argument about the damming of lakes in Temagami that began around the turn of the century and continued for more than two decades. They contend that while industrial users north and south of the Temagami region fought over the water resource, "an unorganized but persistent community of recreational users endeavoured to safeguard the natural environment of the forest from the impact of manufactured fluctuations or alterations in water levels."166

My reading of this controversy is quite different. While tourists did express concern about the rising levels of water resulting from the damming of Temagami lakes, their worry was not for "the natural environment" per se, but for the "scenic beauties of the lakes," as well as for the quality of the fishing in the region.167 In other words, they felt concerned about their own experiences of Temagami, rather than about the experiences of the fish, trees and waters of the district. I do not mean to suggest that this concern is necessarily a problem in and of itself, but I intend rather to challenge Hodgins and Benidickson's assumption that "aesthetic values, environmental concerns, and the habits of vacationing campers" were one and the same in early twentieth-century

Temagami, as well as in conflict with "the priorities of the forest industry."168 It is through this kind of logic that tourism can appear not only innocent but ecologically necessary, and that the interests of tourists can appear to spring from nature. As Bruce

Braun argues about contemporary ecotourism in British Columbia, the tourist gaze imposes a particular view of nature onto the landscape—in this case, as in his, a nature that is fixed in the pre-modern past—which then comes to appear as the perspective of nature, and thereby masks other understandings of the region.169

While Hodgins and Benidickson indicate that Temagami tourists' interests were

"seldom in harmony with the priorities of the forest industry" or the hydro industry, my argument suggests that resource extractive industries and Temagami tourism worked for the most part symbiotically. The occasional complaints that tourists had about resource development did not fundamentally challenge industry or its underlying logic of progress, nor was that their intention: tourists generally supported (national) development. For one thing, they relied on it (in the form of the railway) to get to Temagami. Complaining tourists did not challenge the industrial development of the region, but merely expressed the opinion that resource development should be hidden enough that it did not ruin their wilderness experiences. Summer vacationers and power companies had an important

226 something in common: both abstracted and extracted n'Daki Menan from the TAA and placed Temagami into a new set of economic and cultural systems while simultaneously making it appear that their visions of nature were written into the land.

Late nineteenth and early twentieth century Temagami tourism was, then, what

Pratt might call an anti-conquest; it simultaneously asserted European hegemony and rendered its own power invisible. Temagami tourism appeared innocent in part through the previously-discussed depiction in travel writing of the region as wild with Aboriginal people, a representation that made it possible and logical to consider the area as wild for tourists. More directly, however, Temagami appeared as wild for tourists because travel literature stated just that: God or nature had created the Temagami region for the pleasure of tourists. As one writer asserted, the fact that Temagami lacked cultivatable soil was an indication of God "decreeing and setting apart this whole region of hundreds of miles in every direction as a great game preserve." God had in fact, according to this author, provided Temagami's "most beautiful scenery... for the refreshment of his children." The title of the article, "Timagami, a Region Organized by Nature for real Sport," clearly revealed its author's perspective. Other writers shared his point of view, and characterized Temagami as "the northern Ontario paradise... truly a sportsman's Garden of Eden," and as "practically virgin territory for the sportsman."170 The construction of

Temagami as a natural space made for tourists implicitly produced tourists as innocent subjects who merely received this place, and created tourism as an act of passive consumption rather than of active appropriation. Thus while travel writing helped to

227 make the Temagami area into a natural space that could then be consumed by tourists, the disappearance of this creative act from the writing itself made this process unintelligible, thereby allowing Temagami to appear as wild—thanks to nature (or God)—for tourists.

As Mary Louise Pratt states in another context, travel writers were able to "subsume

1*71 culture and history into nature."

The innocence of tourists and tourism was also maintained through the representation of sportsmen as having no choice but to travel: they had to respond to the call of the wild. A member of the canoeing club organized through Camp Keewaydin explained the call of the wild as "a strange feeling of unrest" that comes upon men in the spring. At first, men are unable to understand the meaning of this feeling, but soon they realize that "the wild has begun to call" them "back to the free life of the natural man."

One Temagami canoe tripper contemplated what constituted the call of the wild. He concluded that, since the current industrial age discouraged individuals from conducting activities that did not directly result in material wealth, the call of the wild had to be instinctive in men, touching "the most responsive chords of a man's nature."172 While this writer, perhaps purposely in order to make his point, failed to mention that wilderness vacationing had become an acceptable and even necessary part of industrial society, he did demonstrate both the gendered character of the call of the wild and the way that this idea aided in tourists' appearance as innocent. Travel writers understood that it was primarily men who heard the call of the wild, since it was men who were not meant to sit at "a desk year in and year out, to stand behind the counter, or at the bench— 228 nor in fact to do incessantly any of the hundred and one occupations of our civilized life."

Though some women, like Ella Walton, insisted that men and women had the same instincts and therefore that women as well as men required wilderness holidays, travel writers generally constructed Temagami as a region for sportsmen. One writer in fact stated that ''''the story of Temagami" was "a story of men, rods and fish."1 "Whether tourists understood the call of the wild as their own primitive instincts insisting that they travel or as Temagami nature calling them to visit, or, most likely, as a combination of the two, the idea that they did not travel entirely of their own volition worked well for them. To borrow McClintock's phrase, the call of the wild represented "nature's invitation to conquest," and, as such, justified tourists' infiltration of TAA territory, simultaneously obscuring the connections between this onslaught and the larger colonial processes of which it constituted an important part.m

Surviving to Tell the Tale: Indian Legends, Animal Encounters and the Making of

National Nature

Indian Legends

Archibald Lampman was not the only one who considered Temagami "Wild with the trampling of the giant moose,/ And the weird magic of old Indian tales." In fact, stories of animal encounters and Indian legends featured significantly into Temagami travel literature, serving to reinforce the idea that the land belonged to white Canadians.

Aboriginal guides were expected to play a particular role both in guaranteeing the authenticity of tourists' Temagami experiences, including through telling tales to tourists

229 and ensuring that tourists encountered wild animals on their vacations, and in providing a transition from an Aboriginal past to a white present. The favourite so-called Indian legend repeatedly told by Temagami travel writers was about a haunted place in the north arm of Lake Temagami. According to travel accounts, Kokomis, the devil, was married.

One day, Kokomis's wife decided to leave her husband and so she swam from Devil's

Mountain to Granny's Island. Kokomis, angry with his wife for abandoning him, turned her into stone, and her statue remained on Granny's Island for tourists to visit.

Interestingly, although this legend appeared many times in the pages of travel magazines, the details of the story were inconsistent from one version to another.

Sometimes writers asserted that the "Indians firmly believe that Granny's Island is haunted," and that the "Indians are averse to going near her [the statue's] residence, and make presents of tobacco, pipes, etc., to appease her when obliged to pass the 'Haunted

Island.'"176 In other articles, "Mrs. Kokomis" was not the devil's wife, but instead an old woman or "a wife of one of the Ojibway chiefs, [who] was turned to stone." A few writers did not attempt to tell the story at all, and mentioned only briefly the stone shaped like an old woman "around which circles an Indian legend of long ago." m It is evident that, for travel writers, the mere existence of the tale and the position of expertise that writers could assume in relating the story to readers took precedence over the specific details of the legend. Writers relied on the legend to add mystery and romance to Lake

Temagami, and, remaining consistent with romantic ideals and likely the expectations of readers, they sometimes included eerie details, for example that no campfire had ever

230 been lit on Granny's Island. By passing the Kokomis story on to readers, authors asserted themselves as experts on both the Temagami region and its imagined history.

Not only had they travelled the district, but they had also learned its stories from their

Indian guides, thus making their trips all the more authentic and their accounts all the more reliable. In this, guides played an important role, for they were expected to tell tourists campfire stories that would fulfill tourists' stereotypical expectations about

Native culture and people, while at the same time offering them a chance to learn about the legends surrounding the area. One woman author was thrilled to happen upon an

Aboriginal man who had "a fund of Indian lore and local information which charmed us."179

The travel literature does not offer much insight into the willingness of guides to play along in this game. If they did play along, they certainly had their reasons for doing so. As one TAA member said of her grandfather who guided tourists, "My grandfather loved nothing better than to tell a good yarn to a tourist."180 It does seem, though, that when guides failed to make their stories romantic or mysterious enough for the perceived expectations of tourists, perhaps an indication that guides were not always interested in fulfilling the roles tourists prescribed for them, writers changed and added to guides' narratives, making them fit more easily into the genre of Indian lore. For instance, one author encouraged his guide, Pishabo, to tell the story of how Pishabo's wife and her sister died, a story the author "had only casually heard of." In spite of the rudeness of this request, it seems that Pishabo decided to oblige his tourist, and told the story of how he and his brother-in-law were supposed to meet their wives at a certain spot. When the women did not appear, the men looked for them and eventually found the women's canoe upside down in the river and later discovered their bodies by the shore. The men then got the "old folks," presumably the sisters' parents, and together the four of them carried the women's bodies to the cemetery in Temagami. Pishabo ended his story there. The writer, however, continued the story by relating to readers that while Pishabo and his brother-in- law thought that the women died in a drowning accident, "many old Indians" in fact believed that "suspicion rested upon certain Indians, whose hunting preserves Pishabo and his friend were trespassing upon." Further, the author had heard that the "spirits of these two women" had hovered for many months around the HBC post where Pishabo and his brother-in-law traded. The writer concluded this section of his article by stating that Pishabo's rendition of this "harrowing tale... was certainly as fine a piece of weird tale-telling as we ever listened to."181 Ironically, of course, the only weird tale-telling of that story came from the article's author, not from Pishabo. As such, the story reveals more about what readers expected Indian legends to contain than about what kinds of stories individual Aboriginal guides decided to tell or not to tell.

This story also shows how travel writers took on the role in travel narratives that guides were expected to play on Temagami wilderness vacations, that of teacher about

Aboriginal culture and legend. While relatively few people had the privilege of spending summers canoeing with Aboriginal guides, many more could afford to read about such adventures. C. C. Farr recognized this when he reported on telling his guides that he spent

232 much time writing by the camp fire because "many men who lived in large cities, in case

they could not go to the bush, loved to read about it, enjoying that, which they could not

actually experience by themselves, by proxy." Farr and other writers took seriously their

self-imposed responsibility of sharing with readers what they learned from their

Temagami guides. It is curious to consider what the guides might have thought of

Temagami travel literature, had they, for instance, subscribed to Rod and Gun. According

to Farr, his guides approved of the reasons he gave for spending time writing, and as a

result they told him "many a little fact..., facts that they, and those like them, only

know." Here Farr claimed authority by positioning himself as the recipient of Aboriginal

secrets, and constructed himself as innocent by making it appear that the guides wanted

him to share their little facts with readers. He also appealed to readers' desire to consume

Aboriginal culture with the promise of bestowing upon readers some of the secrets passed

on to him. As he not-so-subtly put it in a Rod and Gun article, the "readers of a

Magazine, like Rod and Gun in Canada" should be interested in learning these little

1 on

facts, for example how to know when a change of weather was on its way. As writers

certainly knew, once they shared the supposed secrets of Aboriginal people with readers,

the secrets ceased to be secret. Writers in fact banked on this, particularly those like L. O.

Armstrong, C. C. Farr, and Dan O'Connor, who had vested interests in tourists travelling to Temagami. In spite of their comments about not wanting Temagami ruined by tourists,

writers' decisions to publish their accounts showed their willingness to publicize the area.

Authors' enthusiasm about informing readers of the best places to fish or of the latest 233 wilderness tips received from their guides mirrored their enthusiasm for introducing people like themselves to a new part of the country they considered their own.

Non-Aboriginal knowledge about the region and its Aboriginal inhabitants, though certainly flawed and incomplete, accumulated in a number of ways over the first decade and a half of the twentieth century: through direct experience by canoe or steamer; through learning from the stories and actions of guides; through reading promotional materials and travel guides; and through listening to or reading about the experiences of friends or strangers. This knowledge, much of it gleaned directly or indirectly from Aboriginal people, gradually made Native people's physical presence less important to Temagami tourism and tourists. Travel writers, by teaching tourists about

Aboriginal legends and ways of being in the bush, made it possible for these ways of knowing to exist without Aboriginal people themselves. It is very likely that members of the TAA knew this as well, and as a result did not give away as much information as tourists liked to think they did. One TAA elder, for instance, recalled that the government and a boat company wanted to pay Indians five dollars a day to show them where the shoals on Lake Temagami were. Though doing this work sounded like a pretty good idea to the elder at the time given that guiding paid considerably less than that, his brother reminded him that it would be foolish to show them where the shoals were because then there would be no work in guiding. Despite Native resistance to tourists' quest to know all, writers who aimed to learn and to teach as much as they could about the Temagami region and people could think of themselves as performing a national duty. Given that

234 Aboriginal people were considered to be dying, any knowledge about them or their ways

of life could work to connect an ancient (Aboriginal) past to a (white) national present

and future. By performing activities and telling stories understood as Aboriginal, white

citizens could consider themselves native to the land, and thus to think of the land as

belonging to them.

Animal Encounters

Temagami tourists often included in their travel narratives stories of their encounters with

wild animals, and in particular with moose. Though no two moose encounter tales were

identical, these stories easily fit into two main groups: power stories and danger stories.

In power stories, writers represented themselves as having infinite power over the moose

they sought out or happened upon on their journeys. For example, one hunter recalled

feeling bored on his Temagami trip because his party had not yet seen a moose, and so he

and his companion "took a crack at a partridge and knocked off his head." Fortunately for

other partridges nearby, the hunter soon came upon a "monster bull" moose and promptly

shot it. The moose appeared weakened, and then "quietly lay down and died without a

struggle." Not all power stories involved shooting animals, however. For many writers,

the possibility of killing a moose contained as much and sometimes more excitement than

did the actual killing. As one author asked, "does the pleasure of shooting consist solely

in the pulling of the trigger? Is there not a keen enjoyment merely in knowing that the

animal is in your power, that nothing but your conscientious scruples stand between it

and death?' Tourists indeed seemed very much to enjoy knowing a moose was in their

235 power. Often they demonstrated this power by capturing a moose on film, but one overly- enthusiastic narrator wanted literally to capture a moose by throwing a rope around its horns. When his guide cautioned him against this, he contented himself with "giving Mr.

Moose a few pokes with the paddle and allowing him to go without further molestation."

Other moose did not fare as well, and were forced to endure being separated from one another while swimming, getting whacked by canoe paddles, and even being roped and ridden. Writers demonstrated their power over moose not only by detailing the various tortures they visited upon the animals, but also by reminding readers that they were unwilling rather than unable to kill a moose. Indeed, their mention of a moose's

"tempting flank" or "antlers which many a man would give a year's pay to see stretched out over the fire-place at home" indirectly told readers that the power to kill rested in the hands of writers. Some wistfully stated that if only the hunting regulations had not prevented them from doing so, they most certainly would have killed their encountered

185 moose.

In danger stories, on the other hand, writers admitted the possibility that, while they might be able to kill a moose, a moose could also kill them. One writer, for example, described a night of lying in wait for a moose as "wildly tantalizing." After hearing but not seeing any moose for the whole night, the author and his friend Dick finally spotted a moose and shot it. Dick, thinking the moose to be dead, ran toward it, only to have the moose struggle to its feet and charge. The author thought Dick's "position was thrilling enough to satisfy the most adventurous, for he knew that to get within striking distance of

236 those knife-like hoofs, cutting forward and downward, mean hideous death." Fortunately,

however, Dick shot the moose again, this time killing it, and thus managed to survive the

moose's "savage attack." Often danger stories described situations similar to those

recounted in power stories, but the outcomes differed from those of power stories. For

instance, one writer described his party's attempt to photograph a moose. The group crept

through the grass until one member of the party, feeling that he was close enough, stood

up to take a picture. The moose apparently "lowered his head" and members of the party

saw "the hair on his neck rise as he started toward" them. The members of the group ran

back to their canoes, and the author later recalled, "I doubt if four worse scared people

ever lived to tell about it. We were not only willing but anxious to quit playing in that

moose's backyard." Similarly, another writer recalled attempting to cut a moose off from

the shore, and stated, "as soon as he saw what we had done he came straight at us, and we

had to backwater to get out of his way." While moose narratives often appeared as

power stories or as danger stories, these two kinds of animal encounter tales did not

always exist separately within the travel literature; often one article featured both kinds of

stories, or one author described both in two different articles. In the same article that

described the "scared people" running from a charging moose, for instance, the article's

author hinted that had this incident taken place during hunting season, he feared that

"something [else] would have happened."187 In both kinds of narratives, guides played the essential role of ensuring that tourists encountered moose on their Temagami trips.

237 By reminding readers that enormous and powerful wild animals inhabited the

region, and that tourists frequently came across these animals on their Temagami

adventures, moose encounter narratives reinforced the idea that Temagami was a wild

place. Danger stories showed readers that these animals had the power to kill humans,

while power stories demonstrated that white men could kill, capture and torment animals

much bigger and stronger than themselves. I say white men because they were always the

ones featured in stories of moose encounters. While a couple of white women appeared

as hunters in Temagami travel narratives, neither of them hunted moose. Instead, one proved herself to be a good shot by killing birds, and the other surprised and delighted

1 OO herself by killing a deer. Together, danger and power stories created Temagami as a

space where white men could come to know themselves as civilized men, and the region

as their own.189 By constructing themselves as brave for surviving encounters with wild moose (whether or not the moose survived and whether or not the writers narrowly or

easily escaped), travel writers emphasized white men's skill in the bush rather than

focusing on other matters, for example the matter of whether white men had the right to enter and hunt upon TAA territory. This emphasis shaped the terms of the discussion, so that the question of whether white people should be in Temagami was displaced by an evaluation of white men's ability to survive an encounter with the Temagami wilderness.

As one might expect, travel writers usually gave themselves a favourable evaluation. Sometimes they did this by constructing themselves against inexperienced hunters who were "first-rate at wasting ammunition by shooting at a mark," but who, 238 when in the presence of a moose, became nauseous and handed "the rifle to the guide to

do the shooting." One author remembered himself feeling "perfectly cool as we rapidly

approached; my nerve was steady as a rock."190 At other times, writers saw themselves as

superior to Aboriginal people when it came to hunting, for example when they considered themselves but not Native people as civilized enough to decide not to kill an animal. One

author, for example, simply wanted to see a moose in the animal's native environment.

Knowing, however, that his guide would not understand such a concept, the author, upon

encountering a moose, took aim with his gun and deliberately missed. Though the guide

reportedly stated after the moose ran away that it was good that the author had missed the moose, since there were only the two of them to deal with the carcass, the author nevertheless insisted that had he given his rifle to his guide, "there would have been a

dead moose there all the same."191

The representation of travel writers as well-equipped to survive a moose encounter facilitated the idea that white men, at least once they became experienced, belonged in Temagami. According to this circular form of logic, because white men could handle the wilds of Temagami, they became authorized to be in the wilds of

Temagami. That this authority was self-designated did not seem to bother Temagami tourists. Likely this form of logic would have deeply disturbed members of the TAA, though Aboriginal guides actually facilitated white tourists' sense of entitlement to the region by leading them to their wild animal encounters.

239 Moose encounter narratives also provided writers with another avenue for

characterizing Native people as uncivilized and therefore unequipped for land

stewardship. On the one hand, writers described Aboriginal people as having an innate

desire to kill: their instincts simply prevailed over their minds, causing them to kill just for the sake of killing, unless an heroic tourist stepped in and prevented the inevitable, for example when Frank Carrell "issued orders" for his guides not to kill a squirrel. Though

Carrell gave no indication in his narrative that his guides had planned to kill the squirrel in the first place, he was not the only tourist to suspect Indians of killing indiscriminately.

Cy Warman, for instance, considered that Indians knew nothing of game conservation, and reported that he had heard about a "half breed guide, who had slaughtered a dozen land birds and three or four water birds in a single day." In some travel narratives, however, Aboriginal people did not appear as savage killers, but as unwilling to let the meat or skin of a shot animal go to waste.

In these contradictory representations, what remained consistent was Aboriginal people's perceived savagery. They were not "good sports." As Tina Loo and John

Sandlos have shown, being a good sport meant, first and foremost, hunting for sport rather than survival. When provincial and territorial governments began in the early twentieth century to put in place conservation policies, they defined acceptable hunting practices according to sportsmen's definitions. While the subsistence hunting of

Aboriginal peoples and poor and working-class settlers was outlawed, hunting for sport was equated with game conservation. Certainly not everyone was convinced by this logic: TAA Chief Alexander Paul demanded in 1913 that the government "stop the white people killing our game, as they do it only for sport and not for support."194 Still,

Temagami tourists relied on such logic to consider the "red man" to be "unsophisticated" by virtue of his willingness to eat the flesh of animals killed by tourists for sport.195 It also allowed them to construct themselves as the natural inheritors of the Temagami region, brave yet conservation-minded men who deserved the land because of their ability to take care of it properly. There was no space within this framework to consider the most likely reasons for why Native people chose to kill or not to kill animals. The fact, for example, that the guide-tourist relationship was a relationship of service in which guides were expected to guarantee game to tourists did not seem to occur to travel writers as a way of explaining why guides may have occasionally encouraged tourists to shoot an animal. Similarly, writers did not allow for the obvious possibility that members of the

TAA accepted meat that would otherwise be wasted because they found the practice of killing an animal for its head to be wasteful and abhorrent.

But When Does Possession Happen?

As Anne McClintock has famously observed," 'Discovery' is always late."196 An analysis of Temagami tourism at the turn of the twentieth century shows us that possession is also late. Years before the first tourists began to trickle into the region, colonial and then provincial and national governments had claimed Temagami as their own, had possessed it in theory. But this claiming had little to do with the reality lived by the TAA on n'Daki

Menan. It was not until the late 1870s, when non-Native people began cutting timber on

241 the fringes of TAA territory, that the TAA began t6 feel concerned about the encroachment of others onto their land. Another twenty five years passed before the railroad began bringing thousands of tourists to Temagami each summer. This incursion certainly affected members of the TAA, but it did not result in their demurely stepping aside and handing their territory to tourists. According to the band, n'Daki Menan remained, as always, TAA territory. Tourists, however, had other ideas. They travelled to

Temagami to experience the last of the Canadian wilderness before it faded away, along with its Aboriginal inhabitants, in the face of modern civilization.

Yet tourists did not always get what they came for. Instead of finding a picturesque wilderness including noble (and dying) Indians, they encountered a confusing new place, full of lakes and rocks and dense forests, a place they did not know how to negotiate but that other people knew well. And these other people were not dying. In fact, they were running tourists' trips, carrying their luggage, teaching them how to fish and hunt, doing their laundry, waiting their tables, setting up their tents, cooking their food, speaking three languages, listening to music on a gramophone: negotiating modernity.

The gap between what tourists expected to find before they set out and what they found when they got there was the space between fiction and fact. As Thomas King puts it,

"You're not the Indian I had in mind." But the Indian they had in mind was a powerful figure, a figure that remained alive (though in a perpetual state of dying) no matter how well or poorly members of the TAA fit into this imagination. Travel writers kept this figure alive through writing it over and over, through noting when their guides looked

242 and acted like the Indian they had in mind, through expressing anxiety and displeasure

when Indians exceeded their imaginary bounds. Just think of Frank Carrell, who wanted

to photograph favourite poses struck by his guide, but who found it utterly offensive

when a guide joined Carrell's tourist party on the verandah of a hotel.198 The anxiety

expressed by some tourists in their Temagami travel narratives was the anxiety caused by

going to a place imagined as their Canadian wilderness, and finding that it was not theirs

at all. Without Aboriginal people, tourists were "helpless to get about," a fact which the

Ontario government attempted to manage by making it illegal for guides to abandon one tourist party for another. 9 Possession is always late, and in the case of Temagami, it came not so much with tourists' encounters with the region—encounters that were full of ambivalences, full of un-imaginary Indians, full of getting lost in an unfamiliar landscape—but with tourists' writing of those encounters, and with readers' consumption of that writing. Over time, and over the repetition of stories, Temagami came to be imagined as a site of national nature. But possession and dispossession, like the stories themselves, were never complete. Always other stories existed.

243 Chapter 4

"Settlers," "Bear Islanders" and the Spatial Confinement of the Teme-

Augama Anishnabai

Rent to Reside on Bear Island

In June of 1929, the Ontario government charged rent to a number of TAA members who

resided on Bear Island in Lake Temagami. According to the province, Pete Misabi, John

Katt, William Pishabo and Alex Mathias had no title to the lands upon which they lived

and their illegal occupation was holding up development on the island. Ontario offered

TAA members the opportunity to lease and thereby "acquire some title" to the lands that they occupied, but the TAA members refused to pay rent to the province.1 This episode

sparked, or more accurately reignited, a struggle between the TAA and Ontario over n'Daki Menan/Temagami, a struggle that continues to the present. This chapter focuses mainly on the rent controversy as it unfolded between 1929 and 1943, though it also offers a brief discussion of events after 1943 in order to contextualize the discussion in chapter 5. In 1943, the matter appeared temporarily, and unsatisfactorily from the perspective of the TAA, to have been put to rest.

I argue that the dispute as it took place between 1929 and 1943 reconfigured n'Daki Menan/Temagami. While Ontario's vision of Temagami as a timber commodity and tourist destination as well as the TAA's understanding of n'Daki Menan as TAA territory were rooted in prior discourses about the region, these older discourses were 244 reconstituted in and through the struggle over rent on Bear Island. In 1943, it appeared that Ontario's image of the region had won out over the TAA's. I trace the re-emergence of earlier discourses about the region and the appearance of new ones, and contend that

Ontario's relative success in implementing its construction of Temagami depended on the racialization of the TAA in both new and old ways, and also on their spatial confinement.

As a result of Ontario's ability to make Temagami make sense as a site of nature for tourists to visit and lumber companies to cut down, the Temagami of 1943 did not appear significantly different from the Temagami of 1915. One important change had occurred, however. By 1943, provincial and federal governments agreed that Bear Island was the only part of n'Daki Menan to which the TAA had any claim. After 1943, with the loss even of the federal government's nominal support of their claim, the TAA continued to assert that n'Daki Menan, and not merely Bear Island, was TAA territory.

The Canadian Nation in Context

The historical moment in which this conflict took place differed in important respects from the time period discussed in the previous two chapters, but some key similarities remained as well. One significant difference was that, following World War I, a firmer sense of Canadian nationalism emerged alongside a desire for experiences of purity that would wash away the memories of war. As described in chapter 1, the members of the

Group of Seven, who painted at this time, are widely credited with playing a large role in the development of a distinctive Canadian identity through their paintings of landscapes which depict themes of purity and individual transcendence. In the 1920s, increasing

245 numbers of Canadians embarked on wilderness vacations in part to connect with the

landscapes portrayed by, and the corresponding sense of national identity and post-war

national rebirth connected with, the Group of Seven.2 Post-war prosperity also meant that

more people, many of them now travelling by automobile on roads built to serve the

needs of a growing car culture, could visit wilderness places previously accessible only to

a relative few. With the 1927 completion of the gravel highway to Temagami, for

example, tourists travelling from Toronto could get to the region easily within a day.3

Although the Depression of the 1930s would soon temporarily reduce the number of

Temagami tourists, in the late 1920s tourists poured into the region in even higher

numbers than they had in the first decade of the twentieth century.4

It is important to keep in mind, however, that while Canadian nationalism became

more clearly defined after 1914, the project of Canadian nation-building did not become

any less racialized. Aboriginal peoples continued to be erased from the landscape of the

nation, quite literally in the paintings of the Group. As well, legislation like the 1910

Immigration Act and the 1923 Chinese Immigration (Exclusion) Act, the former

authorizing Canada to exclude immigrants deemed racially undesirable and the latter

intending to prevent almost all immigration from China, attempted to ensure that Canada

would remain a white settler nation.5 It is within this broader context that mid-twentieth

century Temagami must be understood. Increasing numbers of white Canadians were

encouraged to travel to wilderness spaces, and at least some of them went with the desire to connect with nationalist sentiments. To turn Sunera Thobani's argument in a different

246 direction, white Canadians in this period came to know themselves and were defined as

the "exalted subjects" of the Canadian nation not only by being welcomed into the space

of the nation (in contradistinction to Indians and racialized others), but also by coming to

know, through intimate experience, the wild physical spaces of the nation as their own.6

Anti-racist and critical scholarship on the nation, Thobani's work included, does

not in general place a strong emphasis on the inter-war period, instead concentrating on

the emergence of a white settler nation-building project as it took place in the decades

following Confederation and then skipping ahead to the post-World War II changes

related to the emergence of an officially multicultural nation. More celebratory accounts

of the development of Canada, on the other hand, consistently describe the 1920s, and the

work of the Group of Seven in particular, as central to the emergence of the nation and

nationalism. I suggest that critical scholarship on the nation might productively engage

with the inter-war period, particularly by focusing on the relationships among white

Canadians, the landscape that they were in greater numbers coming to know as their own,

and the Aboriginal peoples who continued to claim as their homelands spaces coded by

non-Native people as part of the Canadian wilderness.8 As Thobani argues, the

(supposedly) race-neutral immigration point system that came about after World War II

"only became a possibility once the racial character of nationals, and national institutions, had been consolidated."9 Attention to the mid-twentieth century might show that the racial character of nationals and national institutions, including national wilderness, became consolidated in part through white Canadians' wilderness vacations. By tracing

247 the nationalist practices of the mid-twentieth century, critical scholars might also be able to make stronger connections between the colonization of Aboriginal peoples and lands and the race-based hierarchy of citizenship that continued to hold sway during this time.

By demonstrating how the Temagami region became increasingly made as a white space and as part of the Canadian nation during this historical moment, I begin to make such connections.

Pristine Wilderness and Timber Commodity: The (Re)making of Temagami Nature in the Middle Decades of the Twentieth Century

Timber

Before turning to analyse the 1929 to 1943 struggle between the TAA and the province of

Ontario, I give a brief account of how the region was produced more generally in the inter-war period. This broader context is important for understanding the conflict that it shaped. In the middle decades of the twentieth century, and in spite of the efforts of the

TAA, Temagami continued to be constituted as a both a wilderness tourism destination and a timber commodity to be exploited for profit. In fact, increased lumbering and tourism in the region led to the consolidation of these constructions of nature that had formed in the early twentieth century.

Although, as explored in chapter 2, logging took place in the Temagami Forest

Reserve in the early twentieth century, it was not until the late 1920s that more rapid exploitation of the timber resource occurred. Critics of the forest reserve system, including William Milne, whose lumber company had profited beginning in 1905 from

248 the clearing of trees along the railway line in the TFR, charged in the early 1920s that the

Forest Reserves Act had led not to timber production but to timber hoarding in Temagami

and elsewhere, with the result that "millions of feet of excellent pine [were] going to waste in the northern country." ° Partly in response to this criticism, Ontario began to sell timber and pulpwood licences in the TFR at a brisk pace, beginning with a 1927 timber

licence that granted the Gillies Brothers Lumber Company permission to cut pine trees from a 115 square mile area east of Lake Temagami along the railway line. This was the largest pine limit yet granted in the TFR, but it comprised just one of a number of timber and pulpwood licences sold by Ontario in the forest reserve between 1927 and 1930.11 In

1928, for instance, the province sold a 108 square mile timber berth to the Spanish River

Lumber Company for an area on either side of the Wanapitei River north of Lake

Wanapitei, as well as a 1616 square mile pulpwood concession to J. R. Booth within the

Montreal River watershed north of Latchford.12 As in the early twentieth century, the provincial government relied on the language of forest conservation to explain its land use decisions—Ontario's Minister of Lands and Forests William Finlayson stated that the timber sale to Gillies was "based upon the principles of rotation of crop and perpetuation of forest wealth"—but sold licences for political and economic reasons rather than in strict adherence to scientific forestry principles.13 With timber and pulpwood licences covering more of the region than ever before, Temagami was made more firmly into a site of valuable timber controlled by Ontario and managed by the needs of the forest

249 industry. The region was thus reinscribed as part of the province and the nation and not as n'Daki Menan.

The construction of the region as a timber commodity also continued to work to deny TAA members access to the forest of n'Daki Menan. In the first written correspondence between the TAA and the DIA since 1917, for example, George Friday wrote in 1927 asking if he could "cut logs" for building purposes and stating that the

Chief Forest Ranger had told him that he could not. Friday's letter to Indian Affairs indicates that he considered himself to have a right to cut trees from the region, a right which presumably came from his understanding that the TAA had a claim to n'Daki

Menan. Although no explanation for the Chief Forest Ranger's decision is on record, the way that the matter was resolved indicates that the Forest Ranger denied Friday's request because of the region's status as a forest reserve. Indian agent Cockburn informed the

DIA that although Friday had wanted to cut timber from the TFR, Cockburn had convinced him to make a frame rather than a log building so that he would not have to use pine timber.14 As in the early twentieth century, the TAA's relationships with n'Daki

Menan were defined and limited by the TFR.

Tourism

As mentioned above, tourism also increased dramatically in Temagami, particularly after the completion of the highway in 1927. Camps Keewaydin and Temagami continued to run and two additional boys' camps, Wabun and Wigwasati, opened in the early 1930s.15

In order to accommodate the burst of tourists, more lodges and resorts also opened, some

250 along the new highway and others on islands in Lake Temagami. After Ontario issued further leases in the late 1920s, a new group of cottagers also arrived in the region to take up islands on Lake Temagami. Prior to 1927, approximately 170 leases had been issued and by 1933 the number had reached 223.17 In addition to newer self-consciously nationalist reasons for visiting, tourists travelled to Temagami in the late 1920s for many of the same reasons that people had gone thirty years earlier: to experience the wild in nature and to rejuvenate from the grind of modern city life. Promotional materials and articles that highlighted in a "seemingly endless stream of superlatives and metaphors" the wonders of the region also encouraged Temagami tourism.18 Some tourists were return visitors. Many of those who leased islands in Lake Temagami, for example, had first experienced Temagami as campers at Keewaydin or Temagami, or else had paddled through the district on independent trips.19

Writers used similar language as earlier travel writers to describe Temagami and, in so doing, remade the region as an untouched wilderness for tourists to visit. According to a 1928 Globe article, for instance, Temagami was an "unbroken forest primeval... untouched by the hand of man." A few weeks in this "Land of Virgin Beauty," promoters promised, would "reconstruct a broken-down physical constitution and give a tired, worn-out man a new lease of life, sending him back to his work with such a store of energy that he finds the following months of toil a thing to be enjoyed rather than

9ft feared." As in past representations, Temagami existed primarily as a site for sports/wew.

It was, according to the government-run railway company, a "veritable paradise for the

251 Tourist, the Fisherman and the Hunter," a place where even the "black bass, lake trout

and maskinonge [lay] in wait for the fisherman."21 Consistent as well with earlier forms

of representation, the TAA were either erased from the "virgin" landscape or constructed

as existing in the present as part of the national past to visit and consume. Advertisers

suggested that tourists should visit the "quaint Indian settlements" as well as the HBC

post where "the Indians generations ago brought the fur wealth of the hinterland to barter

for blankets and traps." In spite of the fact that the TAA continued to trap on their family

hunting territories and sell the furs at that very HBC post, it was advertised that now the

post "stands... ready to serve the needs of the modern explorers of the watery trails and

green glades."22 With Indians consigned to the past, tourists could experience Temagami

as a part of their national wilderness in the present, "under the care," of course, "of an

experienced [Native] guide."

With the increased popularity of Temagami tourism came the consolidation of the

region as a (now especially) Canadian tourist destination, with the result that the TAA

and n'Daki Menan existed in even more isolation from one another. In fact, white

cottagers began calling themselves "settlers" and "the permanent residents of Lake

Temagami and the Temagami Forest Reserve." They referred to the TAA, on the other hand, as "Bear Islanders."24 Some TAA members did reside on Bear Island in the

summer months, when they were not out on their hunting territories. Bear Island was, after all, the focal point of Temagami tourism, where tourists often picked up supplies and engaged guides. Since TAA members continued to guide tourists in Temagami, it

252 only made sense that they would be on Bear Island some of the time. Temagami

cottagers' inscription of the TAA as "Bear Islanders," however, represented an attempt to

fix the TAA spatially onto a tiny fraction of n'Daki Menan. With "Bear Islanders"

confined to Bear Island, the rest of the territory could become available to "settlers," who

also identified themselves by island. Although tourists in the past had considered

Temagami a paradise for them to visit, cottagers' contemporary claiming of the region as

permanently their own signalled a more definite territorial appropriation, which left the

TAA with even less room than in the early twentieth century to exist on n'Daki Menan.

The "settlers," like other tourists before them, proceeded to construct not only

n'Daki Menan but also the TAA in relation to themselves. In 1931, a group of cottagers

started the Temagami Association, the primary purpose of which was to ensure the

protection of summer residents' increasingly valuable properties. Robert Newcomb,

founding president of the Association, thought that the cottagers should maintain good

relationships with members of the TAA. He therefore suggested that cottagers "be

interested in [the TAA's] welfare and help them when the opportunity offers" by giving

them work, shoes and clothing. Cottagers owed the TAA this "help," according to

Newcomb, not only because the TAA were "simple, honest, friendly people," but also

because they were the "natural guardians" of"our [cottagers'] property." Evidently

members of the Temagami Association saw no relationship between the "want and

•suffering" of the TAA and Association members' own encroachment onto TAA

territory. Instead, by donating spare items of clothing and by hiring members of the

253 TAA as their servants, cooks, cleaners, wood- and ice- choppers and guides, cottagers

could consider themselves as acting charitably toward a disadvantaged group. Within this

logic, the property of cottagers appeared to belong "naturally" to cottagers, just as the

TAA appeared as the "natural" guardians of cottagers' property (and in the past, as the

natural guardians of the forest from fire and the natural guides for tourists' vacations).

Conveniently, no explanation appeared necessary.

TAA member Joe Friday's 1940 letter to the DIA, however, tells another story. In

his letter, Friday describes being approached by two American men at the island where

he had lived "since [he] was a kid," and where he had built cabins and was running a

lodge. The men told him that the island was up for lease, and that if they decided to lease

it, Friday would have to leave. Certainly the American men's ability to lease this island

and to build a cottage on it was no more natural than Friday's removal from it or potential job as "guardian" of the cottagers' property. Instead, both were the direct result of the

provincial policy of leasing islands in Lake Temagami to cottagers. As the Indian agent

explained in Friday's case, when the rental was not paid for islands, those inhabiting

them "are considered squatters and can be removed by Provincial authorities."29 Thus as

Ontario leased more Lake Temagami islands to cottagers, more cottagers became

"settlers" in TAA territory, while the TAA were again considered "squatters," or at the

very best "Bear Islanders," and evicted from (most of) their land.

254 Timber and Tourism Together Again

The production of Temagami as a timber resource to be extracted for profit and a destination to be visited by tourists (and temporarily inhabited by summer "settlers") continued to work well together. The Temagami Association was not against logging, but did not want logging to have a visual impact from the shores of Lake Temagami.

Fortunately for the members of the Association, William Finlayson, Minister of Lands and Forests from 1926 to 1934, had a cottage on Lake Temagami, and assured the

Association that any logging that took place in the region would neither "be noticed from the shore" nor "offend settlers." Thus the cottagers began to have a significant influence over the activities that could take place in Temagami. Accordingly, after 1935, logging companies had to abide by the following restrictions:

No lumber camps or buildings of any description to be erected along the shore of Timagami Lake. No land will be cleared for skidways or railways along the shore of Timagami Lake. Trees within 300 feet of portages and shorelines of inland lakes are reserved, excepting where these are marked to be cut by a representative of the Department. No booming or towing operations will be permitted in Timagami Lake during the months of July and August.31

In addition to the above restrictions, Ontario created a skyline reserve on Lake

Temagami, which meant that no cutting was allowed from the shore of Lake Temagami to the top of the visible surrounding ridge. With such restrictions on logging in place, cottagers and tourists could continue to imagine Temagami as their pristine wilderness, even as timber and pulp companies increasingly imposed their extractive vision onto the

Temagami forest. The provincial government helped to create both the idea of Temagami

255 as a wilderness for tourists and the idea of Temagami as a timber commodity.

Advertisements for the government-run railway line constructed the region as a wilderness tourism destination, yet the government also granted timber and pulpwood licences. Similarly, fire rangers in the forest reserve cleared and marked portages for tourists, yet their primary job was to protect timber for industry.33 As at the turn of the twentieth century, one thing shared in the production of Temagami as a site of timber extraction and wilderness tourism was that both visions of Temagami worked through the exclusion of TAA?s claim to and relationships with n'Daki Menan.

Race and Rental Fees

I turn now to analyse how the rent controversy that took place between 1929 and 1943 reconfigured the racial and spatial order of n'Daki Menan/Temagami. In June of 1929,

Walter Cain, the Deputy Minister of Lands and Forests, sent letters to four TAA members living on Bear Island, informing the men that if they intended to stay where they were, they would have to begin paying rent for the lands upon which they lived. Ontario sent these notices in large part because the prevalence of tourists in Temagami had resulted in pressure on the government to make room for them. Ontario, in attempting to oblige tourists' requests for more land, found the TAA's presence on the landscape inconvenient and therefore tried to remove, or at least to control, the TAA.

Instead of paying rent, Misabi, Katt, Pishabo and Mathias passed their letters from

Ontario along with their complaints about having received them to the local Indian agent.

They also revived the question of their reserve, contending that TAA members could

256 hardly vacate Bear Island when they had nowhere else to go, and stating that they did not consider it fair to have to pay rent on lands they had lived upon for generations.34 In response to the TAA's complaints, the DIA asked Ontario whether it would be possible for members of the band to remain on Bear Island without paying rent until a reserve was set aside for them elsewhere. Ontario replied that "these Indians have the same privileges to occupy these lots as do businesses and other people," and should therefore not hold up development by refusing to pay rent. Further, provincial Surveyor General L. V. Rorke opined, even if a reserve were set aside for the band elsewhere on Lake Temagami, the band would not move from Bear Island, since "the Indians on Lake Timagami are more in touch with civilization than any other band" and would therefore not want to move from the centre of the tourist trade. For that reason, Ontario figured that "as time goes on there seems to be less and less reason why lands should be set apart for the Timagami

Indians in Austin Bay, Timagami Forest Reserve." Not only did the Indians "make their livelihood not so much through trapping, as being appointed guides, boat-men and general handymen for the tourists and cottagers who locate in that part of the country throughout the summer season," but also, according to Rorke, they "have been fairly well treated in their occupation of Crown lands on the lake."35

Ontario's assertion that there seemed no reason to create a reserve for the TAA inside the TFR depended upon the prior construction of the region as a provincial forest reserve rather than as the TAA's n'Daki Menan. Indeed, by taking for granted the existence of the region as a forest reserve, Ontario attempted to avoid a discussion of the

257 historical reasons that the TAA both demanded and were owed (much more than) a reserve, and instead emphasized the kindness of the government in allowing the TAA such a long free stay on Crown lands. Yet the province also employed new strategies of racialization in order to argue that the TAA did not need a reserve. According to Ontario, since the TAA made "their living by guiding and exploring in the ordinary way of the white man," and because, as a result of how they made their living, they had more contact with civilization than did any other band, it was "very doubtful" that they "would be satisfied" with living on a reserve. By contending that the TAA were too civilized to want to live on a reserve, Ontario reversed its prior construction of the TAA as too savage to own land, a representation that had made it possible for the government to ban settlement from a region that the TAA had been settled upon for thousands of years.

Now, by associating reserve life with savagery and the TAA with civilization, Ontario attempted to make the entire Temagami region into a space regulated by the province and also to make the province's desire for control appear as the TAA's craving for civilization. The construction of the TAA as uncivilized in 1901 and as civilized in 1929 shows not only the instability of the racialized categories of civilization and savagery— although this instability is mitigated somewhat through the assumption that the TAA had become more civilized through contact over the years with white tourists—but also how placement in either category can work to deny Aboriginal claims to land. The government did not, of course, attempt to produce all Aboriginal people as civilized, instead constructing the TAA as civilized in implied opposition to other more savage

258 Indians, those who would be willing to trap rather than guide tourists for a living, and therefore who might want to live apart from civilization on a reserve.

Ontario's assertion of government ownership of Temagami through the construction of the TAA as like civilized (white) subjects was not entirely successful. The major problem for Ontario was that the TAA refused not only to pay rent, but also to participate in Ontario's forgetting of history. Instead, they continued to assert that the region was their territory. In 1932, Chief William Pishabo wrote to Indian agent

Cockburn, asking Cockburn to forward his letter "to the Indian Department in Ottawa to record [his] protest" against the government's latest imposition on TAA life. Chief

Pishabo also reminded Cockburn that the "Government promised to give us a reserve some years ago and we are still hoping that this promise will be fulfilled."37 Indian inspector Thomas McGookin similarly reported that paying rent was "out of the question" for the band, because members felt it "unfair and unjust that they should be required to pay rent for lands occupied by their forefathers for over a hundred years."38 In

1935 and again in 1936, the Temagami band sent petitions to the DIA asking for the

Austin Bay reserve that had been surveyed for them in 1884.

The DIA responded inconsistently to the opposing demands placed upon them by

Ontario and the TAA. The Department agreed, for instance, to Ontario's request that the

DIA use "moral persuasion" to urge "these Indians... to pay their indebtedness to the

Crown," and later commented that "Bear Island is the property of the Province and these

Indians are of course residing thereon without any right or authority.40 But in concurrence

259 with the TAA, H. W. McGill, Deputy Superintendent General of Indian Affairs, wrote to

Deputy Minister Cain that the Temagami band "consider themselves justly entitled to reserve lands of their own and this Department is in accord with this opinion." He continued on to state that the DIA "considers that the Province has a moral as well as a legal obligation to provide these Indians with a reserve." After not having received a satisfactory response from Ontario, McGill wrote again in 1938 to state that "the claim of these Indians to the land within the Robinson-Huron Treaty, as well as their aboriginal hunting rights, has never been extinguished and it never will be till they subscribe to the

Treaty and are allotted a Reserve on the same conditions as were provided for the original signatories."41

Valuable Timber versus a Rocky Reserve

Although Ontario refused for a long time to give "serious consideration" to the matter of creating a "special reserve" for the TAA, the province finally agreed to this option in

1938 when, nine years after Ontario had first sent rental notices to TAA members, it finally became clear to government officials that rental payments were not forthcoming.

Ontario's concession to grant a "small reserve" to the TAA was significant because it showed that, as a result of the TAA's refusal to pay rent and their continuous reminders of why they refused to pay, the provincial government was unsuccessful both in consolidating its ownership of all of n'Daki Menan and in reconfiguring racial categories in the service of that project.42 That did not mean, however, that the TAA had won a major victory. Instead, while the TAA remained determined to have their reserve at

260 Austin Bay, Ontario conceded Bear Island in order to claim the rest of n'Daki Menan as

Crown land.

In 1939, provincial government representatives began to investigate the suitability of "certain areas on Lake Temagami to be used as a reserve for the Indians of that region."43 They stated their particular interest in determining the value of the timber on the potential reserve.44 Chief Forest Ranger R. H. Bliss, upon submitting a report about the timber in the Austin Bay region to the Department of Lands and Forests, commented that he was "without reservation, strictly against" the allocation of any land at Austin Bay to the TAA, in large part because the area was "very valuable... from the standpoint of pine and we should not increase the hazard in this area by allowing it to be occupied." He also thought that there existed "no question of a doubf' that the DIA would find it impossible to make sure that the Indians remained at Austin Bay, stating that they would instead "go back and hang around Bear Island, where the Hudson Bay store is located and naturally where all their guiding work comes from." Bliss figured, therefore, that the

TAA "should not be moved off Bear Island" and concluded by giving his opinion that it was "unnecessary" for the provincial government to set aside land for the Indians in the south end of Lake Temagami.45 The report accompanying Bliss's letter noted that, with the exception of three small clearings, Austin Bay was covered with "virgin bush," including many pine trees over 150 years old.46

Following government representatives' investigations and reports, Cain informed the DIA that Ontario "cannot consent" to disposing of any land around Austin Bay for a

261 reserve, adding that the area "is altogether too valuable from a timber point of view to even consider the question and for that reason this feature of it must be dismissed from the picture now."47 Taking the advice of his colleagues, Cain suggested that part of Bear

Island be created as a "permanent area for the Indians" and explained that, since Bear

Island would continue to be the centre of the tourist trade, it would also remain the

"rendezvous of the Indians," who would refuse to "stay put" on any other reserve granted to them. Even if the Indians did agree to move to another location, Cain continued, "the same problem" would continue to exist on Bear Island, since the "non-treaty Indians

[living on Bear Island] would not be subject to the new arrangement."

With the TAA adamantly demanding a reserve, Ontario could no longer pretend that the First Nation did not want one. Instead, the province figured that the best way to deal with the "problem" of the Indians on Bear Island was to confine them there. That way, the TAA would be kept away from the valuable timber around Austin Bay and

Ontario could profit from leasing that land to forestry companies while having to give up only a small area that, as Indian agent Marleau noted, contained "little timber" and rocky ground.49 Suddenly, the TAA were no longer too civilized to want a reserve, but existed rather as a problem for Ontario to deal with as expediently as possible.

Unfortunately for the TAA, and without their prior approval, the DIA immediately agreed to Ontario's proposal of setting aside a portion of Bear Island for the band.50 Indeed, it appears that at least some DIA representatives also thought of the TAA as a "problem" to be dealt with quickly and cheaply. Indian agent Marleau, for instance,

262 told an Ontario government employee that the purpose of securing a reserve for the TAA

was to "group them at one place to endeavour to lower the cost of maintenance."51 When

the TAA caught wind of the plan to have part of Bear Island created as their reserve, they

vehemently opposed it, and Chief Twain stated that the "place we wish to have has been

picked out by the Temagami Band of Indians long before there was any forest reserve in the Temagami district." In spite of the TAA's protests, however, the DIA purchased a portion of Bear Island from the Ontario government in 1943.53 This transaction between the provincial and federal governments symbolized the transformation, for Canadian

governments at least, of most of Bear Island from its official existence as part of Ontario to its new status as land owned by the federal government and reserved for the TAA's use. TAA resistance to the paying of rent to Ontario thus resulted, fourteen years later, in

Ontario reclaiming ownership of all of the Temagami region with the exception of Bear

Island. Significantly, in the document recommending the transfer of Bear Island to the

DIA, the provincial government acknowledged not only that "by the Robinson-Huron

Treaty the lands of the Timagami Band of Indians were, through inadvertence and without their consent, improperly removed from their control," but also that Ontario "has benefited by the terms of the said Robinson-Huron Treaty."54 At the exact moment that the province removed the TAA's title to land by forcing Bear Island upon the First

Nation, Ontario recognized for the first time that the TAA had, until the moment of the transfer, a justifiable claim to their territory.

263 A Conditional Transfer

The racial and spatial order of n'Daki Menan/Temagami was transformed in other ways

as well during this period. As seen above, Ontario finally agreed to transfer land on Bear

Island to the federal government for the use of the Temagami band. Yet in spite of the

fact that the transferred land comprised only one square mile in area, Ontario agreed to

the transfer only by placing upon it a number of conditions. These conditions included:

1. Timber and fuelwood on the said land shall be reserved for the personal and domestic use on the said land of the residents of Bear Island - other than the servants, agents and workmen of corporate bodies occupying land by reason of lease or license of occupation - and the use of the Crown (Ontario) insofar as the same may be necessary... ; all timber and fuelwood required by the said residents shall be cut under permit control of the Crown (Ontario); fuelwood shall be cut without charge to the said residents, and timber shall be paid for at prices to be determined by the Minister of Lands and Forests.

2. Lands other than those within the Bear Island Subdivision shall not be leased, licensed or sold by the Crown (Dominion), nor shall the said Crown (Dominion) permit or allow unauthorized occupation of any part of the said Island outside of the area of the said Bear Island Subdivision.

Ontario cited "preservation of beauty of the landscape" as the main reason for the above

conditions.56 The lawyer for the Department of Lands and Forests further explained that the reason for the second condition was that "the Province does not wish the shoreline of

Bear Island to be studded with Indian shacks... and there should not now or at any other time be any necessity for either isolated buildings or anything in the nature of an Indian

en village springing up on any part of the Island..., and particularly on the lake front." The provincial government offered a similar explanation for the timber and fuelwood condition. 264 At first, the DIA did not like the timber and fuelwood condition, and suggested to

the province that, instead, "your Forest Service harvest the present crop of merchantable

timber, a lot of which would appear to be mature, within the next five years," and then

leave the remaining timber to the band. The DIA considered that without band

"ownership of the timber,... [Bear Island] presents a pretty barren reserve."58 To the

DIA's suggestion, Ontario responded that the "difficulty encountered in this is that the

Timagami Tourists' Association [Temagami Association] have in the past and probably

would in this case object very strenuously to the removal of what they consider to be a

valuable scenic attraction to Lake Timagami." Ontario further explained that the timber

and fuelwood condition was not intended so that the government could profit from the

sale of wood to members of the TAA, but rather because "it is felt that some control must

be exercised as-we feel the responsibility to the Tourist Association of Timagami is one to which we must answer."59 In placing these conditions on the Bear Island transfer,

Ontario aimed, much as it did in including restrictions on timber licences, to preserve tourists' (and especially "settlers'") vision of Temagami as a pristine wilderness. This vision included a shoreline covered with ancient pines, not "studded with Indian shacks," and Ontario's conditions on the transfer successfully brought that vision to fruition. In so doing, Temagami nature, and especially its trees, came to exist as a commodity to be visually consumed by tourists. The forest's simultaneous construction as a timber commodity to be extracted for profit existed without conflict with the tourist vision

265 through the government's commitment that "no timber shall be removed from islands nor

within 300 ft. of the shoreline of Lake Timagami."60

Maintaining Bear Island as part of the Temagami scenery for tourists to

experience did not co-exist well, however, with Bear Island as a site of inhabitation and

livelihood for the TAA. Although, according to the DIA, the setting aside of land for the

band allowed the TAA to live on Bear Island "without let or hindrance," Ontario's

conditions in fact hindered TAA activities greatly.61 The TAA could live on Bear Island,

but they could not sell timber or build houses where they pleased, and instead were

"limited to the taking of wood for fuel purposes, hunting, travelling over, grazing

animals, etc., over the portion of the Island outside the subdivision." If the transfer of

Bear Island to the federal government represented an attempt on the part of Ontario to fix the TAA in space, then these conditions worked not only to contain further the TAA

spatially, but also to restrict them temporally to activities that conformed to tourists'

expectations of what "traditional" Aboriginal people did. In fact, visiting the "Indian village" remained a high priority for Temagami tourists at this time. As Indian inspector

McGookin stated, "I talked with a number of the businessmen in Timagami and some tourists who were in the hotel and all were definitely of the opinion that the Indians were an added attraction to the tourist business in this community."63 By preventing TAA members from living as they chose, the government helped to create the TAA themselves as an attraction for tourists to consume, and tourists thrilled at the opportunity for contact with Native people like young Charlie Misabi, who "is very bright and popular with the

266 tourists... Charlie runs beats for Mr. Stevens, dances and makes himself generally entertaining."64 Ontario's restrictions did not go so far as to erase the TAA from the landscape, but they produced Aboriginally as existing for the convenience of tourists, insisting that the TAA had no use for or claim to land outside of Ontario's prescription.

Reserve Space

In 1929, Ontario charged rent to members of the TAA living on Bear Island. In 1943,

Ontario sold Bear Island to the federal government and those TAA members who had been charged rent by Ontario did not have to pay. In 1929, Ontario claimed the entire

Temagami region as Crown land. In 1943, Ontario claimed the entire Temagami region with the exception of Bear Island as Crown land. In 1929, the TAA wanted a reserve on

Austin Bay. In 1943, the TAA wanted a reserve on Austin Bay. Between 1929 and 1943, then, not much changed. Yet at the same time the n'Daki Menan/Temagami was uprooted, reconfigured and replanted. Though the post-1943 version did not appear all that different from the pre-1929 version, the uprooting and reconfiguration themselves reveal the instability of racial categories and spatial boundaries. The TAA's refusal to pay rent to Ontario challenged the notion that n'Daki Menan belonged to the Crown. In trying to reassert its control over the region against the TAA, Ontario constructed the TAA both as too civilized to deserve special treatment and as too uncivilized to require access to timber. The marking out of civilization and savagery thus had little to do with the character or behaviour of members of the TAA and much to do with Ontario's political and economic interests in land.

267 When Ontario finally sold Bear Island to the federal government, business owners expressed grave concerns about the possibility that Bear Island would become a reserve.

John Turner, for example, wrote that "it would be a handicap to continue my business in a reservation, also further should I desire to sell what property we have nobody would want it," and J. P. Lanoie added that "your tourist trade is done for [on] this lake if this

Island is made into a reserve."65 Similarly, the Vice President of the Temagami

Association, H. S. Shannon, after having (incorrectly) heard that Bear Island had been designated an Indian reserve, wrote to inform the DIA about "certain conditions" that the

Temagami Association considered as requiring the immediate attention of Indian Affairs.

The first pressing concern for the Temagami Association was "the extent to which liquor is available to the Indians on Bear Island." This was a problem because it endangered the lives of summer visitors, who "due to the complicated geographical layout of this district, and also because of numerous submerged rocks which represent hazards to the uninitiated," had to hire Indians "as guides in charge of fishing and camping parties and as drivers for various types of motor-boats." Shannon continued on to say that "tragedies and near-tragedies have been reported year after year," which have been "traced directly to intoxication on the part of these Indian guides." The second concern that Shannon raised was "that of health conditions among the Bear Island Indians." Though the

Temagami Association did "not want to give the impression that we are definitely aware of any infectious condition," the tourists did feel that since it was "necessary for all summer residents to visit Bear Island periodically for the purchase of supplies at the

268 Hudson Bay Post, it is obvious that general health conditions at that point are a matter of vital importance in this area."66

The anxieties expressed by business and cottage owners about Bear Island becoming a reserve certainly seem disproportionate to the transfer of land between governments, especially given that the conditions stipulated by the province worked to ensure that tourists' experience of the Temagami region would not change. Yet they also reveal a deeper concern about the racialization of Bear Island as an Aboriginal space.

When Bear Island was, at least according to Ontario, owned by the provincial government, business owners felt pleased about running their businesses from Bear

Island. Business owners also, as noted above, found the TAA an asset and added attraction to their businesses. Similarly, cottagers hired Aboriginal guides and bought supplies on Bear Island seemingly without complaint. Suddenly, however, everything changed. With the transfer of land from one level of government to another, Bear Island became imagined as a space no tourist would ever visit, as somewhere no one would ever consider buying property, and as a place filled with contagious disease and rampant alcoholism. The anxiety expressed by the Temagami Association and business owners could not have been about physical changes on Bear Island following the transfer, since the most obvious change was the transfer itself, which happened on paper. What the transfer represented, however, was a transformation of Bear Island from part of the

Temagami wilderness (for tourists to visit) to an Indian space (for Indians!). Unlike the idea of a quaint Indian village, which could exist for tourists in the present as part of the past, the idea of a reserve carried with it an undeniable Aboriginal presence in the present. Business owners' and cottagers' complaints about the Bear Island transfer must then be seen as a contest over the racialization of space. When Bear Island was part of the wilderness, cottagers and business owners could imagine that it was for them (or their guests), but when it turned into Indian space, they could no longer imagine it as theirs.

Interestingly, the DIA responded to these complaints by insisting that nothing had in fact changed: business owners still had the same privileges as always, and Indians remained tourist attractions. As a DIA representative wrote to Ontario's Department of

Lands and Forests, "May we assure you that the plans of this Department will not in any material way alter conditions on the Island with respect to summer residents from what they have been in the past. It is not our wish to disturb anyone." Further, the Department stated, "You refer to the fear some summer residents might have that the creation of the

Island into an Indian Reserve might make it less desirable as a summer colony. There are instances where the converse has been true. American tourists have often expressed pleasure that their vacations in Canada were spent in close association with the native population."68 The DIA thus responded to criticisms to the transfer on the same level as the criticisms themselves. Instead of challenging the idea of Aboriginal space as degenerate, the DIA insisted that Bear Island was not really an Aboriginal space.69

Instead, it remained a place for tourists and for business owners who facilitated the tourist trade on Lake Temagami.

270 Writing Back

The remaking of the Temagami region as a site of nature for the enjoyment of timber

companies and tourists and the spatial confinement of the TAA onto Bear Island did not

go unchallenged. Instead, the TAA articulated their own ideas of the region and the

relationships between n'Daki Menan and its inhabitants. In 1942, for example, the TAA

sent a proposal to the Department of Lands and Forests outlining a strategy for the joint

management of the Temagami Forest Reserve between the band and the provincial

government. Because of the importance of the proposal in challenging dominant

imaginings of the region, and because of the relatively few available documents that

detail the TAA's position, I think it important to include the proposal in full. The

proposal, submitted by Joe Friday, reads:

From: The Indians of the Timagami Forest Reserve Subject: A proposal for improved administration of the conservation program. We, the Indians of the Timagami Forest Reserve, present the following proposal of joint control of forest and game conservation, believing that it will be to the best interests of both the Indians and the Ontario Government. It is the desire of the Indian as well as of the provincial government to preserve the timber and game in the most effective way; however, we are convinced that the present system leads to misunderstanding and lack of good feeling, and that as a result of this, efficient administration is made impossible. Before presenting our suggestions, we should like to review the conditions which have led to the present situation. In a verbal agreement made by the Ontario Government with the Timagami Indians in about 1902, when the Timagami district was made a forest reserve, the Indians were to be allowed unrestricted settlement, game, and fishing privileges. In the course of the following years, restriction after restriction has been placed on the Indian, until he is now treated more as an alien than as the original owner of the land. Indians are not allowed to establish homes on the mainland under any conditions. They can build on islands only through the purchase of land from the Government. Only on Bear Island, where the terrain is rocky and barren, do the Indians have free settlement rights. In order to build new homes and keep up old ones, timber is necessary. But it can be cut only with the permission of the Government, and must be paid for at a price set by the Government. 271 The Indian's chief source of meat is deer and beaver, which he is allowed to hunt only during the brief one month season. Although he is supposed to be able to trap without licence, he is unable to sell the furs without them. Hunting and trapping being the Indian's principal means of support, these restrictions are unjustly severe. Since we Indians feel keenly that the Government has not lived up to its part of the agreements and has in fact denied us a means of support, it becomes increasingly difficult to co-operate fully with the Government's conservation program. We therefore offer the following suggestions in the belief that their adoption would result in increased understanding between the Indians and the Government. Their purpose is to give the Indian a greater share of the responsibility in a program which is as important to him as it is to the Provincial Government. We Propose: 1. that the Indian Chief of the Timagami Forest Reserve, in co-operation with the Chief Forest Ranger and the Chief Game Warden, determine the conservation measures which the Indians must follow. The Indian Chief will be advised by a council of the Tribe at a meeting held at least twice a year. At these meetings the Chief Forest Ranger and Chief Game Warden are to be present. The necessary measures having been decided upon, the Indian chief, rather than Government officials, shall direct his people to what they may or may not do. 2. that the Indian Chief will keep a record of all timber cut and game taken with his permission, which shall have been granted according to each Indian's individual needs. 3. that, should the Indian Chief prove incapable of his task, a new election of Chief will be held. 4. that the chief shall be paid an adequate salary for his service, so that it will not be necessary for him being away for long periods of time on trapping and guiding trips. Thus he will be free adequately to administer the conservation program. We present these proposals in the belief that by having a voice in the game and timber regulations, we Indians will be able to achieve full and whole hearted co-operation with the conservation program such as is impossible when our own legitimate needs are not taken into consideration. The conservation program is of as vital concern to us as it is to the Provincial Government, and, since our aims are the same, administration will be both easier and more effective if the Indian and the Government are enabled to work together on it. Respectfully submitted, Joe Friday7

Friday's proposal shows that the TAA understood the Temagami region in fundamentally different ways than did Ontario at this historical moment. While Friday argued that the band and the provincial government had the same interest in forest and 272 game conservation, the rest of his proposal reveals that they did not. Ontario wanted to conserve the forest for timber extraction, and the game for the sport of non-Native tourists. The TAA, on the other hand, understood the band's "own legitimate needs" as central to any conservation program. While Ontario understood all of the Temagami region except for Bear Island as belonging to the provincial Crown, the TAA conceptualized the space as shared between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people, with the responsibility of governance resting with the Chief of the First Nation and the provincial government. As the "original owner of the land," the TAA saw themselves as having allowed the Ontario government to create the Temagami Forest Reserve on the condition that members of the band could settle, hunt and fish where they pleased. When it became clear to the band that they were "treated more as an alien than as the original owner of the land," the TAA found it "increasingly difficult to co-operate fully with the

Government's conservation program." Yet their response to the "unjustly severe" restrictions placed on their activities was to attempt again at co-operation with Ontario by suggesting a management plan that would meet the needs of both the TAA and the provincial government.

The TAA, then, considered themselves as having a special relationship with n'Daki Menan based on their unique position as the original owners of the territory, yet also accepted the possibility of working respectfully together with another government.

Working together, however, did not make Ontario in charge of the TAA, and the proposal insisted that "the Indian Chief, rather than Government officials, shall direct his people as

273 to what they may or may not do." While Ontario saw the TAA as a problem that got in the way of the province's management of the region, the TAA recognized Ontario's presence as a fact. As such, the TAA, unlike Ontario, did not attempt to remove the problem of the province, but instead tried to work with the province so that there was not a problem but mutual co-operation and respect. The TAA's joint management proposal thus suggests an alternative way to conceptualize n'Daki Menan and the relationships among its differently located inhabitants. This proposal, however, did not go far. Upon receipt of it, the Department of Lands and Forests merely sent a letter to the DIA stating

71 that any application made by Friday should go through Indian Affairs. While more than one vision of n'Daki Menan certainly existed at this time, Ontario was able to turn its conceptualization into reality more successfully than were members of the TAA. Friday's proposal thus stands both for the continued effort of the TAA to articulate their special relationships with and claim to n'Daki Menan, and for the continued attempts by non-

Native governments to quash that effort.

Conclusion: 1943-1973

After the transfer of Bear Island from the provincial to the federal government, the TAA continued to petition for a reserve at Austin Bay. Chief Twain asked how it was possible that Bear Island had been set aside for the band when the band had not been consulted, and added that the "Temagami Band want only one reserve, and that is Austin Bay." The

TAA also solicited the advice of a lawyer to help them figure out under what treaty they were being governed, and later approached Ontario Premier George Drew to inquire

274 about moving from Bear Island to a more suitable spot on Lake Temagami. In 1946, the

TAA instructed the North American Indian Brotherhood (a predecessor to the Assembly

of First Nations) to take steps to secure the Austin Bay reserve surveyed for the band in

1884. The First Nation further resolved that "Austin Bay was never surrendered by the

said Band, nor neither was a Party to any Treaty making convention. We also declare that

our forefathers were not a Party to the Robinson-Huron Treaty of 1850 and we further

state that our Band never gave consent to a surrender or ceded any tract of land or lands

of what we occupied from time immemorial."72

While both the provincial and federal governments may have considered the matter resolved with the setting aside of Bear Island for the TAA, the TAA clearly did not share this thinking. Finally in 1960, the DIA agreed that one of its representatives would meet with Chief Twain to discuss "the band's need for further land." Before this meeting happened, however, Chief Twain was admitted to hospital and died, seemingly quite unexpectedly. Shortly after Chief Twain's death, and again in 1964, the band council stated that "it is the unanimous wish of the members of the Temagami Band that

Bear Island be declared officially an Indian reserve."74 Taken out of context, this statement seems very odd, given the TAA's long struggle for a reserve not on Bear

Island. It appears from what TAA members later said, though, that the TAA did not ask for the Bear Island reserve in place of a reserve at Austin Bay. Instead, upon the advice of

DIA representatives, they made this request in order to become eligible for administrative programs like economic development, nursing and medical transportation, which were

275 available only to Indians living on official reserves. Bear Island became a reserve in

1971 after the Ontario government cancelled the conditions that it had placed on the

earlier transfer of the island to the federal government.76 That the TAA did not intend their request that Bear Island become a reserve to replace their larger claim to n'Daki

Menan became very obvious when, in 1973, the TAA challenged the provincial

government's authority over n'Daki Menan by filing cautions in the land titles offices for the Land Titles Divisions of Nipissing, Temiskaming and Sudbury.77 The land cautions and the legal contest between the TAA and the province of Ontario that followed the cautions are the subject of the following chapter.

276 Chapter 5

The Truth and Nothing But the Truth: Legal Constructions of

Public Space, n'Daki Menan and the Teme-Augama Anishnabai

We have every right to live wherever we decide to live because the Temagami Band is in the same position as before any treaty was made... We never signed the treaty with no government... [and] all these troubles we got now will be put before the Supreme Court of Canada to definitely settle the whole matter once and for all. —Chief John Twain, 19541

And the Verdict Is

In 1991, as predicted by Chief Twain thirty-seven years earlier, the Supreme Court of

Canada did in fact hear the TAA's case. The Court held that while a representative of the

TAA may not have signed the Robinson-Huron Treaty in 1850, the Temagami band

subsequently adhered to the treaty by receiving treaty annuities and a reserve. Any

Aboriginal rights enjoyed by the TAA previous to their adherence to the treaty were thus

extinguished. In rendering this decision, the Supreme Court upheld the lower court judgments that the lands in question were public lands in right of Ontario, lands to which

the TAA had no right, title or interest. In this chapter, I argue that the court battle

between the province of Ontario and the TAA was not merely a struggle over who had a

better right to possession of a commonly-understood territory. Instead, the territory itself

was constituted in and through the court case, and, in the service of their claims to territory, the different parties created both the region itself and specifically racialized and gendered definitions of subjecthood, and particularly of Aboriginality.

In order to make this argument, I trace the case chronologically, first analysing the production of the region and subjectivity as the TAA entered the legal arena in 1973, and continuing my analysis up the court system from the Land Titles Office to the

Supreme Court of Ontario, where I study trial transcripts, oral and written arguments, and the decision of Justice Steele. Then I turn my attention to the decisions rendered by the

Ontario Court of Appeal and the Supreme Court of Canada, and conclude with a discussion of some of the consequences, outside the courtroom, of the legal production of the Temagami region. I choose to study legal arguments and trial transcripts as well as decisions because these are the places in which struggles over meaning take place, and that commonsense understandings of subjects, objects and events become apparent and are challenged, destabilized and reformulated.4 As a result, these sites also offer glimpses of alternative ways of understanding (in this case place and subjects), and reveal the constitutive work that goes into making court decisions.

The Space of the Law

Before turning to examine what became known as the Bear Island case, I will say a few words about the role of law in the production of territory. Law can be read as a discursive site. Like other discourses, the law is not a place outside of culture, but "a part of the cultural processes that actively contribute in the composition of social relations."5 Yet the truth effects of law, unlike those of other discourses, carry with them the authority of the

278 state. This is not to deny that other discourses have material effects. Certainly they do,

but it is interesting to note the very direct relationship between legal discourse and

material reality. As David Delaney puts it, "What the law says is, well, the law."6 In some

cases, of course, legal and non-legal discourses cannot be adequately understood as

separate from one another. The production of Temagami nature in the early twentieth

century as an empty wilderness for the enjoyment of tourists, for example, depended on

the legal construction of the region as a forest reserve under the Forest Reserves Act.

Because of this designation, the clearing of land for agricultural settlement was

prohibited inside the Temagami Forest Reserve, thus allowing Temagami to appear as

wilderness and to be produced as such in, for example, travel writing and promotional

material. "law matters? then, because truth in law becomes truth in the world.7

It is perhaps necessary to differentiate here between Canadian law and TAA law.

Canadian law, and more specifically provincial law because of the 1867 Constitution Act

clause creating Crown lands as within provincial rather than federal jurisdiction, had an

enormous impact on n'Daki Menan over the years. For instance, Ontario created the

Temagami Forest Reserve, authorized forestry, mining, and the damming of lakes for the production of electricity, permitted the construction of a railroad and several other roads, and leased and sold land for cottages. It did not seem important to Ontario that under

TAA law, the land was not Crown land at all, but TAA territory. As I hope this thesis succeeds in making clear, the TAA never stopped claiming jurisdiction over n'Daki

Menan. But the TAA were not as successful as the provincial government at making their

279 law into material reality. The TAA's refusal to pay rent when Ontario demanded it, as

discussed in the previous chapter, is a good example of both the TAA's assertion of

control over n'Daki Menan and Ontario's reinstatement of provincial power in the region.

In that instance, Ontario regained control over the area as a whole through ceding Bear

Island to the federal government for the use of the TAA. In spite of the band's best

efforts, the result was not greater TAA control over n'Daki Menan, but the spatial

confinement of the band on Bear Island, where the TAA were forced to live under the

conditions Ontario placed on the land transfer. Similarly, the joint management plan

submitted in 1942 by Joe Friday revealed the TAA's aspirations to have Ontario

recognize the band as the original owners of the region, entitled to a fair share of

management responsibilities and authority over the land. That Ontario was able to place

the plan in a file folder and completely ignore it makes clear the fact that Canadian law

had behind it the power of the state, while TAA law simply did not. Not everyone's law

becomes truth in the world.

Background to the Bear Island Case

The TAA entered the legal arena in 1973 by filing cautions on unpatented lands within

n'Daki Menan, asserting that they had never "surrendered their homeland of 4000 square

o

miles north of North Bay." The TAA filed the cautions under a section of Ontario's

Land Titles Act that allows a person with a sufficient interest in unregistered land to

object to the disposition of that land. The effect of the cautions was to prevent the Ontario

government from transferring lands to private interests, for example cottaging or mining 280 interests.9 Forestry continued in spite of the cautions, however, because forestry did not

require the transfer of lands, since it was based on a leasing system.

The TAA felt motivated to register the cautions in part to prevent Ontario from

going forward with its plan, announced in the early 1970s, to build a massive resort

complex on Maple Mountain in the middle of n'Daki Menan. For the TAA, Maple

Mountain or "Chee-Baiging" was a sacred area, "the place where the spirit goes after the

body dies."10 The TAA fought against the resort proposal both to protect this significant

place and also to express their more general frustration at the lack of respect that they and

their lands had received from the provincial government for almost one hundred years.11

With further transfers of land within n'Daki Menan effectively halted by the cautions,

Chief Gary Potts wrote to the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development

(DIAND) explaining that his last year of research had made it clear that "the Ancestral

Hunting Grounds of the Temagami Ojibwa Indians have never been ceded to the Crown

and that in itself is grounds for a land claim."12 Chief Potts asked DIAND for funding to

conduct additional research since, as he stated, negotiations between the First Nation and the federal government could not take place until the First Nation concluded that all the facts of the claim had been thoroughly studied. Chief Potts continued on to say that any research undertaken would include not only members of the Temagami Indians recognized as status Indians under the Indian Act, but all descendants of the Temagami

Indians regardless of Indian Act status.13 Given that at this time Aboriginal people's status under the Act could be revoked in a number of ways—for example, in the case of

281 women, by marrying non-status or non-Native men—Chief Potts' s assertion that the

Temagami claim included non-status members represented an insistence that

Aboriginality be defined by the TAA and not by the Indian Act. Indeed, the claiming of the name Teme-Augama Anishnabai also reflected this insistence. Under the Indian Act, the registered band was called the Temagami Band of Indians, and included only status

Indians as members. The TAA, on the other hand, defined its membership as all members of the Temagami Band of Indians and those not included as members of the Temagami

Band under the Act but who were recognized as members of the TAA by the TAA.14 By referring to both status and non-status members as the TAA, the TAA defined themselves as a tribe or nation of Aboriginal people beyond the bounds of the Indian Act.

In 1977, the Director of Titles ruled that the TAA had failed to show a sufficient interest in the cautioned lands to keep the cautions on the register, and further determined that the cautions would therefore expire unless the TAA appealed the ruling. The TAA did appeal the ruling, but in 1978, before the matter was resolved, the Ontario government began a separate action in the Supreme Court of Ontario, seeking, among other things, the following: a declaration that the lands subject to the cautions were public lands within the meaning of the Public Lands Act; a declaration that the province of

Ontario or a person authorized by an Ontario statute had the right to convey or dispose of the lands without the consent of the TAA; and a declaration that the TAA had no right, title or interest in the lands. While the Bear Island case moved through the courts, the cautions appeal rested, though the cautions themselves remained on the register and

282 prevented Ontario from transferring lands within the cautioned area while the trial proceeded.15 The Bear Island trial, heard at intervals from 1982 to 1984 after a number of preliminary hearings, lasted almost 120 days, making it one of the longest trials in

Ontario history.16

Neither Predators nor Immigrants, but Children of the Motherland

Before looking to the trial, I explore how the TAA constructed themselves, the territory they claimed as theirs, and relationships between the two as they prepared to enter and entered the Canadian legal system. In order to do so, I examine letters, reports and speeches written by Chief Potts between 1973 and 1979. Like chiefs before him, Chief

Potts was most often the one who communicated with the Indian Department on behalf of his community, and it was through the documents he authored that the TAA began to formulate their legal position.17 It is particularly interesting to analyse the TAA's articulations of land and subjectivity during this pre-trial time because this was the time when the TAA conducted much research and considered different options of how they might proceed with their claim. They were not yet confined by the rules structuring litigation, rules that I will discuss below, and so an analysis of this material offers an opportunity to gain insight into how the TAA began to insert themselves and their claim into the legal arena. By contrasting these constructions of land and subjectivity with those expressed during the trial as well as in the TAA's written arguments, it also becomes possible to gain a sense of how the TAA attempted to translate their complex identities

283 and relationships with n Daki Menan into something that the Canadian legal system

could comprehend.

On the surface, the TAA's explanations of their claim appeared quite

straightforward: the ancestors of current TAA members had always formed an

autonomous unit occupying the lands presently under the cautions. These ancestors did

not sign a treaty, nor did they cede their lands through other means.18 Therefore the lands

passed on through the generations, and now belonged to the present-day members of the

TAA. But a closer inspection reveals that the TAA did not merely express themselves as

owners of land in the way that ownership is typically understood in dominant Canadian

society, that is, as permission to do whatever one likes with what is owned. The TAA

claim was, however, an assertion of control over territory that they expressed through the

language of ownership. Their cautions disputed Ontario's authority to dispose of the

lands, and thus challenged the underlying assumption of Crown ownership of the region.

As Chief Potts explained in a speech to the National Indian Brotherhood,19 the TAA

sought "recognition of our ownership [of n'Daki Menan] based on first occupation."20 In

a letter addressed to Queen Elizabeth II, he similarly stated that because "the family

territory system of land used by our people was a high form of land use... we have a

qualified property right in the nature of fee simple."21 In this way, the TAA constructed themselves as land owners, and n'Daki Menan necessarily became that territory owned by the TAA. Indeed, the TAA found themselves completely unsatisfied with the federal government's stated willingness to negotiate with the TAA about their claim because the government refused to negotiate unless the TAA gave up any claim to ownership of n'Daki Menan. When Chief Potts initially contacted DIAND regarding the TAA's land claim, a representative of the Department indicated that the result of any research conducted would be a claim for entitlements similar to those under the Robinson-Huron

Treaty. As discussed in chapter 2, under the Robinson-Huron Treaty, participant First

Nations were to cede all of their lands with the exception of reserves selected by them, in exchange for yearly annuities and hunting and fishing privileges over the now ceded territories.22 The TAA refused to participate in negotiations that would inevitably lead to the TAA's "final surrender" of n'Daki Menan. As Chief Potts stated in a letter to

DIAND, "do not speak to us of surrender and negotiation, for we will never surrender our mother lands. Speak to us only when you recognize these lands as our mother lands, then compensation for trespass to date, compensation for hardships caused by these trespasses to the Teme-Augama Anishnabai, then a treaty on future working relationships between our races of people." The Department insisted that it would not recognize "the heirs and successors of the original families to be registered as individual owners with absolute title." Instead, DIAND would negotiate with the TAA only under the federal government's claims policy, a condition of which was that "poorly defined aboriginal rights are, to use an unpopular term, 'extinguished,' and replaced with more precise enforceable rights." According to DIAND, Aboriginal rights may have been poorly

285 defined, but those rights certainly did not include an equivalent to fee simple ownership.

As one Department representative stated, "we are unable to entertain such a proposition" because "a substantive body of law" dictated that that Indian people could not own lands in fee simple. It was in fact because of DIAND's position on this issue that the TAA found appealing the possibility of pursuing their claim through the courts instead of through negotiations, since the courts held the possibility of defining rather than extinguishing the TAA's interest in the land.

The TAA countered DIAND's position by constructing themselves as owners of the land in part through differentiating themselves from wild animals. According to the

TAA, a condition of being human, and what made humans different from non-human nature, was the right to own property. In his letter to Queen Elizabeth II, Chief Potts stated that "any predator of the forest has the natural right to hunt and fish. We are human beings with the natural right to property." Similarly, in a report to the TAA on his meeting with a Department representative about the land claim, Chief Potts explained that DIAND, by not recognizing Aboriginal rights as property rights, implicitly communicated the unacceptable opinion that "our ancestors were not people, because they only had the right to hunt and fish, the same as a bear, a wolf, a mink, fisher, or any other animal in the forest."24 By contrasting the (property) rights of Aboriginal people with the (hunting and fishing) rights of non-human animals, the TAA attempted to define

Aboriginal rights as (uniquely) human rights, and in turn to define human rights as including the right to property.

286 The participation in this boundary-drawing exercise certainly reflects an effort on the part of the TAA to maintain a hierarchy between humans and non-humans, where humans, by virtue of their humanness, exist as superior to non-human animals, and therefore as deserving of more rights than the rights to which animals are entitled. Yet given that we "recognize agency in this culture by recognizing rights," and given the much more complex articulations by the TAA of their rights and responsibilities to n'Daki Menan that I will discuss below, the TAA's move to include themselves in the category of human cannot be adequately understood as a simple reassertion of human superiority over non-human nature. As Delaney discusses in his article about the law's role in the cultural production of nature, subjects have rights, but nature does not. To the extent, then, that the law grants rights, an entity is created as a subject, and to the extent that the law denies rights, an entity is created as an object. It matters profoundly whether one becomes a subject or object in law. For example, as Delaney states, "the physical realization of the views that nature is an exploitable resource and that animals are appropriate objects of experimentation is inseparable from the legal conception of property that confers on legal subjects the right to use and even destroy their property objects." Thus to be an object of law is to be subjected to the will (and rights) of legal subjects. Within this framework, it makes sense that the TAA attempted to place themselves firmly in the category of the human in order to articulate themselves as subjects in law with rights to nature. Given the historical construction of Aboriginal peoples as not quite civilized enough, indeed not quite human enough, to own land, the TAA's positioning of themselves as human through claiming the right to own land represented a challenge to the stereotype of Aboriginal savagery. Whether or not the

discourse of rights is inherently wrong because of its "reliance on and reproduction of boundary talk," and related embeddedness in the maintenance of hierarchies and social

injustices, is beyond the scope of this chapter, though it is certainly an important issue. I

am instead interested in how the TAA articulated their claim to territory, and the mobilization of the discourse of rights was central to this effort. As Chief Potts urged his

fellow TAA members, "we must demand our rights as we see them, and not ask the

Government what our rights are!"

While a clear object of the TAA land claim was to force non-Native governments to recognize the TAA as owners of n'Daki Menan, the TAA's claim exceeded a simple assertion of the right to control a territory. Instead, it appeared that the TAA's "human rights in the land" had less to do with an understanding of land as something to dominate than it did with a conception of land as that upon which to build a TAA identity, livelihood and future.29 In this way, the TAA articulated themselves as inseparable from n'Daki Menan; one could not exist without the other. As Chief Potts quite beautifully stated, "n'Daki Menan is our mother land, the roots of our souls are here.""" Notably, the female gendering of the land here differs from the female gendering of the land in conservationist and tourism discourses discussed in chapters 2 and 3. While travel writers and forest conservationists mobilized gender to create a land empty of agency and TAA claims, and therefore available for the taking, at this moment the TAA relied upon

288 gendered tropes to construct n'Daki Menan in relation to themselves. The female nature they relied upon to articulate their claim was not virgin, but mother, a construction that both gave (limited) agency to non-human nature—she had given birth to the TAA—and placed the TAA firmly within n'Daki Menan as its children. Feminists have pointed out the restricted agency that women are permitted within the understanding of women as mothers,31 and I hope that chapter 3 has shown some of the dangers of the idea that

Aboriginal peoples exist as children of nature. Yet it is interesting to attend to how the

TAA mobilized these ideas strategically in order to articulate their claim.

According to the TAA, because their ancestors had always inhabited the region, the TAA had a unique relationship with n'Daki Menan: "the land we live on and use is our homeland."32 The TAA described their distinctive position with respect to n'Daki

Menan through constructing themselves and other Aboriginal people against immigrants.

While the government might "ignore the facts and continue to treat the Indians as immigrants and the reserves as refugee camps," the TAA would not forget that "North

America is our Mother Country."33 On the one hand, the TAA wanted their Aboriginal rights to n'Daki Menan recognized so that they would not be treated as immigrants, who were imagined as spatially confined and having no rights. But on the other hand, the

TAA also wanted their unique relationship with their land recognized so that they could

"live with the dignity that [Euro-Canadians] have acquired by adopting our mother country as their home."34 This seeming contradiction of wanting to be treated like and not like immigrants is resolved by attending to the racial politics at work in determining who

289 is welcomed into the space of the nation. Even within the historical context of an officially-multicultural Canada, the TAA expressed a very clear idea of who was made to feel at home in the Canadian nation. Chief Potts commented that the Canadian government wanted the TAA "to believe that our ancestors are Chinese," and therefore deserving of "no land rights as people." The TAA considered their treatment at the hands of the government as similar to the treatment of racially-marked immigrants

(neither being permitted to feel at home in Canada), expressed here as Chinese, but as very different from the treatment of "Euro-Canadians" or "dominant society." Yet although the TAA recognized that not all immigrants were treated as equals, and articulated their desire to live in dignity like Euro-Canadians, they expressed their unique identity as Aboriginal people against both poorly- and well-treated immigrants. The

TAA stated that they did not expect non-Aboriginal Canadians to "return to their mother countries," but they did want recognition of the fact that "this is our mother country."38

For the TAA, then, all non-Aboriginal Canadians were immigrants, whether or not they had been made to feel at home in Canada (to the detriment of First Nations), and their own identity as Aboriginal people became inextricably linked to their unique attachment to n'Daki Menan as its first people. Aboriginality, and pride in an Aboriginal identity, also became linked to the specific relationships between TAA ancestors and n'Daki

Menan. As Chief Potts commented, "when one comes to understand the way of life practiced by our ancestors, a person cannot help but be proud that we have Native blood."39 The livelihood and future of the TAA also depended on relationships between the

TAA and n'Daki Menan. In explaining the conditions under which the TAA would consider negotiating their claim with Ontario, Chief Potts not only stated that there would be no "final surrender" of n'Daki Menan by the TAA, but also added that steps had to be taken to replace the economic base taken from the TAA by the government, and that "the

Band must occupy a central and responsible position in the shaping of its destiny."40 In the original document, the "its" in the last sentence can be read as referring either to the

TAA or to n'Daki Menan, an ambiguity that nicely reflects the concept that the two cannot be understood separately. As explained by the TAA, n'Daki Menan was the band's homeland to live on and to use. The land, then, existed neither as a museum piece to be somehow preserved nor as something to be destroyed, but rather as a place in which to live and on which to depend. In this way, the land claim became central to the future livelihood of the TAA.

It is little wonder, then, that the TAA could not accept the surrender of their territory as a necessary pre-condition to negotiations with the federal government, since control over n'Daki Menan was primarily for the future, for "those generations of our families that will follow behind us."41 In representing the present-day land claim as taking place for future generations based on first occupation of the lands, the TAA created an Aboriginal identity based on continuity of the TAA on n'Daki Menan from the distant past to the far-flung future. This identity was based not only on continuous occupation of the lands, but also on TAA control of n'Daki Menan and of TAA

291 membership. When a DIAND official informed Chief Potts that the Department was not ready to agree on the area claimed by the TAA and told him as well that DIAND would inquire into whether non-status people could be included as beneficiaries of any settlement, Chief Potts responded with frustration to both comments. First, Chief Potts stated, "We don't care whether you agree with it [the area claimed by the TAA] or not, we know where it is today as our ancestors did thousands of years ago." And, he continued, "We did not ask if non-status tribal members could be included as beneficiaries, we stated that they are included in the claim as beneficiaries. That is not negotiable."42

By claiming n'Daki Menan as their own, the TAA also asserted themselves as a people in control of their own fate, both in terms of who could become a member of the band and what could happen on the land. Though the primary emphasis in TAA communications to DIAND during this time focused on the claim to land, the TAA hinted as well at some of the specific relationships they envisioned taking place among the TAA, non-Native Canadians and n'Daki Menan. For example, development of n'Daki

Menan could "take place only in accordance with enlightened attitudes toward protection of the environment," since "our descendants are entitled to have the land to enjoy a hundred centuries from now as our Native ancestors, one hundred years ago, hoped that we would enjoy the land today and hot damage it beyond repair."43 The TAA thus expressed not simply the intention to do what they pleased with n'Daki Menan as owners, but the notion that they had responsibilities toward their territory and to future

292 generations that involved specific, and TAA-driven, relationships with land. While the

TAA's attempts at negotiations with government representatives had so far led them to think that the government's "concept of progress is to conquer and end rather than [to facilitate] understanding and continuity," the TAA aimed for just that, understanding and continuity on n'Daki Menan.44

In (Imperfect) Translation

Before taking their claim to a Canadian court, the TAA spent almost one hundred years trying different strategies to get non-Native governments to recognize n'Daki Menan as

TAA territory. The major difference between the TAA's filing of the cautions and the many other tactics employed by the band over the years was that the cautions succeeded in stopping the province from doing exactly what it pleased with the lands: leasing, selling and developing them without the permission and against the wishes of the band.

Certainly for Aboriginal peoples, as well as for members of other marginalized communities, the Canadian legal system is a complicated place to struggle for social change. Entering into a legal battle means at the very least temporarily accepting the language and rules of the court, neither of which was invented by First Nations communities. 5 Some scholars argue that the court system as it currently operates offers little possibility of furthering the goals of First Nations communities,46 while others suggest that Aboriginal peoples have very little choice, given the limited number of avenues open to them, but to engage with the courts. 7 The fact that during the course of the TAA's hundred-year struggle the legal cautions were the only strategy employed by

293 the band that forced Ontario to alter substantially its land-use activities reveals that the dominant legal system can be a powerful tool even for marginalized groups.

For the TAA, mobilizing Canadian law meant entering into a high-stakes game.

To the extent that they could convince a judge of their rights to n'Daki Menan, they had the opportunity to become subjects in law with property, since, as discussed above, legal subjectivity is created through the granting of rights. But failure to persuade a judge that they had a legal right to the land meant both losing n'Daki Menan and existing as objects under the law, subjected to the will of the provincial government. Of course, the TAA had been subjected to Ontario's will for many years, and it therefore did not seem that the

First Nation had much to lose by entering into the legal arena. In fact, going to court with their claim meant at the least that Ontario had to devote time, energy and money to prepare an argument and fight for the right to do exactly what it had been doing for one hundred years. Ontario's investment in the case was significant because it meant that the government could no longer take for granted the legality of Crown ownership of n'Daki

Menan, and for the first time had to attend seriously to the TAA claim to the region.

Going to court also offered the TAA a chance to have their claim to n'Daki Menan heard and, unlike the negotiations process under which the federal government would recognize

Aboriginal rights only at the moment of their extinguishment, held the possibility that the

TAA could become owners of n'Daki Menan under Canadian law.48 Under TAA law, of course, n'Daki Menan was already TAA territory, with the TAA's family hunting system representing a different form of land ownership. As Chief Potts explained to a DIAND

294 official, the legal forum was one the TAA looked forward to "with anticipation, as its main function is to right a wrong. Our Tribe has been severely wronged by the

Government of Ontario for the past 100 years."49

In order to obtain the right in Canadian law to exercise their relationships with n'Daki Menan as they saw fit, the TAA had to use the tools available to them within

Canadian law. They relied primarily on the Royal Proclamation ofl 763. The

Proclamation, issued by King George III shortly after the British conquest of New

France, included the provision that "the several Nations or Tribes of Indians" living within the vast region of North America now claimed by Britain should not be disturbed in their possession of territories that had not been ceded to or purchased by the Crown.

The Proclamation further dictated that only the Crown and not private individuals could purchase these lands from the Indians, and that Crown purchases could take place only if and when "the said Indians should be inclined to dispose of the said Lands," at which time the lands would be purchased by the Crown "at some public Meeting or Assembly of the said Indians." Before that happened, colonial governments were prohibited from granting or settling lands reserved for Indians.50

Because it was a part of and therefore recognized by Canadian law, the

Proclamation provided a useful instrument for the TAA in their claim, and the band relied on it to argue that since the Indian title to n'Daki Menan had never been extinguished through the public meeting necessary for legal extinguishment as described in the Proclamation, n'Daki Menan remained unceded land reserved for the TAA.51 Valuable as the Proclamation was for the TAA in court, however, the TAA's understanding of their claim to territory did not translate perfectly into what the

Proclamation described. Not having ceded their lands, the TAA considered that n'Daki

Menan belonged without question or condition to the band. As TAA lawyer Bruce Clark explained, according to "Indian law," Indians on unceded land "feel they are as sovereign as before the white man 'discovered' their continent."52 According to the Proclamation, on the other hand, underlying sovereignty rested with the British Crown, and Indian lands were held for the use of Indians under the "Sovereignty, Protection, and Dominion" of the Crown. For the purposes of pursuing their land claim, then, the TAA had to accept the proposition that the British defeat of France in North America meant that all lands in what then became British North America belonged to Britain, and eventually to Canada, even those unceded lands in the possession of the many First Nations across the land, including the TAA's n'Daki Menan.54

The TAA relied on Canadian law strategically, translating their understanding of their relationships with n'Daki Menan into something comprehensible to Canadian law because they wanted to harness law's power to serve their interests. Yet Chief Potts also expressed his frustration at having to pursue their claim through this avenue. As he stated,

"it is a very de-humanizing thing we have got to go through here in this court. It should be — that should be an Indian court with an Indian judge and you come to us as Indians and you prove to us that you own n'Daki Menan."55 As Clark added, the TAA depended upon Canadian law because, "while the law of Canada does not give [the TAA] all they

296 might want, it nevertheless protects them against ending up with a great deal less." In entering the legal system, the TAA did not, however, completely accept the jurisdiction of Canadian law over n'Daki Menan. Instead, they accepted that according to Canadian law, the TAA had certain rights to land as dictated by the Proclamation. The following excerpt from the cross-examination of Chief Potts by the Attorney General of Ontario elucidates this point:

Q. Now, you were asked two questions about the Royal Proclamation and I am having some difficulty understanding the answer, because they seem to conflict. One question you were asked, did the Royal Proclamation have any effect on the land and the answer, the lands were not affected, no foreign king can control us. Do you recall giving that answer? A. It was because that no foreign king could have any say over our lands and us, I think the way the question was answered. Q. Another question you were asked regarding Exhibit 2 Indians, which would be the unregistered Indians, are they under the Royal Proclamation of 17631, and you answered, "Absolutely". So are you trying to say in one breath that the Proclamation has no application and in the other breath saying oh, yes, these unregistered Indians come within the Proclamation and the Proclamation applies to them? A. I can explain that apparent conflict for your benefit. They don't conflict. The Proclamation is a document that is passed to regulate the colonial governors in North America and it is meant to apply to the colonial governors in their dealings with the Indian peoples, in that sense, all Indian peoples who reside in North America in what the colonial empire claims is theirs... .5?

By explaining that the Proclamation applied to colonial officers in their relationships with Aboriginal peoples but not to First Nations peoples themselves, Chief Potts attempted to reconcile TAA and Crown sovereignty by insisting that the TAA recognized only their own sovereignty but brought their claim forward in a Canadian court in order to ensure that the Canadian government respected its own laws. Indeed, part of the reason

297 that the TAA initially filed the cautions instead of suing the government was that the cautions allowed the TAA to challenge Ontario's ownership of n'Daki Menan without simultaneously forcing the TAA to recognize the very authority they wanted to dispute.

As mentioned above, the Bear Island case ended up at the Supreme Court of Ontario not because the TAA brought it there, but because Ontario sued the TAA.

Rights to (What) Nature

Before continuing, it is important to include a brief discussion about what precisely the

TAA aimed to have a judge recognize: the TAA's right to nature, which, as they understood it, was n'Daki Menan. As Delaney's previously-discussed argument makes clear, truths produced in the legal arena have direct consequences in the world and entities are created as subjects to the extent that they are granted rights in law. Delaney further argues that the "idea of nature is conventionally used to distinguish objects from subjects... That which we call nature has no rights."58 Thus, within the current social order, subjects are differentiated not only from objects but also from nature. Or, looked at from another angle, nature is an object in law, something to which subjects have rights.

Indeed, Adriel Weaver argues that law produces nature as an object of rights, and in so doing, simultaneously constitutes subjectivities through the recognition or denial of rights to nature.59 Both Weaver and Delaney apply to the law the central insight of social nature literature that nature does not merely exist out there, but is actively produced. In so doing, they show readers multiple ways that nature is represented, contested, regulated, recognized and created in law, thus revealing not what nature is but how nature is made

298 to function in law to construct subjects and objects through the determination of who has

rights to nature.

The flexibility and power of nature's mobilization in law becomes evident in both

texts. Weaver, for example, traces the legal history of "public salmon" and "Indian food

fish." Salmon, she demonstrates, were not always a public resource, but rather became

and remained so through colonial and federal law. Similarly, Indian food fish came to

exist only through law. While members of the Sto:lo nation were central to the nineteenth

century emergence of the British Columbia commercial salmon fishery, later concerns on the part of colonial administrators about over-fishing led to the regulation of both Native

and non-Native fishers. Sto:lo fishers were permitted to fish for food for their families,

but not to sell the fish that they caught. This regulation became strictly enforced in 1919, when members of the Sto:lo were required to obtain food fish licences and to use marked nets so that Fisheries Department officials could identify salmon within those nets as

Indian food fish. Later, the Fisheries Department required that those fishing under food fish licences had to remove the dorsal fins and noses of salmon they caught, and Indian food fish thus came to exist quite literally, noseless and finless as they were.60 That the very same fish could be a public salmon or an Indian food fish depending upon the circumstances of its capture, and therefore upon the rules applying to it, indicates both the power of law to define what counts as nature and the flexibility of what counts as nature in law. But, as Weaver argues, that is not all. By prohibiting Indians from selling salmon

299 caught under food fish licences, the law regulating salmon also produced the Sto:lo as people not entitled to cultural change or new forms of economic development.61

For my purposes, Delaney and Weaver offer several important insights. First, nature is produced in law, or, perhaps more accurately, natures are produced in law. But different legal natures—whether we speak of a salmon, a cat or a wilderness park—share the distinction of existing as objects rather than subjects in law: nature does not have legal rights. Attaining rights to nature is important not just in order to become a subject, but also to gain the right to act on nature. For the TAA, the possibility of obtaining rights to nature meant gaining the authority to make n'Daki Menan exist on the ground.

Rights to Nature and Aboriginality

The Bear Island case was a land claim, and as such, was certainly a contest over rights to nature.62 As mentioned above, Ontario sought a declaration that the lands claimed by the

TAA were public lands under the Public Lands Act. Ontario wanted assurance that the province or someone authorized by a provincial statute had the right to grant, sell or lease lands within the claimed area without the consent of the TAA, and whether or not members of the TAA objected to such activities. Further, the province sought a declaration that the TAA had no right, title or interest in the lands or, alternatively, a declaration as to the nature of any rights that the TAA had. Finally, Ontario wanted injunctions put in place to restrain the TAA from preventing Ontario from disposing of the lands and to stop the TAA from continuing to assert any rights in the lands.63

300 Ontario contended that neither the present-day members of the Temagami band nor their ancestors had ever had any rights to the lands claimed. In case the judge decided against the province on this point, however, Ontario argued in the alternative that if the

TAA were found to have any right, title or interest in the lands in question, then that right consisted only of a "bare and revocable licence to inhabit the lands and to hunt and fish thereon as their predecessors had done." The province further stated that if the TAA had once had hunting and fishing rights within the land claim area, those rights had been surrendered.64 For their part, the TAA asserted that they were a "sovereign nation or tribe of Indians," the "descendants of the Indian people who, since time immemorial, have possessed and occupied as their own, lands known and identified as 'n'Daki Menan' (our land)." The TAA further argued that the lands in dispute were not public, but were lands reserved for the TAA under the Royal Proclamation.65 The band also contended that their rights to their lands had never been extinguished, and that those rights guaranteed them exclusive possession of n'Daki Menan not restricted to any specific use.66 The TAA thus sought a declaration of their title to the lands that comprised n'Daki Menan, holding that their claim to land was equal to fee simple ownership, with the sole qualification that the

Crown alone, and no private individual, could acquire title from the band. The TAA also wanted a declaration that the band had a better right to possession of the lands than did

Ontario.67

But while the case was most certainly a contest over land, it was also a struggle over Aboriginality. The Canadian system of common law is based on judicial precedent,

301 where a contemporary judge, in order to come to a decision, applies her interpretation of

the findings and reasoning of judges in previous cases who have dealt with similar issues

to those before the contemporary judge.68 As Weaver succinctly states, "legal judgments

present rely on legal judgments past."69 Legal precedent is not, however, a

straightforward matter. One complicating factor of importance for my purposes is the

distinction between binding and persuasive authority. Under the doctrine of stare decisis,

which is the rule by which courts follow precedents, the decision of a higher court within

the same jurisdiction as a lower court acts as a binding authority on the lower court. The

decision of a lower court or a court of another jurisdiction, on the other hand, is not a

binding but a persuasive authority, and a judge may choose but is not obligated to rely on

such a precedent when it is relevant to the case at hand.71

In the Bear Island case, Justice Steele relied on the persuasive precedent of an earlier

Aboriginal rights and title case, though he altered the precedent set in this case.72 In 1979,

Justice Mahoney heard the Baker Lake case, where a group of Inuit claimants sought

both recognition of their Aboriginal right and title to the Baker Lake area and an order

restraining the issuing of mining-related permits by the government. Justice Mahoney

determined that in order for the claimants to establish that they had Aboriginal title to the region recognizable in common law, they had the burden of proving the following:

1. That they and their ancestors were members of an organized society. 2. That the organized society occupied the specific territory over which they assert the aboriginal title. 3. That the occupation was to the exclusion of other organized societies. 4. That the occupation was an established fact at the time sovereignty was asserted by England.74 302 Legal tests for Aboriginal title predated the Mahoney decision, but the Baker Lake test added a new level of complexity to Aboriginal rights cases. It was no longer enough for

First Nations to show that they had rights stemming from their historical occupation and use of the lands they claimed. Now they also had to give evidence about their social organization and membership, law and governance, spiritual attachment to land, language and cosmology. Because of Justice Steele's decision to accept (in modified form) the precedent established by the Baker Lake test, the Bear Island case was as much a struggle over Aboriginality as it was over land: the TAA had to prove not only their historical occupation and use of n'Daki Menan, but also who they were as an Aboriginal people.

The fact that at this particular historical moment the Baker Lake test was the test for

Aboriginal title, while at earlier and later moments the test differed in important ways, points to the mutability of the law: had the case been heard by another judge, or ten years earlier or ten years later, it could have had an entirely different outcome. Thus just as the court case represents a particular moment in the struggle over and constitution of land and subjectivity, so too does it represent a particular moment in the law of Aboriginal rights.76

I will argue below that, just as the court case produced nature, so too did it produce Aboriginality. For now, though, I simply want to highlight that the production of

Aboriginality in the Bear Island case was not a secondary matter, not a by-product of the struggle over land, but rather comprised one of the primary grounds upon which the court

303 battle was waged. Of course, the fight over Aboriginality cannot be disentangled from the contest over land, since the Baker Lake test dictated that Aboriginal rights to land depended on proof of a particular version of Aboriginality. It is no coincidence, then, that the struggle over land took place in part through a contest over Aboriginality. But to say that the two struggles were entwined does not make them the same, though their enmeshment adds another layer of complexity to Delaney's consideration of the relationship between rights and subjectivity in law. In order to become subjects in law with Aboriginal rights to nature, the TAA had to pass the legal test for Aboriginality, and, to pass the test, they needed to establish themselves as subjects capable of passing the test

(that is, as an organized society of Aboriginal people exclusively inhabiting n'Daki

Menan at the time Britain asserted sovereignty). Thus in a two-part process, the TAA had to make themselves as particular subjects according to the law, which necessitated establishing that they had specific relationships with nature, so that they could be granted legal rights as those particular subjects, thereby becoming subjects (and owners) instead ofobjectsinlaw.

Ontario, on the other hand, made its argument in part through trying to ensure that the TAA failed the Baker Lake test, and in so doing, worked to deny the TAA access not only to land but also to subjectivity. Given that, as Delaney states, the "idea of rights depends conventionally and conceptually on the idea of humanness, which is conceptually dependent in turn on its distinctiveness vis-a-vis nature,"77 it is little wonder that Chief Potts considered the Bear Island trial a "very de-humanizing thing."78

304 Ontario's legal strategy was, after all, exactly to de-humanize the TAA, to make them objects rather than subjects in law. Separately, but connected to the Baker Lake test, it is also striking to consider the default position created by this test. Though Ontario's primary claim in the Bear Island case was that the lands in question were public lands, the Attorney General did not need to prove this claim in the positive and argue for the legality of Crown ownership of the lands. Rather, Ontario had only to convince the judge that the TAA failed the Baker Lake test, and that the band therefore had no Aboriginal title to the lands. The unspoken but nevertheless obvious assumption, then, was that if the

TAA could not prove that the lands were Indian lands, then they existed, by default, as public lands.

Legally Speaking

The arguments in the Bear Island case centred on three main questions. First, did the

TAA have Aboriginal rights in the lands in question? Second, if they did have rights, what did the rights entitle them to do in the lands? And finally, if they did have

Aboriginal rights, had those rights been extinguished? In order to tease out how the TAA and Ontario struggled over and constituted nature, Aboriginality and other social categories in the service of their claims to land, I will analyse the central arguments each party made in response to the above three questions. The primary sources I rely on to explore how the two parties made their arguments are the transcripts of the oral arguments given at trial level. Ontario's oral argument takes up approximately seven hundred pages of transcript, and the TAA's oral argument fills four hundred pages. I

305 chose to focus primarily on the oral arguments because, in them, the lawyers argue their respective clients' cases in detail, often quoting from important documents filed at trial and from witnesses' testimonies. Also, because the trial was so long, so much evidence was put forward, and so many witnesses were called, it would prove a near impossible task to analyse in any significant detail the entire sixty-eight volumes and more than eleven thousand pages of trial transcript. I do, however, draw from key passages of the trial transcript in my analysis. In addition to considering the oral arguments of each party,

I also investigate the facta submitted by the parties to the Ontario Court of Appeal and the

Supreme Court of Canada.79 These documents are similar in content to the oral arguments. Following my analysis of the arguments of the different parties, I will turn to study the reasons for judgment at all three levels of court and discuss the judges' roles in the constitution of nature and other social categories.

Did the TAA Have Aboriginal Rights?

Not surprisingly, in answer to the question of whether the TAA had Aboriginal rights in the lands in question, Ontario argued in the negative, while the TAA argued in the affirmative. As discussed above, the Baker Lake test dramatically influenced how the

TAA prepared for and argued their case. The demands of this test required TAA members, as well as lawyer Bruce Clark and researchers working for the band, to "delve deeply into clan lineages, archaeology, oral tradition, original eye-witness literature describing Indian life, and the extensive primary documentation associated with the history of crown-Indian relations throughout the continent."80 The Baker Lake test had an

306 equal influence on how Ontario made its case, with the province attempting to disprove the TAA's Aboriginal rights by arguing that the band failed to pass the test of

Aboriginality. Thus the entire argument of both sides about whether the ancestors of the

TAA had ever had any Aboriginal rights in the lands centred on the Baker Lake test.

The TAA: Proving Rights

The TAA argued quite simply that they and their ancestors, as an organized society, had always lived on n'Daki Menan. But while their argument was straightforward enough, the burden placed upon them to prove Aboriginality according to the Baker Lake test necessitated that they support their argument with a vast amount of evidence of different kinds. For instance, in order to show that they had lived on the same lands since a time before Britain's 1763 assertion of sovereignty, three TAA elders, Alex Missabi, Michael

Paul and William Twain, testified that within the oral history of the band, the Temagami people had always lived on n'Daki Menan, and also that in the past, there had been violent conflicts between the TAA and the Iroquois. The elders recounted some of these

Iroquois stories in court, as did Chief Potts.81 Although the elders did not specify the exact time that these conflicts took place, instead using phrases like "a long time ago, a

JO • way back," the TAA presented documentary evidence that suggested the TAA's

Iroquois stories stemmed from events that happened in the region during the mid- seventeenth century. While the Iroquois had been an unwelcome presence in the

Temagami region twice according to the historical record, once in the seventeenth and again in the nineteenth century, only the earlier Iroquois presence involved violence among people (the second time they came, the Iroquois stole furs). The Iroquois stories

were meant to show that the TAA had lived on the lands at least since the date deemed

significant by the Baker Lake test, but their presentation as oral history was important as

well for demonstrating that the TAA had a long common history, and therefore had been

organized as a band before 1763.

The TAA called scholars from a number of disciplines to support both the time

depth and band-level organization of the TAA. Anthropologist Edward Rogers, for

example, testified that "traditional Ojibwa band[s]" in northeastern Ontario tended to

remain in the same place over long periods of time, that the Temagami band

demonstrated all signs of being a traditional band, and that it was therefore very likely that the Temagami existed as a socially bounded entity in the region before 1763. Rogers based his conclusions in part on the work of Frank Speck, an anthropologist who in 1911 visited the Temagami band and recorded information about the band's social organization, family hunting territories, customs, myths and folklore. Speck also conducted a census of the band and, for the trial, historian Jim Morrison conducted extensive research into fur trade, marriage and other historical documents in order to trace as far back as possible in the records the ancestors of the Temagami band members that Speck recorded in 1913. Morrison testified that wherever records existed about the

Temagami region, they mentioned within them ancestors of the TAA.85 Also in his research, Morrison, along with Chief Potts and with the input of a number of community members, traced the ancestry of the current members of the band to connect them with 8f> the people mentioned in Speck's census and in the historical records. Linguist John

Nichols, an expert in Ojibwa, testified that the TAA spoke an Ojibwa dialect unique to the band, and fellow linguist John Chambers confirmed that Nichols' findings suggested that the TAA had been on the lands in question for at least five hundred years. Evidence that the dialect spoken by the TAA was unique was significant not just in terms of proving time depth of the band, but also for showing that the ancestors of the TAA were a unique society that occupied the lands to the exclusion of others. The TAA also attempted to show that their ancestors comprised a distinct (and ancient) society by giving anthropological and archaeological evidence of myths, rock art and canoe styles unique to their region. To indicate the scope of the evidence brought forward by the

TAA, I will note that in support of canoe expert Kirk Wipper's testimony, the TAA assembled in the courtroom nine canoes of various styles so that Wipper might more easily point out the distinctive design of the canoes used by TAA ancestors.

In order further to support their argument that their ancestors occupied the same territory now claimed by the TAA, the TAA called on Craig Macdonald, a canoe route specialist who had made it his hobby to interview Aboriginal people in northern Ontario and Quebec about their traditional territories and the routes they travelled through the territories. He testified that the thousands of hours he spent interviewing members of the

TAA and exploring n'Daki Menan by canoe had taught him that n'Daki Menan made sense as a geographical unit, since the system of water routes made it easy to travel through the district. He added that the boundaries of the family hunting territories as explained to him for his mapping project exactly matched the boundaries of n Daki

Menan prepared separately by Chief Potts on a map submitted for trial.90 Chief Potts stated in court that he determined the exact boundaries of the traditional territory of the

TAA by using as a starting point the rough map of family hunting territories of the

Temagami band prepared by Speck in the early twentieth century. Then, working with the older people in his community, as well as with the chiefs, councils and older people of the four First Nations whose territories shared boundaries with n'Daki Menan, Chief

Potts more clearly defined the TAA boundaries.91 By signing an indenture of accord, which the TAA submitted as evidence of the boundaries of n'Daki Menan, the

Mattawagama, Nipissing, Saugeeng and Matachewan nations confirmed that they accepted the boundaries of n'Daki Menan as outlined by Chief Potts.92 As well as giving evidence of the boundaries of n'Daki Menan and the oral traditions of continuity of the

TAA on the lands, Chief Potts offered testimony about the TAA's customary law for defining membership and control of the land, including describing how the TAA variously brought in and excluded outsiders.

In attempting to pass the Baker Lake test and thus gain legal recognition of their

Aboriginal title, the TAA simultaneously constituted non-human nature and Aboriginality for the Court. In the statement of defence to Ontario's original claim, the TAA defined the lands in question as '"n'Daki Menan' (our land)," describing them further as "All of the Lands, Lands under the Water and Waters shown outlined in distinguishing colours on [the] plan prepared by Gary Potts."94 During his testimony, Chief Potts further explained that "in our language akeem means land, dakeem means my land and n'Daki

Menan means our land."95 Chief Potts also described in extraordinary detail the

geographical boundaries of n'Daki Menan as defined by lakes, rivers, and watersheds.96

He called the boundary of n'Daki Menan a "geo-political boundary," because it was

defined both by the "natural setting of the land" and by agreement among the TAA and

the "four adjacent tribal Anishnabai nations." In presenting their case, the TAA thus

constituted the non-human nature in question as n'Daki Menan, that is, the land

belonging to the TAA. In so doing, they represented the land as integrally linked to the

TAA, since the name of the place made sense only in reference to its people.

The evidence brought forward in court about the TAA's myths, rock art, family

hunting system, language and so on was meant to reinforce the inextricable (past and

present) connection between this specific land and its people: everything connected to

TAA life happened on n'Daki Menan, and the land itself bore the marks of the TAA.

Clark indeed argued that the evidence revealed n'Daki Menan "and its people as a

natural, indeed virtually inevitable unity. The land and the people are as one. They

OR

always have been." In constructing the region as their land (and, notably, in using their

own language to do so), the TAA simultaneously created n'Daki Menan as a unified whole, a geo-political entity defined by geography and Aboriginal law, and not according to the rules of the provincial or federal governments. The TAA's refusal to accept

colonial definitions of the region was made explicit during Chief Potts's testimony, when he described n'Daki Menan as "located in what the British Crown in the colonial

311 evolution of the lands of North America has come to call Ontario." By differentiating between the Crown's name for the region and the TAA's name for the region, Chief Potts made apparent the political character of both terms. Just as the TAA's definition of the region as n'Daki Menan represented a claiming of the territory as TAA land, Ontario's consideration of the region as part of the province was also a claiming, one attached to a colonial history. The fact that the two forms of claiming were both political does not make them equal—the TAA sought to regain what the non-Native government had taken from them, whereas the province endeavoured to maintain what it had taken—but merely points out that terms, like Ontario, that make sense to dominant groups as power-neutral descriptors are no less embedded in power relations than more obviously politicized terms.100

The TAA defined their Aboriginality first by relying on the definition of a traditional Ojibwa band as recorded by Speck and explained at trial by expert witness

Rogers. According to this information, a traditional band was defined by the following: possession of its own geographically-defined territory, which was subdivided into family hunting territories; the practice of totemism; reliance on the extended family group as the main social unit; meeting as a band during the summer and splitting into family groups to hunt in the winter; close relationships among the people, often through blood; the practice of intermarriage, and also of bringing spouses in from neighbouring bands; the common practice of women rather than men moving onto new territories upon marriage; the usual practice of lands passing from father to son rather than from mother to daughter; a system

312 of chieftainship; and the possession of a long common history. The TAA then used this

definition to argue, again depending upon anthropological experts and writings, that their

ancestors possessed all of the above characteristics of a traditional band. Given the

particularly troubled relationships between First Nations communities and the

anthropologists who have studied them, it is interesting to note how the TAA

appropriated this research and used it to serve their own ends. By defining themselves as

a traditional band, the TAA hoped to convince the judge that they existed as an organized

society on n'Daki Menan at the appropriate historical time, and thus deserved rights in the present.

Yet the TAA did not portray themselves as trapped by the definition of a traditional band, and instead constructed Aboriginality in a flexible, and largely TAA- defined, way. This self-definition came across most strikingly in discussions about the racialized and gendered character of TAA identity and control of land. As mentioned above, anthropologists determined that it was characteristic of traditional Ojibwa bands for women to marry and leave the lands upon which they grew up, and for those lands to pass down along the male line. The TAA gave evidence that their ancestors handed down lands from father to son, stating for example thaf'Wabimakwa, Cayagwogwsi and

Kanecic were brothers who received their allotments after the death of their father. These contiguous territories previously formed one."104 Yet, as evidenced by Chief Potts's testimony, the TAA did not define themselves according to patrilineal descent patterns, and instead stated that, in "accordance with the customary law of the Teme-Augama

313 Anishnabai," control of TAA land and membership rested with the full council of the tribe. The full council in turn was made up of "those Teme-Augama Anishnabai inhabiting and claiming the land."10S He gave examples of instances where TAA law permitted lands to be passed down through the female line and where non-TAA men, and also non-Native men who married TAA women, were accepted as TAA members.106 He also discussed the TAA practice of adopting people into the band.107

According to Chief Potts's testimony, it was not the TAA but rather the Indian

Act that restricted the definition of Aboriginality, particularly along the lines of gender, in ways that had negative impacts on the TAA. For instance, Chief Potts talked about how

Madeline Theriault lost her Indian status by marrying a non-Native man. Chief Potts stated that, "as far as the government is concerned she is a non-Indian," but added that, according to the TAA, "she is an Indian. She is a Teme-Augama Anishnabai member and there is no purpose to it. She just is." In cross-examination, Chief Potts represented

TAA membership as follows:

Q. When we take all of the criteria for membership together, isn't the ultimate test total subjectivity; in other words, the full council decides who it likes as members and those people become members? A. The bottom line is acceptance by the full council, yes. Q. And if that is true, how do you ever have a definable group of descendants under those loose criteria? A. They are listed as members of the Teme-Augama Anishnabai and they are accepted by the Teme-Augama Anishnabai as members of the Teme-Augama Anishnabai.109

And a little further on:

Q. Aren't you committing genocide with your criteria, when you accept anybody, whether or not they have any Indian blood, whether or not they have 314 any genealogical connection at all to Temagami Indians and they can claim these lands? A. No. What we are doing is taking control and re-asserting our control over our own destiny as a distinct tribal nation of people and if the membership feels that at some point in the future that because there is non-Indian blood mixed in with our blood and there is a danger that the Indian blood will disappear totally it will be up to them at some point in time to determine that we only marry people of Indian blood from now on.'1 °

Thus Aboriginality, as constituted by the TAA, was something first and foremost the very

definition of which depended on the will of the TAA, based both on their customs and on

their needs in the present. Significantly, the TAA defined Aboriginality not according to the Indian Act and not according to scholarly classifications except as those definitions

suited their contemporary goals and their own understanding of their nation's history.

Instead, Aboriginality existed as flexible and changing, rooted in the notion that the TAA

were the people, through blood or adoption, "who grew from the land," m and who thus had a special relationship with n'Daki Menan. As Chief Potts testified, "we have always been a sovereign tribal nation and we maintain our right that we are a sovereign tribal nation today." U2

Ontario: No Indians, No Society, No Rights

Against the TAA's argument of continuity on n'Daki Menan, Ontario contended that the ancestors of the TAA had never had Aboriginal rights, and as a result, contemporary

TAA members had no rights in the lands either. In shaping the argument to fit the Baker

Lake test, Ontario held first that the TAA were not an organized society in 1763. Indeed,

Ontario relied primarily upon the testimony and research of anthropologist Charles

Bishop to argue that the ancestors of the TAA did not even occupy the lands in question 315 in 1763. Bishop asserted that many Aboriginal groups moved from their "aboriginal territories" shortly after contact with European colonists. Cree peoples living north of

Lake Superior, he contended, moved west in the 1700s, and were replaced by Ojibwa peoples.113 This migration took place from the time following contact to the late 1700s and early 1800s, and "in some areas clearly after 1763." Based on this information,

Ontario argued that although no sources specified a movement of Ojibwa speakers into the Temagami region, "it is more probable than not that the Temagami area would have experienced similar migrations."114 Thus, according to Ontario, if there had been

Aboriginal people in the Temagami region in 1763, they would have been Cree rather than Ojibwa people, and therefore could not have been the ancestors of the TAA. But

Ontario went so far as to suggest that the region was completely uninhabited until 1799, presenting as evidence of this a document from 1790 about a fur trader who travelled for a month through the Temagami region "without seeing a single Indian."115 But by 1799, evidence showed that the fur trade in the region was on the rise, which signalled to

Ontario that Indians had by then begun to trickle into Temagami.116

Ontario also worked hard to disprove the TAA's evidence of TAA continuity on the lands. In the cross-examination of the TAA elders, for instance, Ontario lawyer

Blenus Wright tried to reveal that the oral history presented by members of the TAA had very little value. He did this by attempting to show that the elders had no idea where their ancestors were from, or, alternatively, that the elders mistakenly assumed that their

316 ancestors came from the Temagami area. Below is an example from Wright s cross- examination of Michael Paul:

Q. Mr. Paul, your mother's name was Lucy? A. Lucy, yes. Q. And was her father a Temagami Indian? A. Yes. Q. And what was his name? A. Whitebear. Q. And do you know who your grandfather was? A. My grandfather would be on my father's side, would be Big Paul. Q. Do you know who his wife was, that was your grandmother on your father's side? A. All that they ever told me about my grandmother was Little Woman. Q. Do you know where she came from? A. That will be Big Paul's wife. Q. Yes. Do you know where she came from? A. I guess she was from originally around the Temagami area, somewhere around there. Q. You don't know for sure? A. No, not for sure.117

And from Wright's cross-examination of William Twain:

Q. What about your grandfather's father, where did he come from? A. As far as I know, according to my grandfather, they always came from there [the Lake Temagami area], lived there. Q. Do you know what his name was? A. No, not my great grandfather. Q. Suppose I was to tell you that his name was Francois Twain, do you know about that? A. Gee, I don't know. Q. Supposing I was to tell you your own counsel indicates that he wasn't from Temagami and moved in and married into the Temagami band? A. Not that I know of, no. Q. You don't know anything about that? A. No. Q. So far as you are concerned your family has always been there, is that right? A. That is right, yeah.118 Ontario similarly argued that the archaeological evidence was weak and did not

support continuity. During his testimony, William Twain stated that there were a number

of pits dug in hills close to shore, which he had been told by the older people had been

dug by the TAA in order to hide from the Iroquois.11 Ontario lawyer Wright contended

that this evidence did not come into the TAA's case until quite late, after the TAA had

come into contact with Thor Conway in 1982. This indicted, according to Wright, that

Conway manufactured the idea that the pits were somehow connected with the Iroquois

wars, since "pits are something which exist" and since, if the evidence were truly central

to the case, "isn't it strange that it doesn't become a factor in this case from the Indians

themselves. Here they are saying look, we have been on these lands for 5000 years and they are going to come to court to prove that issue. And yet, they don't do anything about the supposed Iroquois pits." Wright further argued that even if the ancestors of the

TAA had used the pits as places to hide, they had used the pits in the nineteenth century, when the Iroquois were stealing furs in the region, rather than in the seventeenth

century.121

Ontario attempted to undermine other kinds evidence presented by the TAA as well. Wright contended, for example, that because the linguistic and canoe-style evidence did not come from "the Indian witnesses themselves," then the evidence did not support continuity of the same people on the lands prior to 1763.122 Similarly, Wright argued that because "we have really no Indian witness with respect to how they viewed their lands and their personal landscape and religious sites et cetera," then the familiarity with the

318 landscape demonstrated by some current Temagami band members revealed "only that

they, and perhaps their fathers and grandfathers, have resided on the lands." Regarding

the genealogical evidence, Wright stated that it merely showed that some ancestors of

current Temagami members lived on the lands as early as the 1800s.124

As some of the above examples indicate, Ontario did not merely make its

argument about the failure of the Temagami band to prove Aboriginal rights by

challenging the evidence relied upon by the band, but also by condemning the methods

used by the TAA to present their evidence. Wright articulated Ontario's main criticism in this regard by stating, "the crucial evidence which is glaringly absent in this case, is the

evidence from the mouths of the Indian witnesses themselves to support aboriginal

rights."125 According to Wright, there existed a correct way to present an Aboriginal

claim, which involved many Aboriginal people testifying and the claim being proven through the "concurrence of [their] many voices."126 In support of this, Wright quoted a judge who had worked on an Aboriginal rights-related inquiry as saying, "No academic treatise or discussion, no formal presentation by the native organizations and their

leaders, could offer as compelling and vivid a picture of the goals and aspirations of native people as their testimony." Similarly, he gave examples from other cases where

Aboriginal claimants explained what life was like on their hunting territories, talked about how they felt about their land, discussed the names of specific places on their lands, or specified who their ancestors were and where they hunted.128 Compared to these other cases, Wright considered the TAA's case to be all wrong, primarily because the

319 evidence was given by the wrong group of people. "Why," he asked in his oral argument,

"did the evidence of place names and canoe routes et cetera come from [a] non-Indian,

Craig Macdonald?" And why, he continued, "did evidence of folklore sites, rock art,

Temagami villages, et cetera, come from a non-Indian, Thor Conway?" He asked the

same question about the evidence of canoe styles and Temagami band history given by

non-Native witnesses, and argued that the evidence offered by these witnesses should be

given no weight because none of it demonstrated, "from the Indians themselves," the following: "how familiar they are with their land or for how long;" the "great spiritual attachment to certain places in this land claim area" that "there is supposed to be... by reason of the long time that these people have been here;" or the "canoe styles used in

Temagami and how did they develop and is there a length of time with any particular style." Notably, Wright found the evidence problematic primarily because of who gave it, not because of its content. He also asserted that the evidence of Morrison in particular should be allocated no weight, since Morrison "agreed that he was biased in favour of the

Temagami Indians," and therefore could not "be classified as strictly an independent witness."132

As for the testimonies given by "the Indian witnesses," Wright contended that, for a number of reasons, this evidence was insufficient to prove anything. First, not enough

Indians took the stand, with the result that "your lordship doesn't have in evidence a number of Indian witnesses coming and saying, 'Yes, my father hunted here and my grandfather hunted here and my grandfather told me and this is how we feel about this

320 land, we are aboriginal peoples.'" Secondly, Wright argued that those Indians who did take the stand did not give the correct information. Missabi, Paul and Twain offered

"very little evidence as to the organization, the way of life, where they hunted and trapped, anything about their ancestry," and Chief Potts, who was "the only Indian witness to say anything about the aboriginal rights," focused mainly "on the genealogy charts and who are the current living members, and secondly, on the purported boundaries of the land claim area."l As a result, Wright stated, "from the Indians themselves, we know nothing about their language. We know very little of their social organization and their way of life, because they didn't come and tell us."135 Finally, while

Chief Potts did offer evidence about the TAA's social organization, way of life and so on,

Wright considered this evidence suspect and therefore not worthy of consideration.

Wright pointed out, for example, that Chief Potts "does not have lengthy ties with the land claim area," since his grandfather moved onto the lands in 1901. Further, his

"mother is a non-Indian," and he "himself did not become interested in the Temagami land claim until 1972." Therefore, whatever "he knows about the history... is totally hearsay evidence," especially given that one of the elders he gathered information from about the band's oral history was still alive at the time of the trial, and another one had living sons who, given "the way that oral history is handed down from grandfather to father to son," would have been more appropriate candidates to repeat the band's oral history in court. It was thus necessary, Wright advised Justice Steele, to consider Chief

Potts's "evidence and the manner in which it was given... with a bit of suspicion." m

321 As well as arguing that the Temagami band did not live on the lands in question in

1763, Ontario further put forward the case that, while people began to inhabit the lands in the 1790s, those people did not become "a separate organized band" until after 1850.138

To support this claim, Ontario cited as evidence the lack of evidence against the claim.

Wright pointed out, for instance, that Morrison, in his early research, was unable to trace the Temagami band to before the late 1700s, a fact Wright suggested indicated that a

Temagami band did not exist at that time. Other historical evidence showed that

Indians definitely inhabited the Temagami area prior to 1850, but no references were made to a distinct Temagami band, which led a witness for Ontario to make an "educated guess" that the Aboriginal inhabitants of the Temagami region were included within one of the defined surrounding bands and did not comprise their own distinct band.140

Similarly, Wright argued that the genealogical information gathered by the TAA did not conclusively show that the Temagami people existed as a band before 1850. As Wright rhetorically asked Chief Potts in cross-examination, "Isn't it a fact then in 1800 that what you really have is possibly four separate families with no family or blood connection whatsoever?"141 Ontario further contended that the Temagami band began to coalesce after a permanent Hudson's Bay Company post was established on Lake Temagami in

1857.142 In order to make this argument, the province relied again on the evidence of

Bishop, who testified that when a new trading post was established, it typically attracted

Indians from surrounding bands, who eventually developed into a distinct band. Bishop

322 went on to say that the development of the Temagami band fit this pattern and the band likely became a distinct social and political entity by the late 1860s or early 1870s.143

Ontario's third main argument for why the Temagami band had no Aboriginal title in the lands in question was that the current members of the band were "basically the descendants of men who came to the lands since 1850."144 This, according to Ontario, was contrary to the patrilineal descent patterns that comprised the "aboriginal practice of an Algonquin hunting peoples."145 Ontario continued on to argue that those ancestors of the Temagami band "who were Indians, and many of them were not,... defined their very identity by means of descent in the male line. That is the basic feature of the society."

While beginning in the latter part of the nineteenth century, well after contact, some people who moved to the Temagami region were considered to be Temagami people, such a practice was "not part of the aboriginal social convention of these people at all, and like so many other things in connection with the facts in this case, the perceptions and practices of these people, for better or for worse, have been molded and changed as a result of contact with broader Canadian society."146 The requirement of male descent,

Ontario argued, arose from the "aboriginal social convention of the people themselves, and not by any rules imposed by non-Indian society." By their own rules, then, many members of the current Temagami band did not qualify as properly Aboriginal, and thus could not possibly access Aboriginal rights.147 But, Ontario continued, even if the

Temagami band had different rules, the law of Canada defined Indian status according to descent through the male line. Therefore, in order to establish Aboriginal rights,

323 Temagami band members had to show 'continuous descent in the male line of a substantial number of the defendants from a person who was a Temagami Indian and inhabited the lands before 1850."148 Ontario then offered a series of tables tracing the ancestry of contemporary band members along the male line. The tables demonstrated that, of the total 632 people claiming Aboriginal title, only 38 could trace their descent in the male line to an ancestor inhabiting the land claim area in 1850. Thus, according to

Ontario, "any claim to aboriginality in the lands is so tenuous and so remote that it does not exist."149 Ontario's logic followed that if the Temagami band did not exist as an organized society until after 1850, the band as a band could neither have occupied the specific territory over which the current band asserted title, nor have excluded other organized societies from that territory.

In attempting to ensure that the Temagami band failed all four parts of the Baker

Lake test, Ontario did not merely rely upon predetermined definitions of non-human nature and Aboriginality, and instead actively constituted both, in part through the

(re)production of other signs of power like gender and race. Ontario consistently referred to the lands as "the lands in question," not surprisingly refusing the term "n'Daki

Menan," given the association between that term and the TAA. While the TAA defined the region as inherently specific to their nation, Ontario did precisely the opposite by constructing the lands as part of an undifferentiated provincial space, describing the region as "within the Province of Ontario," as "public lands," and as "ordinary Crown lands open for settlement, disposition and use." 15° By making the lands ordinary (i.e., public) instead of special (i.e., lands reserved for Indians), Ontario could argue that the province, and not the TAA, had the right to control the region. Indeed, Ontario counted the reserve at Bear Island as special land to which the Temagami band had some right, title or interest, but argued that in the rest of the lands in question, it was only Ontario that had the right to "issue letters patent for or grant, sell, lease or otherwise convey or dispose of said lands or any of them."151

While the TAA and Ontario had similar objectives in going to court, that is to have a judge recognize their rights to nature, it is interesting to note the differences between what the two parties wanted to have the right to do to and with nature. As discussed above, the TAA struggled for the right to live on and use their homeland in

TAA-determined ways that allowed for the thriving of present and future generations.

Ontario, on the other hand, fought for the right to give away, sell or lease the lands to third parties. The idea of property as understood in Canadian law does not adequately grasp the complex and often contradictory relationships with nature being articulated and struggled over in this case. In support of its claim for the right to Temagami, the province contended that in the years of 1759 and 1760 and by the 1763 Treaty of Paris, all right, title and interest in the lands in question were passed from the King of France to the King of England and that, subsequently, the lands came to belong to the Crown in right of

Ontario.152 The lands belonged to the provincial rather than federal Crown because of the distribution of governmental powers articulated within the Constitution Act, 1867,

325 whereby the province was given exclusive authority, as Ontario stated in its argument, in relation to:

(a) exploration for non-renewable natural resources in the province; (b) development, conservation and management of non-renewable natural resources and forestry resources in the province, including laws in relation to the rate of primary production therefrom; arid (c) development, conservation and management of sites and facilities in the province for the generation and production of electrical energy. 5

It was important to their case for Ontario to show that the lands in question were not special Indian lands, because "lands reserved for Indians" existed by another section of the Constitution Act within federal rather than provincial jurisdiction.154 Thus in arguing that the Temagami band did not exist in 1763, and that therefore their lands were not protected for them under the Royal Proclamation, which meant in turn that the lands did not come to exist as lands reserved for Indians in the Constitution Act, Ontario constructed the lands in question as ordinary, and therefore as belonging to the province.

The province bolstered this argument by providing a laundry list of ways that, beginning in the late nineteenth century and "continuing to the present, the lands in question have been considered to be, and have been dealt with as, ordinary Crown lands open for settlement, disposition and use pursuant to the Public Lands Act, the Mining Act, and the Crown Timber Act and their predecessors and other statutes."155 The laundry list included but was not limited to: the granting of timber berths to various lumber companies; the surveying of township lines; the employment of fire rangers and the application of scientific forestry concepts; the creation of the Temagami Forest Reserve; the staking of mining claims; the opening of the railway; the introduction and continuation of tourism as a major economic factor, and the regulation of tourism; the sale of lands for residential, commercial and recreational purposes; the sale of timber licences; the creation of provincial parks, highways and dams; and the regulation of hunting and fishing.156 In this way, Ontario attempted to prove its right to treat the lands in question as ordinary Crown lands by demonstrating that the province had consistently, and with constitutional authority, exercised that right. In so doing, Ontario produced the region as a multiple use space, unique perhaps in the kinds of uses made of it, but unexceptional because, as in rest of the province, Ontario governed those multiple uses.

While the TAA placed a firm boundary around n'Daki Menan, constituting the region as a geo-political unity defined by geography and Aboriginal law, Ontario drew its boundary around the province and the Canadian nation, constructing the lands in question as merely one small part of a nationally-defined and provincially-controlled space.

Within that space, a number of activities could and did take place, including, significantly for the purposes of this thesis, industrial forestry and tourism. And again, as in previous chapters, these seemingly opposed activities fit together (this time in legal, rather than tourism or forestry discourse) with no contradiction. What united them was provincial control as authorized by the Constitution Act, the Public Lands Act and so on: the significant factor was not what but whom the lands were for. The classification of the lands as part of the province was of course no less political than their designation as n'Daki Menan, yet Ontario's argument that the lands belonged to the Crown because the

327 lands were ordinary and public reveals the power of the status quo. In order for the TAA to prove their rights to land, they had to convince a judge that the lands were special. The lands could not exist simultaneously as ordinary and Indian or as public and Indian, a construction that not only normalized provincial ownership of land, but also evicted

Indians from the category of the public.

In the service of its claim to land, Ontario constituted Aboriginality as an authentic, untainted essence, fixed in space and in a prior time, and passed along through the male line. When push came to shove, though, Aboriginality, according to Ontario, was whatever the Indian Act said it was. Ontario attempted to disprove the Aboriginality of the Temagami band by arguing that the band did not exist in the proper space at the relevant time. The lands in question, after all, were empty in 1763. Fixedness in space and in time was definitive of Aboriginality as established by the Baker Lake test, and

Ontario, by relying on this test, reinscribed this definition, implicitly constructing the

Temagami people as non-native Natives against an imagined group of real Aboriginal people, who existed in the same space for all of time (or at least since 1763). While early twentieth-century Temagami tourists never questioned the existence of the TAA in the past, and tourism discourse actually worked to fix the TAA in a prior time, Ontario's legal argument worked to evict the TAA from the past in order to deny them rights in the present.

Beyond the Baker Lake test, Ontario's argument also depended in other ways upon the creation of an authentic Aboriginality, and the exclusion of the Temagami band

328 from that definition of Aboriginality. For example, in contending that Aboriginal claims were best proven through the concurrence of many Native voices, Wright quoted from the reasons for judgment of another case, in which the judge explained the experience of listening to the testimonies of a number of Aboriginal witnesses:

I think almost every member of the Court party felt that for a short moment the pages of history were being turned back and we were privileged to relive the treaty-negotiating days in the actual setting... These witnesses for the most part were very old men and women, one of them 101 years old, were dignified and showed that they were and had been persons of strong character and leaders in their respective communities. One cannot but be reminded of the words of Thomas Gray: 'Full many a gem of purest ray serene/ The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;/ Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,/ And waste its sweetness on the desert air.' There is no doubt in my mind that their testimony was the truth and represented their best memory of what to them at the time must have been an important event.

It appears that the perception of these witnesses as sufficiently old, dignified and pure compelled the judge to decide that their testimonies comprised "the truth." Indeed, like a gem or a flower, the truth/purity/beauty of these witnesses seemed inevitable, no matter where they told their stories, and the judge concluded that, "It is fortunate indeed that their stories are now preserved."158 Thus recorded forever were the voices of authentic

Aboriginal people.

The evidence that Ontario considered "lacking in this case"159 was evidence given by genuine Aboriginal people. Chief Potts, Ontario contended, could not possibly offer this kind of evidence, because he was not a pure Indian. Not only did he grow up knowing nothing of his ancestry, but he was also raised by a non-Native mother, did not speak the language of his people at home, and had "no blood relationship to any original 329 Temagami Indian." By holding Chief Potts up to an imagined real Indian (a pure- blooded Indian whose ancestors had always lived in the same place and who had spent his childhood listening to oral history in his Native language), Ontario both constructed

Aboriginality as something real, a pure essence, and excluded Chief Potts from that definition. To a lesser extent, Ontario did the same thing with the other TAA witnesses, attempting to show that since they could not name all of their ancestors or tell the Court exactly where each ancestor had come from, then they could not be properly Aboriginal.

Regarding these witnesses, however, Ontario was concerned as well about their failure to perform Aboriginality properly. They came and they testified, but not for long enough, and not about the correct things. Instead of describing their band's organization, way of life, hunting grounds and so on, "all they were basically asked, was two questions about treaty money and what they knew about Iroquois war stories."161 In order for their testimony to be understood as the truth, then, it was not enough for Aboriginality to exist in a pure form, but it also had to be performed for the Court in a pure form. Aboriginality thus became something for non-Native courts to consume, and, like a flower brought from the desert to the garden, became valuable only at the moment of its consumption.

Gender also played a role in Ontario's exclusion of the TAA from Aboriginality.

According to Ontario, "the usual aboriginal practice of an Algonquin hunting peoples... was patrilocal residence (i.e., upon marriage wives moved to the lands of their husbands' families) and patrilineal descent (i.e., descent was determined through the male line)."162

Though Ontario refused to admit that a Temagami band existed at this time, the province

330 nevertheless argued that "when the specific aboriginal practice of the Temagami Indians

who were present on the lands in the 19th century is examined, it is clear that 'the facts

pertinent to' them are [that] the sons remained on the lands of their fathers and descent

was determined through the male line." Further, Ontario did not find that there existed

"an aboriginal practice whereby men, certainly not substantial numbers of men, come to

the lands of the defendants... and, through some process of osmosis over the years,

become considered members of the band." Ontario did not deny that men did in fact

come from elsewhere and become considered part of the Temagami people, but rather

contended that this practice was "not an aboriginal practice" and instead resulted from

contact with "the Europeans" and with "the broader Canadian society."164 In spite of the

fact that Chief Potts testified that the customary law of the TAA dictated that people

could become tribal members in a number ways, including through "adoption, marriage

or acceptance" and not only through descent in the male line, Ontario held that patrilineal

descent was a "basic feature of the society."165 In his cross-examination of Chief Potts,

Wright indeed challenged the idea that band membership as defined by the TAA was a part of the band's customary law. Referring to the fact that the TAA held a number of meetings regarding membership criteria, Wright asked, "Well, if there was a customary law concerning who are members and who controls the land, why was there so much difficulty in coming finally to the conclusion as to who would be members and who would have control over the land?"166

331 In this line of argument, Ontario not only purported to know the "aboriginal social

convention of the people themselves" better than did the people themselves, thus creating

"authentic" Aboriginality in highly gendered and racialized ways, but also constructed

Aboriginality as unchanging and fixed in the past. While Aboriginal people might have

changed practices following European contact, for example by tracing descent along the

female line or adopting men in from elsewhere, these "new" practices had "nothing

whatever to do with a claim for aboriginal title."168 Aboriginality thus included only pre-

contact practices, since post-contact practices did not count as Aboriginal. Aboriginality

also appeared as static, since any changes in Aboriginal practices occurred only through

contact, not because of any historical or ongoing adaptability of First Nations peoples.

By defining Aboriginality in such circumscribed ways, Ontario put itself in the

position to argue that the Temagami band had no claim to Aboriginality because so few

contemporary band members could trace their ancestry along the male line to prior to

1850. Yet Ontario did not take credit for its creation, instead attributing this racialized

and gendered definition of membership to the Temagami band, in spite of the TAA's

contention that this was not their law. The province could then put forward the argument that the Indian Act legislation that Indian status depended on descent along the male line was "not just a fluke," and instead followed "the aboriginal practice."169 Thus the sexism and racism of the Indian Act, where women lost their status by marrying non-Native men, and Indian men (by acquiring a university education or entering a profession)170 could become white (or at least no longer legally Indian) but white men could not become

332 Indian, was displaced from Euro-Canadian law onto Aboriginal law. Aboriginality, then,

appeared not only as fixed in the past and static, but also as sexist and racist. In the end, though, it did not much matter to Ontario's argument how the Temagami band did or did not define its identity, since according to Ontario, it was the law of Canada, and particularly the Indian Act, that had the power to define Indian status, and it did so

171 according to patrilineal descent. For Ontario, then, Aboriginality existed centrally as something that Canadian, and not Aboriginal, law had the power to determine.

Aboriginal Rights to do What?

In answer to the second main question of the case—if the TAA did have Aboriginal rights, what did having those rights entitle them to do in the lands?—the TAA argued that they were entitled to exclusive possession of n'Daki Menan not restricted to any particular use, and that their title was equal to fee simple ownership, with the qualification that the Crown alone could purchase the lands from them.172 Ontario disagreed with the TAA's version of what Aboriginal rights included, and argued that if the Temagami Indians had Aboriginal title, that title might include the right to compensation for loss of use of the lands, but did not include any existing right, title or interest in the lands. Further, if it existed, the Temagami Indians' Aboriginal title consisted of "a right to occupy the lands and continue to carry out the traditional land uses of their ancestors, i.e., the taking of game and fish for their own use and fur bearing animals for purposes of trade." Ontario contended that Aboriginal title did not extend

333 over all of the lands claimed by the TAA, and that only status Indians who resided on the

17"^ lands in question could exercise such title.

The TAA: Exclusive Rights to Do Anything

Similar to the way that the Baker Lake test shaped the arguments put forward by the two parties regarding whether or not the TAA had Aboriginal rights, the TAA's and Ontario's arguments about the content of Aboriginal rights centred on the Royal Proclamation of

1763. The TAA contended that the Proclamation recognized or created their title to n'Daki Menan, and that the Proclamation constituted "letters patent," thus making the

TAA the rightful owners of the region.1 Ontario, in contrast, took the position that the

Proclamation did not grant the Temagami band exclusive possession of the lands in question, and instead that the effect of the Proclamation was only to create a "bare and revocable licence" granting the Indian inhabitants the right to hunt and fish "as their 17^ predecessors had done."

In order to support their argument, the TAA relied primarily upon historical documents and upon the testimony of Chief Potts. Clark, particularly in his lengthy written argument, gave evidence of a number of cases and other imperial documents from throughout the British empire, starting from the 1700s, that recognized Aboriginal peoples as land owners. For example, Clark cited an ,1844 case from the United States in which the judge stated that "before the treaty the land belonged to the Choctaws as a nation. It was regarded as their common property from generation to generation." In this way, Clark attempted to establish that within British imperial law, and therefore in

334 the Canadian law that stemmed from it, there was room to define Aboriginal title as equivalent to fee simple ownership.

When asked about what uses could be made of n'Daki Menan, Chief Potts similarly testified that TAA members could use the land "any way we want to," with no restrictions regarding surface or sub-surface uses.177 Later on, Chief Potts testified about the nature of ownership under Aboriginal law:

Q. Chief Potts, at one point earlier in this trial Dr. Bishop made a comment to the effect that Indians didn't claim mountain tops, the idea being there wasn't animals on mountain tops and that all the Indians claimed was the lands where they could take" animals. A. Well, Mr. Bishop must have been talking to some different Indians because I have never heard that mentioned by any Indian anywhere and I have been in contact with Indian people from all over Canada and it is our belief that we own everything on our lands. We own right to the centre of the earth, from the surface, and we own right to the stars above our lands. Nobody else claims our lands, nobody can have those lands and the waters and what is below the waters, 178 what is in them and what is on the land, that is everything.

The TAA thus argued that Aboriginal rights included the right of the TAA, as owners, to do as they pleased on and with n'Daki Menan. Justice Steele, in order to clarify the

TAA's argument, said to Clark:

But from your thesis, the submission that the Indians are adaptable and aboriginal rights includes the right to adapt to anything, and that could mean, and I am not saying it does, but you may say I am going too far, but I am trying to use an extreme, and it could mean that the Indians could go the total white man's way, as it were. The evidence is they didn't wish to, but they could go the total white man's way and use all the resources and build highrise buildings and do everything else the white men do and there are certain submissions that that is what the Royal Proclamation reserved their territory for, to do anything they wished to do, or are you saying that their adaptability doesn't go that far? Is there any limit to it?179

335 Clark responded by stating, "There is no limit. It goes that far, exactly." Later, in a similarly bold statement to Potts's comment that humanity is defined by the right to own property, Clark declared that the "essence of human societies" is their ability to adapt, their aptitude for acting under the assumption that "today we may make that use; tomorrow we may make different uses. Times change."181 While Potts and Clark made different claims about what defined humans at a fundamental level, both did so in order to argue that the TAA's claim to land extended beyond mere rights to use land that was owned by Canada. For Clark, the human ability to adapt made ridiculous the idea of a

"cut-off date for Aboriginal rights, which would mean, for example, defining those rights according to what they might have been at the time of the Proclamation.

According to Clark, to define Aboriginal rights in this way was to deny that Aboriginal people had the ability to adapt, and thus to deny their humanity. Clark, like Potts, hoped that this was not a proposition that a Canadian court in the 1980s could accept. Clark further argued that limiting Aboriginal rights to 1763 practices also meant assuming a racial hierarchy of rights, where, for example, non-Native people could receive a grant to start a mine, but Aboriginal people could not because they were "the wrong colour."

Clark asked Justice Steele the rhetorical question of whether it was a good assumption to make that "the Indians had some lesser degree of rights to use and enjoy land than do white people." Obviously, for the TAA, the answer to this question was no.

Having established the non-human nature in question as n'Daki Menan in their argument that the TAA had Aboriginal rights, the TAA continued through this second argument to constitute nature as belonging to the TAA. When asked whether, "in ancient times," there existed restrictions upon the kinds of uses which could be made of the land,

Chief Potts testified, "Yes. None of our living people could use the land in such a way that would hurt our children's right to use all things [that] our lands and waters have to offer."183 In the present, however, as mentioned above, the TAA did not consider their land use as restricted in any way. Though these two views appear in opposition to one another, they have in common the fact that both reflect TAA-driven relationships with n'Daki Menan. As discussed earlier, some letters written and speeches given by Chief

Potts before the TAA went to court hint at future relationships the TAA envisioned having with their lands. Primarily, Chief Potts articulated these future relationships as for the long-term, for the future generations of the TAA, and n'Daki Menan appeared as "the land we live on and use." This meant that the present generation of the TAA could not

"damage [the lands] beyond repair," since TAA descendants had just as great a right to live on and use the lands as did past or present members. Prior to the court case, then, the TAA's past and future relationships with n'Daki Menan appeared consistent.

Yet during the trial, the TAA emphasized not their contemporary responsibilities to n'Daki Menan or to future generations, but their right to use n'Daki Menan however they saw fit. This emphasis makes sense in the context of the courtroom where the TAA were attempting to gain the right under Canadian law to enact their vision of n'Daki

Menan onto the land. The strongest argument that they could put forward for this was that the rights granted to Indians under the Royal Proclamation were equal to fee simple,

337 which would give the TAA the exclusive power to make decisions about the lands. It was thus important not for the TAA to demonstrate their specific relationships with n'Daki

Menan in the present and future (even as the legitimacy of their claim depended on their intimate knowledge of past relations with their territory), but instead to convince the

Court that it was up to the TAA to decide how they wanted to use their lands, at which point they could re-establish their own laws without interference from non-Native governments. As a result of this emphasis, the TAA here constructed n'Daki Menan as that over which the TAA had complete dominion, a production of nature that conflicted with other TAA articulations of their relationships with their territory, and that therefore indicates another level at which the TAA's understanding of their land did not fit well into Canadian legal system definitions. At the same time, however, the TAA constituted the lands as the survival grounds of past, present and future generations of TAA members, and in that way reinforced their previous representation of n'Daki Menan as integrally linked to the TAA. For instance, in Clark's explanation of the adaptability of the TAA, he created a (perhaps not-so) hypothetical situation in which the sulphur from

Sudbury's Superstack killed the lakes and all the fish in the Temagami region, and argued that, if this were to happen, the TAA "would still continue to survive, they would adapt and maybe the form of adaptation would be to use the sub-surface uses and sell them back to the white man."

In creating n'Daki Menan as the place for the survival of the TAA in whatever way they chose to survive, the TAA also constituted Aboriginality as fundamentally

338 human. By arguing that the essence of human societies is their ability to adapt, the

TAA implicitly separated humans from the rest of nature, which then appeared as that which was unable to adapt, or at least as that whose essence was not defined by adaptability. Against non-human nature, then, Aboriginal peoples appeared as human, a representation quite similar to Chief Potts's earlier argument that what differentiated human from non-human animals was the "natural right" of humans to property. As in

Chief Potts's earlier argument, the purpose of constituting Aboriginality as humanness in the trial was to construct the TAA as subjects rather than objects in law, so that they could secure the highest possible definition of Aboriginal rights, the right to objectify nature as they pleased. Thus while the TAA argued that no racial hierarchy of rights should exist in law, they did so by maintaining a hierarchy of rights according to species, working to include themselves into the category of those with rights by constructing themselves as human.

Ontario: Aboriginal Rights are not Property Rights

By giving examples from the historical record and previous court cases, Ontario supported its argument that the Temagami band's Aboriginal rights, if any existed, consisted of a right to compensation. Ontario described instances in which First Nations and the government entered into treaties where not all necessary Aboriginal representatives took part. In spite of this fact, the Crown did not enter into new treaties with these representatives, but paid them compensation instead. Similarly, Ontario interpreted reasons for judgment from a number of cases as demonstrating that "the essence of aboriginal title is that it required payment of compensation." The province contended that since the Temagami band participated in the Robinson-Huron Treaty (an argument I will analyse in the following section) and received annuities under the treaty for many years, then the band was entitled only to compensation for the years between

1856 and 1882 when they received no money from the government.189 This argument was based on the (contested) idea that treaties were not legally required for the cession of

Aboriginal lands to the Crown, and instead that cession occurred as long as the Crown paid the Aboriginal inhabitants of the lands sufficiently for the "use of the land by the

Crown and its grantees... and for loss of use of the lands by the Indians."190

Ontario also relied on the Royal Proclamation itself, as well as on previous court cases that discussed the effect of the Proclamation, to contend that Aboriginal title did not exist as a proprietary interest in land.191 The province noted that the wording of the

Proclamation stated that it was the King's "Royal Will and Pleasure" that "for the present, and until Our further Pleasure be known," the said lands should be reserved for the "use" of the Indians. Ontario took this wording to indicate "that it was the very nature of the rights of the Indians under the Royal Proclamation that they were subject to change by the Crown at any time." Thus even if the Temagami Indians had Aboriginal title in the lands, the Crown could grant interests in the lands with the effect that Aboriginal title inconsistent with the rights of the grantee were automatically revoked.193 The 1888 St.

Catherine's Milling case dealt with the Proclamation, and in Lord Watson's reasons for judgment, given for the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, he stated that under the

340 terms of the Proclamation, "the tenure of the Indians was a personal and usufructuary right, dependent upon the goodwill of the Sovereign."194 Relying primarily on this case,

Ontario contended that Aboriginal title, as created by the Proclamation, was "at most a personal right against the Crown and not a proprietary right in the lands themselves."

Further, it was a revocable right in that it disappeared with Crown grants of the land, and it was dependent upon the " goodwill of the Sovereign."195

Ontario used this definition of Aboriginal title to argue further that if the

Temagami band had Aboriginal title in the lands, that title consisted of "the taking of game and fish and other natural products for their own use," but not the commercial use of any products except for fur-bearing animals, the selling of which "undoubtedly is a very longstanding practice of the Algonquian hunting peoples."196 This made sense, according to Ontario, because the Proclamation reserved the lands as the Indians'

"hunting grounds. And that is all they are given in the Royal Proclamation."197 Similarly, another court case relied on the Oxford Dictionary's definition of a usufruct right as the

"right of temporary possession, use or enjoyment of the advantages of property belonging to another, so far as may be had without causing damage or prejudice to it."198 It only made sense, then, that the Temagami band's usufructuary title (as dictated by the St.

Catherine's Milling case) be limited to "how these Indians traditionally used the lands as their forefathers had done for centuries."199

In support of this assertion, Ontario included evidence from the trial, for instance expert witness Rogers's testimony about how the Temagami Indians were hunter-

341 gatherers. Ontario did not deny that, in the present, "the Indians should be able to use these lands as everybody does," and contended that an Indian band has "the same opportunities [to start a mine] as anybody else in Ontario." The province asserted, however, that this right existed under the Mining Act and was unrelated to Aboriginal rights. Aboriginal title did not extend to "any interest in any gold or silver in the lands," an argument Ontario supported by drawing on a number of cases from the early twentieth century. Ontario also contended that Aboriginal title was not an exclusive right to hunt and fish, basing this argument on evidence given in the case, for example the writing of Rogers. In cross-examination, Rogers agreed with his earlier writing that prior to the fur trade, the concept of free goods existed among different groups of Algonquian people.204 From this evidence, Ontario argued that "the ancestors of the defendants had no concept of private property in the lands they inhabited... until after the advent of the fur trade with the Europeans, and, after the advent of the fur trade, they developed a concept of property" only as it related to "commercially valuable fur-bearing animals."205

Therefore, the current Temagami band had no exclusive rights to take game and fish, though perhaps they had "an exclusive right to take commercially valuable furs."206

Ontario supported its argument that Aboriginal title, if it existed, did not cover all lands claimed by the TAA by relying on its previous argument about male descent practices among the Temagami band. According to Ontario's research, only a few family hunting territories of the several claimed by the TAA passed down through the generations in the male line, and so the current Temagami band had access to Aboriginal

342 title only within those few territories.207 The province asserted in addition that any

Aboriginal title found to exist would be only for those band members "entitled to be registered as Indians." This was because, under the Indian Act, Parliament had "the exclusive power to define the class of persons who have special status arising from aboriginality," and registration under the Act gave "persons special rights and status under law concerning hunting and fishing."208 Finally, Ontario contended that Aboriginal title depended not only on Indian Act status, but also on living on the lands, and offered a few authorities in support of this contention.209

In arguing for a limited definition of the Aboriginal rights of the Temagami band,

Ontario reinforced its earlier construction of the lands in question as belonging to the

Crown. Whereas in the previous section the province relied upon the Constitution Act to contend that the lands in question were part of undifferentiated provincial space, and therefore were not "special" Indian lands, here Ontario used the Royal Proclamation to argue that even if the lands existed as special lands reserved for Indians under the

Proclamation, Indian lands were not all that special. Instead, like all lands in British

North America, they belonged to the Crown, with Aboriginal title existing as a personal right to hunt and fish until the Crown decided to revoke that right, at which point the lands ceased to be special and became part of undifferentiated Crown lands in right of the province. The term "usufruct" is particularly revealing in this regard, since it highlights both the temporary character of Aboriginal title (it is the right of temporary possession), and the dependence of Aboriginal title on underlying Crown ownership (it is the right to

343 use someone else's property). Indian lands, then, were not all that special, since they only

existed to the extent that the Crown permitted them to exist, and they ceased to exist

anytime the Crown desired this to occur. That Ontario constructed the lands as belonging to the Crown is also evident in Ontario's argument that the Proclamation in fact created

Aboriginal title. As discussed above, the TAA understood that, in Canadian law, the

Proclamation either recognized or created Aboriginal title, but did not think that the

Proclamation had anything to do with their own law, in which there was no question but that the TAA owned n'Daki Menan. Ontario, on the other hand, argued that the "sole source" of Aboriginal title was the Proclamation. The implicit assumption in this argument is that prior to the Proclamation Aboriginal people did not own land (How could the Proclamation have created something that already existed?). Ontario thus constructed the lands in question as belonging to the Crown in part through relying on the idea that prior to Crown ownership, the lands were completely unowned and thus there for the taking, a construction that not only normalized Crown ownership but also elided the imperial processes (including legal processes) through which the British acquired

North American lands.

Ontario made the argument that the Temagami band had no Aboriginal title to the lands in question by relying on the Baker Lake test to define Aboriginality, and then constituting the Temagami band as non-Aboriginal according to the test. In this argument, Ontario also created Aboriginality, but this time it was not in order to deny the

Temagami band Aboriginal title, but rather to restrict the character and extent of activities

344 that could take place under that title. By labelling Aboriginal title as the right to engage in the traditional activities of their ancestors, Ontario constructed Aboriginality as fixed in the past: Aboriginal people had the right to fish and hunt for their own survival, but did not have the right to sell their fish, to farm the lands, to engage in mining, or to conduct any other activity not practised by their ancestors. They had no concept of private property "in the lands they inhabited or in the resources of the land" until after the advent of the fur trade, and so their right to hunt and fish was not exclusive.211 The argument that the Temagami band did not understand the idea of private property also supported

Ontario's contention that the band did not own the lands. Given, however, that the right to sell fur existed as an Aboriginal right according to Ontario, the province did not here define Aboriginality as including only pre-contact practices, as it did in defining the customary membership practices of the Temagami band. Instead, when it came to the content of Aboriginal title, Ontario constituted Aboriginality as fixed in 1763.212

Assigning this date to Aboriginality makes sense only under the assumption that the

Proclamation did in fact create Aboriginal title, since otherwise 1763 is a meaningless date. The different dates assigned by Ontario to determine membership practices and the content of Aboriginal title reveals the difficulty that the province had in deciding what counted as properly Aboriginal. Yet by denying the Aboriginality of any practices not undertaken for centuries by the ancestors of the Temagami band, Ontario maintained that to be Aboriginal was to be in the past (whether that meant 1763 or earlier).

345 The placement of Aboriginahty in the past is most evident in Ontario s argument that, in the present, the Temagami band had the same rights as anyone else to obtain a mining licence, but that there existed no Aboriginal right to subsurface minerals. Here

Aboriginal people could be Aboriginal only in the past. The moment they attempted to access rights in the present, they ceased to be Aboriginal, with their "special" rights disappearing and being replaced by the same rights as everyone else in Ontario. In order to argue that they had no rights as a group in the present, then, Ontario accepted the possibility that individual members of the Temagami band could have individual rights, that is, individuals could become subjects in law, but there could be no modern

Aboriginal legal subject.

While Ontario's argument regarding the existence of Aboriginal rights worked to construct the Temagami band as ordinary (i.e., not quite Native enough to deserve special rights), here Ontario emphasized the extraordinary character of Temagami ancestors by highlighting their past activities as follows: they took game and fish for their families and other products necessary for survival; prior to contact with Europeans, their "way of life had not changed significantly for more than 7,000 years;" they were hunter-gatherers who lived by hunting, fishing and trapping; and they did not exploit resources commercially until after contact with Europeans.213 By defining what was special about

Aboriginality as that which existed in the past, Ontario thus argued that the preservation of Aboriginahty meant barring it from the present. What is particularly striking here is the no-win situation created for the TAA. In order to prove that they had Aboriginal rights, they needed to make themselves into a traditional band. Yet representing themselves as a traditional band then allowed Ontario to argue, using evidence brought forward by the band in support of the idea that they were a traditional band, that they existed as Aboriginal people only in the past. Aboriginality thus existed only in the past, but the TAA moved through time in Ontario's argument, existing only in the present when to exist in the past meant having rights in the present, and existing only in the past when to exist in the present meant having more rights in the present. Yet Ontario was not content merely to restrict the content of Aboriginal rights. The province also limited

Aboriginal rights by defining their existence in the gendered and racialized ways discussed above, so that only those descendants in the male line who lived on the lands could access Aboriginal rights.

(Trick or) Treaty Stories214

The final question argued by the TAA and Ontario was whether the Aboriginal rights of the TAA, provided that they had once existed, had been extinguished. This discussion focused to a large extent on the Robinson-Huron Treaty of 1850 and its effects: Did the

Temagami band participate in the treaty, thus surrendering their lands? If they did not participate, did someone participate for them and surrender their lands on their behalf? If they did not participate, did they adhere to the treaty by receiving treaty annuities and a reserve? And if they did not participate, did Ontario have the right to extinguish

Aboriginal title unilaterally? Consistent with the rest of their argument, the TAA contended that their ancestors had never surrendered any rights in the lands in question by the Robinson-Huron Treaty. In contrast to the TAA's position, Ontario argued that

any rights once held by the predecessors of the Temagami band had been surrendered by

the Robinson-Huron Treaty.216

The TAA: We Never Signed the Treaty

Evidence in support of the non-surrender by the TAA of n'Daki Menan came both from

the testimony of TAA members, all of whom stated that their oral tradition indicated that

the TAA had never signed a treaty, and from the testimony of Morrison, supported by a

number of historical documents. For example, when asked whether the TAA had signed a treaty giving up n'Daki Menan, William Twain testified that the TAA ancestors "never

signed anything."217 Chief Potts further elaborated that the chiefs who signed the treaty

did so only on behalf of their own nations, and that "it is knowledge that no Indian chief

or no principal man of any one particular tribe can go and sell another Indian tribal nation's lands." When asked to look at the names of those chiefs and principal men who

signed the treaty, Chief Potts looked over the list and stated that no one named on the treaty was a member of the Teme-Augama Anishnabai.218 Chief Potts also stated that older TAA members had told him that the TAA "have never sold their lands to anybody."219

Historical information also supported this assertion. Nebenegwune, who was chief of the Temagami band in 1850, does not appear on the list of signatories to the treaty. In the spy mission arranged by Ontario in 1894 and described in chapter 2, Chief Dokis of

Lake Nipissing told the province's scout that Nebenegwune had not signed the treaty

348 because the Temagami leader had not been invited and did not learn of the treaty until

after it was over.220 A few days after the treaty's signing, William Robinson, who

negotiated the treaty on behalf of the British Crown, arrived at Manitoulin Island, where a

large number of Indians were gathered for the annual distribution of imperial presents.

Members of the Temagami band had attended this annual present-giving event prior to

1850, and Nebenegwune and at least two other Temagami Indians attended in 1850 as well. Robinson, whose appearance at this event was unexpected, paid money pursuant to the Robinson-Huron Treaty to a number of Indians, including Nebenegwune. Records

show that Temagami members attended the present-giving until 1855, when the present-

giving stopped.221

As I will explain further below, Ontario argued at trial that Robinson's payment

of Nebenegwune, along with a voucher recording the payment of Nebenegwune on a list with other Indians, showed that Nebenegwune had in fact participated in the treaty on behalf of the Temagami band, thus ceding n'Daki Menan to the Crown. Against this argument, the TAA put forward as evidence a number of documents spanning the late

1870s to the 1950s, composed by TAA members and government officials alike, to the effect that: the Temagami did not participate in or sign the treaty; the Temagami always formed a distinct band of Indians whose home was at Lake Temagami; and because the

Temagami band had not participated in the treaty, their Aboriginal title had not been extinguished.222 For instance, in 1890, the Governor General of Canada signed an Order of the Privy Council setting out that a full inquiry had been made into the position of the Temagami band, and that the inquiry had concluded not only that the band had always comprised a distinct band in Temagami, but also that the Temagami band had not been represented at the treaty and had received no reserve.223 This inquiry took place after the

Temagami Indians had begun to receive annuities from the government at the same rate

(four dollars per year) as those given to bands that had signed the treaty, a fact that indicated that the government did not consider that the receipt of annuities meant that the

Temagami band had become party to the treaty. Eventually, in 1971, the Temagami band received a reserve of one square mile, but neither the TAA nor the federal government considered at the time that the receipt of either the (tiny) reserve or the payments equalled a surrender by the band of their lands.224

Ontario: Treaty Indians

In Ontario's version of the story, the fact that Nebenegwune did not sign the treaty was unimportant, since the historical evidence showed that the Temagami chief got paid at

Manitoulin Island shortly after the signing of the treaty and continued to receive payments at least until 1855, which therefore meant that Nebenegwune had ceded his band's lands under the treaty.225 Ontario further argued that it was unnecessary for

Nebenegwune's name to appear on the treaty because Tawgawanene, who was not a

Temagami band member, signed the treaty on behalf of Nebenegwune and the Temagami band. As evidence for this, Ontario cited the fact that the names of Nebenegwune and

Tawgawanene appear on some of the same Department of Indian Affairs records

350 concerning payments pursuant to the 1850 treaty. On one occasion, it also appears that

Tawgawanene signed a requisition under the treaty on behalf of Nebenegwune.

Ontario continued on to assert that after Temagami band members stopped coming to collect their treaty annuities in the 1850s, the Indian Department eventually removed the Temagami Indians from the treaty paylists. As a result, when in 1877 Chief

Tonene and other Temagami band members approached Indian agent Skene asking for money and a reserve, Skene did not know that Tawgawanene had represented

Nebenegwune at the treaty or that Nebenegwune had received treaty annuities in the

1850s. Skene therefore wrongly assumed that the Temagami band had not been a party to the treaty, and began to pay annuities to the band under the treaty. The Temagami band received those annuities beginning in 1883, and this practice continued until 1979, when the Temagami band began returning the cheques to the Department of Indian Affairs.

In addition, after 1883 "the Temagami Indians expected and demanded fulfillment of another right under the Treaty—the creation of a reserve at Lake Temagami." In 1971 that treaty right was fulfilled with the creation of the reserve at Bear Island. Thus, according to Ontario, regardless of whether the Temagami band had been a party to the treaty in 1850, the band's request to be added to the annuity list in 1882, and subsequent conduct in receiving payments, asking for and receiving a reserve amounted to an

9"39 adhesion to the treaty, which meant that the band was bound by the treaty's terms.

These actions by the band, Ontario submitted, could pertain to nothing except for the fulfillment by the government of treaty obligations, and Nebenegwune's descendants

351 should not be allowed "to escape his [Nebenegwune's] part of the bargain simply because he did not sign the Treaty."

Ontario also contended that regardless of whether or not the Temagami band had participated in or adhered to the treaty, the lands in question were, after 1850, considered to be lands to which the Robinson-Huron Treaty applied, and in which there was therefore no Indian interest. To support this argument, Ontario relied on a U.S. case in which the Aboriginal defendants were not party to a certain treaty, but the court determined that since the treaty area included the lands claimed by the defendants, then the Indian title to the region had been extinguished.234 It followed, then, that Ontario's disposition of the lands in question was legal, since the lands had been ceded under the treaty. Indeed, Ontario went even further, arguing that as a result of the "intensive use and development" of the lands by the Crown and its grantees from the 1800s to the present, Aboriginal title had been extinguished. The province supported this contention with Justice Judson's comment in the Colder reasons for judgment that "the sovereign authority elected to exercise complete dominion over the lands in question," and that that exercise of sovereignty resulted in the extinguishment of Aboriginal title. The exercise of complete dominion over the lands by the sovereign was, Ontario contended, "exactly what has happened in the circumstances of this case." Thus the forestry, mining, tourism and so on that took place in the Temagami region were not only what allowed

Ontario to define the lands as "ordinary" Crown lands and therefore not "special" Indian lands, but also what made the lands into ordinary Crown lands.

352 A Story with Teeth

An analysis of the arguments about the Temagami band's (non-)participation in the

Robinson-Huron Treaty does not add significant insight into the two parties' constitution of nature and Aboriginality in the court case, but these (trick or) treaty stories reveal the power of historical interpretation in the legal production of nature and subjects. It is important to show the power of law in creating historical truths because law continues to make common sense as an arbiter rather than producer of truth. Joel Fortune, in an article about the role of history in shaping the outcome of an Aboriginal rights case, argues that while philosophers of history "have long recognized that making 'history' is a problematic activity," Canadian courts have usually understood history as unproblematic. As a result, assumptions that make possible an unproblematic understanding of history influence the law, with the consequence that the law becomes an avenue for the entrenchment of inequities. Fortune gives the example of Canadian sovereignty as a hugely influential legal concept that exists as a result of an unquestioned assumption about history. "From the outset," according to Chief Justice Dickson and

Justice La Forest in the Sparrow decision,240 there was "never any doubt that sovereignty and legislative power, and indeed the underlying title" belonged with the Crown. To question the assumption embedded in this wording, Fortune asks, "Doubt on whose part?"241 It is highly unlikely that Aboriginal peoples accepted Canadian sovereignty

"from the outset," given that many First Nations continue to challenge it to this day.

353 Making history is a problematic activity because it necessarily involves present- day interpretations of past objects, events and peoples, all of which/whom are ultimately inaccessible—they cannot speak for themselves—except through "the vehicle of human perception."242 Indeed, Fortune discusses E. H. Carr's work on the character of history, in which Carr determines that what distinguishes "the facts of history from other facts about the past" is that the "facts speak only when the historian calls on them." History becomes history, then, only through selecting some facts and not others, and, notably, through interpreting those facts, putting them to work in the present.243 History thus depends on people in the present as much as it does on people, objects and events in the past. Yet, according to Fortune, while Canadian courts have recognized that particular histories can have a determinative effect on Aboriginal rights issues, there has been no sustained discussion about how to arrive at or apply knowledge of the past in the legal context. If the past is ultimately unknowable, what is the role of historical evidence in the courtroom? Does oral history count as historical evidence? Should historical texts be taken at face value? How should judges evaluate competing versions of history? As a result of the lack of consistent attention to such questions, history often appears in the legal arena as "simply a set of external facts that, once presented in the courtroom, will lead the way to an objective evaluation of the past."244 Fortune suggests that it is very important to challenge this view and to discuss the problematic character of history, especially given the important role that history can play in law, and particularly in

Aboriginal rights cases. As he states, not only is it the case that "the study of history is

354 itself fraught with legal implications," but also "a legal outcome may rest on a question of historical interpretation."245 The Bear Island case makes these points abundantly clear.

The TAA's study of history regarding TAA participation in the Robinson-Huron

Treaty carried with it the legal implication that the TAA had never surrendered their territory to the Crown, with the result that n'Daki Menan belonged to the First Nation,

and not to Ontario. Ontario relied on many of the same historical documents that the

TAA employed, with the notable exception that the TAA also brought forward oral history of non-surrender as evidence, but the legal implications of the province's historical study directly opposed the legal implications embedded in the TAA's version of history. For Ontario, historical study resulted in the conclusion that the TAA had

surrendered the lands in question to the Crown, and therefore that the lands belonged to the province.

In their respective narratives, the TAA and Ontario agreed on certain facts, for example that Nebenegwune did not sign the treaty and that he did receive a payment from the government shortly after the treaty was signed. But the two parties interpreted these facts differently. The TAA considered the fact that Nebenegwune did not sign the treaty to mean that the TAA had not surrendered their lands by the treaty. The fact that he received money in 1850 pursuant to the treaty became historically insignificant:

Nebenegwune arrived at Manitoulin Island to collect the annual imperial presents customarily distributed there in August. Robinson, who had negotiated the treaty at

Garden River, arrived unexpectedly at Manitoulin to distribute treaty payments (he had

355 been asked by the chiefs who participated in the treaty to hand out the annuities there rather than to the chiefs at Garden River as had been his original plan). There, at a gathering of over two thousand Indians who had assembled to collect the imperial presents, Robinson paid out thirty-five hundred dollars in two hundred different lots over a ten-hour period. Assuming that he did not take a break, the TAA research team figured that Robinson had three minutes per Indian he paid to find out, with the help of translators, how many people each Indian represented and how much money he therefore had to pay each person. Given that he had extra money but not enough time, he most likely did not get into explanations or discussions about the purpose of the money or different bands' entitlement to it, but rather erred on the side of generosity in order to get the job finished on time.246 Ontario's version of events differs quite significantly from the

TAA's. For the province, Nebenegwune's receipt of treaty money at Manitoulin was extremely important, which made his lack of participation in the treaty an insignificant detail. Nebenegwune received the money on the same day and in the same location as the chiefs who had signed the treaty. He was paid as a chief, and he knew that the payment to him was in respect to his band's participation in the treaty.247

Although this one example sufficiently demonstrates the different interpretations of history by the TAA and Ontario, it is of course not the only example. The role of

Tawgawanene in the treaty is another important example of a case in which different historical interpretations have very different legal implications. It is also clear that the legal outcome of the Bear Island case had the potential to rest on historical interpretation.

356 If Nebenegwune participated m the treaty on behalf of the Temagami band by receiving money from Robinson on Manitoulin Island in 1850, the current TAA members had no

Aboriginal title. If he did not, they did. Similarly, if Tawgawanene signed the treaty on behalf of the Temagami band, the current TAA members had no Aboriginal title. If he did not, they did. And if the receipt by Temagami band members of four dollars a year from 1883 to 1979 and a one square mile reserve in 1971 meant that the band had adhered to the treaty, the current TAA members had no Aboriginal title. If it did not, they did. It is perhaps trite to say that history is always for the present and future; certainly it cannot affect the past. But to say that history matters seems an understatement when it comes to Aboriginal law, given the close association between legal truths and material reality. What Nebenegwune was thinking when he received twenty-five dollars in 1850 may be a matter of interpretation, but the interpretation that gains status as truth in law has the power to dictate present and future relationships between people and land. Law certainly is a story with teeth.

For the Love of the Land: Race, Gender and Abandonment

In a judgment that commentators have called "antediluvian" and "an example of a conservative, archaic approach to the interpretation of history in the context of Aboriginal rights litigation," Justice Steele decided in favour of Ontario on Tuesday, December 11,

1984. With Justice Steele's ruling, the lands in question became, in Canadian law at least, public lands under the Public Lands Act. Though the TAA continued to know the region as n'Daki Menan, Ontario received the right to convey or dispose of the lands without the consent of the TAA, and whether or not the First Nation objected. The TAA, on the other hand, were denied any right, title or interest in the lands, and were perpetually barred from asserting any such right, title, or interest, and from contesting

Ontario's right to dispose of the lands.

In his reasons for judgment, Justice Steele agreed with almost every argument put forward by Ontario,249 and Ontario's arguments thus came to carry with them the force of law (at least until the TAA appealed Justice Steele's ruling). Justice Steele's judgment and reasons, then, had the effect of producing nature and subjects by granting Ontario the right to enact the province's understanding of the lands onto the lands themselves, and so the lands became part of an undifferentiated provincial and national space, a site where a number of different activities could take place, all under the authorization of the provincial government. By the same token, the TAA were created as objects rather than subjects in law: not only did they have no rights to n'Daki Menan, but n'Daki Menan did not exist, legally speaking. Although Ontario and the TAA called into being certain constructions of nature and subjectivity in arguing their respective claims to land, it was the judgment, and not the arguments in and of themselves, that carried with it the legal authority to make these representations come to life. Because of the concurrence between

Justice Steele's reasons and Ontario's argument, I will not go through each of his reasons in detail, but instead will highlight a few central ways that Justice Steele relied upon and reconstituted gendered and racialized categories in the service of making nature public.

358 The lands became public in part through Justice Steele's inscription of a racialized conception of land ownership. Right from the beginning of his reasons, Justice Steele telegraphed this perspective by explaining the "basic dispute" before the Court as

"whether Ontario is the owner of certain lands, free of any aboriginal rights claim by the

Indians, or whether the band or registered band has aboriginal rights in the lands that prevent Ontario from dealing with the lands until those rights are properly extinguished."251 Certainly the TAA did not understand the "basic dispute" in this way, particularly given their hope that, by going to court, their rights would not be extinguished, and instead their ownership of n'Daki Menan would be recognized in

Canadian law. The question according to Steele, however, was not who had a better right to the territory as owner, Ontario or the First Nation, but rather whether Ontario owned the lands outright or had to extinguish Aboriginal rights before owning the lands outright.

Either way, Justice Steele left no doubt that Ontario owned the lands, regardless of whether the TAA had any Aboriginal rights in them.

Justice Steele substantiated his foundational decision that an "aboriginal rights claim is not a claim to the legal title to land" by taking as a starting point that any

Aboriginal rights that the TAA might have had stemmed from the Royal Proclamation of

1763. He interpreted the Proclamation, as well as the Privy Council's analysis of the effect of the Proclamation as articulated in the St. Catherine's Milling case, to mean that

"aboriginal title is personal and usufructuary only, and exists solely at the pleasure of the

Crown." As such, it "is not akin to a fee simple interest."253 Justice Steele considered that

359 Aboriginal people could not own land because, in 1763, King George III "did not grant ownership of vast tracts of lands to Indian bands... when a war had just been fought to acquire those lands." Justice Steele found this possibility "inconceivable" because at that time "Europeans did not consider Indians to be equal to themselves," and so King George

III would not "have made such vast grants to undefined bands, thus restricting his

European subjects from occupying these lands in the future except at great expense."254

The lands belonged to Ontario, then, because, according to Justice Steele, King George

III would not have had it any other way: European people could own land, Aboriginal people could not. Yet even as Justice Steele denied the TAA the possibility of land ownership by relying on obviously race-based reasoning, he simultaneously distanced himself from that very reasoning. As he commented, the fact that Indians had no proprietary interest in lands might not have been "proper law or a proper view," but, according to Justice Steele, it was the view of Europeans at "that time" (i.e., the time of the Proclamation and afterwards), and that fact "must be borne in mind in interpreting any legislation or contracts or treaties made at that time." By blaming racism present on racism past, Justice Steele found himself able to racialize land ownership, and thus re- entrench the construction of Aboriginality as inferior to Europeanness, while simultaneously passing this move off as a straightforward application of the law.

After establishing that Aboriginal rights did not constitute a proprietary interest in lands, Justice Steele moved on to find that the TAA had not shown sufficiently that they

"yen had Aboriginal rights in the lands. He did this in part through refashioning the Baker

360 Lake test, and then deciding that the TAA had not proven their Aboriginality based on this new test. Dara Culhane has called judges' practice of constructing or changing the legal tests for Aboriginal rights after the fact (in their reasons for judgment) "a practice that speaks to the uniquely autocratic prerogative of law." While parties usually come prepared to meet a test articulated in one case, in this case the Baker Lake test, sometimes judges change their criteria in response to evidence brought forward for the first time in the case at hand, and then evaluate the evidence based on their new criteria.258 Justice

Steele did exactly that. While he outlined the Baker Lake test in his reasons, he concluded that the TAA had the onus of proving, in addition to the requirements of the

Baker Lake test, the following: the nature of the rights enjoyed by the band in 1763; proof of an organized landholding system and set of rules and customs distinct to the band; and continuity of exclusive occupation from 1763 to the date of the commencement of the action (i.e., 1973).259

By relying on this modified test, Justice Steele took a slightly different route from

Ontario to arrive at the same conclusion regarding the Aboriginal rights of the TAA. It is important, however, to highlight that the difference was indeed slight. Justice Steele agreed with Ontario that no organized band existed in the region until at least 1850.260 In so doing, he followed Ontario in constituting the ancestors of the TAA as inauthentic

Indians, against an imagined true form of Aboriginality. For example, Justice Steele commented that unlike other bands, the Temagami ancestors "regularly breached" what he (falsely) considered was the "general rule for Indians" of tracing their ancestry

361 through the male line. And, he added, "in the past even white men have been accepted as members of the band," as have "adopted children, whether Indian or non-Indian," children whose fathers are non-Native, and illegitimate children. The supposedly arbitrary character of membership in the Temagami band, based (through gender and race) on its distance from the membership practice of an "authentic" band, was proof for

Justice Steele, as it was for Ontario, that the Temagami band was not a band at all.

While Ontario's argument depended on the idea that no one lived on the lands in question in 1763, and that a few people trickled into the region beginning in the 1790s,

Justice Steele found against Ontario on this point. He determined that no evidence supported Dr. Bishop's speculation that the lands were vacant until the late eighteenth century, and concluded instead that "persons in the families set out in Charts 1, 2, 3, 5, 6,

7, 8, and 14" of the genealogy charts submitted as an exhibit by the TAA "were Indians who probably resided on the Land Claim Area in or about the time 1800, or even earlier."

Given "Dr. Rogers' evidence of work done elsewhere in Ontario, and the fact that the fur trade was well established in the area in question by 1763," Justice Steele accepted "that the families represented on the named charts probably resided in the area prior to 1800, and as early as 1763."263

In so concluding, Justice Steele gave legal authority to the TAA's assertion that their ancestors had lived on n'Daki Menan for a long time. While Ontario envisioned empty lands that a few people showed up on later, Justice Steele found lands substantially peopled by ancestors of current TAA members, and it thus became impossible for the

362 judge to conclude, as Ontario had contended, that the Temagami band was not organized because of low numbers of people on the lands.264 Instead, he found other ways to show that the TAA ancestors did not have Aboriginal rights. For instance, Justice Steele determined that the ancestors of the TAA had no "strong... spiritual attachment to the lands." Evidence showed that some ancestors of the current band had left the lands, for example former Chief Tonene, who married into another band, and Joseph Mattias, who left the lands only to return later and hunt on his wife's lands rather than his own family's territory.265 Justice Steele's discussion about spiritual attachment to land appeared in a section of his reasons called "The Entitlement to Aboriginal Rights in the Land Claim

Area," which signalled that he considered spiritual attachment to land a factor in determining whether or not the TAA were entitled to Aboriginal rights, a consideration dependent on the idea of an authentic Aboriginality: real Indians (who felt a spiritual connection to their lands) did not leave home.

His determination that the TAA did not have Aboriginal rights in part because some of their ancestors left the lands depended as well on gendered definitions of

Aboriginality. Every example that Justice Steele cited as evidence that the TAA ancestors felt no great attachment to their lands was one of a man leaving the lands. Aboriginality remained intact, it seems, as long as women rather than men left the lands. This logic complements another finding of Justice Steele in favour of Ontario, that the Temagami band was not quite normal, because women did not always leave the lands when they married, and lands did not always pass down the paternal line.

363 Justice Steele's addition to the Baker Lake test that the TAA needed to prove continuity of exclusive occupation until 1973 allowed him to push his finding that the

TAA ancestors did not love their lands forward in time. Added as schedules.at the back of his reasons, he included a list of registered Temagami Indians and a list of unregistered

Temagami Indians. Beside the listed names of adults not living on the land claim area,

Justice Steele placed the symbol "NR," and explained that "exactly one-half of registered Indians and many more than that percentage of non-registered Indians lived at the commencement of the court action in locations outside the land claim area.266 Those who continued to live on the lands resided on the Bear Island reserve, having "abandoned or moved from the balance of the area."267 From this information, he determined that

"since approximately 1950, the defendants reside either outside the Land Claim Area, or within the Land Claim Area, on Bear Island or in established white settlements such as the Town of Temagami." As a result, Justice Steele found that Aboriginal title "was in fact extinguished because the Indians have abandoned their traditional use and occupation of the Land Claim Area." Justice Steele thus relied on ideas of authenticity in Aboriginality to displace history onto culture.269 It was not the railroad passing through their territory, the tourist invasion and purchase of islands in Lake Temagami, the forestry and mining, the policing of their activities, their forced relocation to Bear Island, their loss of Indian status through marrying the wrong people, or the few economic opportunities available to them that led some members of the TAA to move elsewhere

364 over the years. Instead, they moved away because of their lack of authenticity as

Aboriginal people. They simply did not love the land.

As seen above, by holding the TAA up to a particular understanding of

Aboriginality, Justice Steele created the TAA as not properly Aboriginal, and he therefore denied the TAA rights in law. The flip side of this is that Justice Steele legally constituted a version of Aboriginality against which the TAA could be (negatively) evaluated. He inscribed, for instance, the version of Aboriginality discussed above, one that included certain "spiritual and mythological connections to the land," but did not include a proprietary interest in land.270 He also, as Tony Hall states, gave "precise legal expression to the theory that sees true Indianness as a way of life fixed forever in the past." Indeed, Justice Steele determined that Aboriginal rights included "only the right to continue using the lands for the purposes and in the manner enjoyed in 1763," and then proceeded to give a detailed summary of the evidence presented in court about what rights Indians had in land in 1763.272 He concluded that Aboriginal rights in the lands in question at the relevant period included the rights:

1. to hunt all animals for food, clothing and personal use and adornment; 2. to exclusively trap fur-bearers, which right was enjoyed by the individual family, and to sell the furs; 3. to fish; 4. to use herbs, berries, roots, maple sugar and other natural products for food, medicines and dyes; 5. to use ochre or vermillion for dyes; 6. to use chert, quartzite and stones for tools and other implements (but not extensive mining); 7. to use clay for pottery, pipes and ornaments; 8. to use trees, bark and furs for housing (but not lumbering); and 9. to use trees and bark for fires, canoes, sleighs and snow-shoes.273 While Ontario similarly defined Aboriginally as existing only in the past, unlike Justice

Steele, the province did not give such a detailed description of what constituted

Aboriginal rights. In defining Aboriginal rights in this way, Justice Steele created the potential for other courts to reinscribe this definition, thus fixing Aboriginality firmly in the past, and decidedly away from any modern right to resource extraction.

In his analysis of the TAA's evidence, Justice Steele configured Aboriginality, whiteness and racial mixing in ways supportive of his contention that the TAA did not really have a case. Ontario had of course charged that Chief Potts's evidence was questionable because the chief was not an authentic Indian as defined by Ontario, and had also challenged the reliability of Morrison's testimony, given the researcher's stated bias in favour of the TAA. But Justice Steele went beyond Ontario's arguments about the reliability of TAA witnesses. He stated, for example, that Craig Macdonald, Thor

Conway and James Morrison "were typical of persons who have worked closely with

Indians for so many years that they have lost their objectivity when giving opinion evidence." He further contended that these white witnesses were "emotionally involved," "tainted with... partisanship," and "biased and unreliable."275 As Tony Hall observes, "If non-Indians who have lived with Indians thereby lose their 'objectivity,' one wonders how Steele views the capacity of Indians themselves for 'objectivity.'

Objectivity, he would have us believe, lies more or less exclusively in the realm of non-

Indians who have not lived among Indians." Thus white people who have had too much contact with Aboriginal people become less objective, and as well, it seems, they 366 become racially marked, or less white, if whiteness is defined by its proximity to objectivity.277 The presumably racial characteristic of subjectivity in Indians, it seems, can rub off onto white researchers who spend too much time around Indians. Justice

Steele seemed to think that these particular white witnesses had had so much contact with

Aboriginal peoples that they had lost not only objectivity, but also expertise, and had become willing to invent a case on the TAA's behalf. As the judge stated, "I believe that a small, dedicated and well-meaning group of white people, in order to meet the aspirations of the current Indian defendants, has pieced together a history from written documents, archaeology and analogy to other bands, and then added to that history a study of physical features and other items, together with limited pieces of oral tradition."278

Justice Steele went on to express how "disappointed [he] was that there was so little evidence given by the Indians themselves," and how he had had "an uncomfortable feeling" throughout the trial that "the defendants, in presenting their case, did not want the evidence of the Indians themselves to be given, except through the mouth of Chief

Potts."279 It seems, though he did not explain until later, that his uncomfortable feeling came from his strong suspicion that "it is not the Indians themselves who first thought that they did not sign the treaty, but rather that it is the wishful thinking of a few well- meaning white people."280 While racially tainted white witnesses were willing to invent a case and lie on the stand, real Indians, it appears, would only have told their (subjective but authentic) truth, that is, that their ancestors signed the treaty. The absence of a performance of an authentic Aboriginality, then, along with too much evidence presented by witnesses who had lost their objectivity, served to convince the judge that the TAA had no real claim, and to reinforce the idea that Aboriginality, in order to be authentic, had to be performed in court.

This left only the evidence of Chief Potts, which Justice Steele discounted in much the same way as did Ontario, stating, for instance, that the chief "has a white mother and a father who is not of pure Indian ancestry."281 To Ontario's argument that

Chief Potts could not present oral history since he was not an authentic Indian, Justice

Steele added that Chief Potts's "evidence must also be considered in light of his admitted statement that he considers government bureaucrats as imbeciles and that he does not trust anyone at the Department of Indian Affairs, because, in his words, 'There is a war going on.'" Like the non-Native witnesses' evidence, Chief Potts's testimony was discounted by Justice Steele because of the racial contamination of its bearer. Just as

Conway, Morrison and Macdonald were not white enough to give objective (white) evidence, he was simply not Indian enough to give subjective (Indian) evidence. In this way, Justice Steele reinscribed the idea that Aboriginality existed in a pure form. But, unlike the non-Native witnesses, Chief Potts did not appear as "well-meaning" as a result of his racial impurities, and was instead a threat to the whole judicial process (one might think that inventing a case might be worse, legally speaking, than distrusting Indian

Affairs officials). Justice Steele, in discounting Chief Potts's evidence, also created racial mixing as a very dangerous thing. It was one thing for white people to spend time among

368 Indians, and thus to confuse racial boundaries slightly, but another thing entirely to explode those boundaries completely, thereby challenging the biological distinction between whiteness and Indianness, and revealing both as categories imbued with history and power.

My How the Truth Moves

The TAA appealed Justice Steele's decision, and in 1989 the Ontario Court of Appeal dismissed the TAA's appeal. But unlike Justice Steele, the judges at the higher court did not go through each line of reasoning put forward by Ontario. Instead, they held that they were "prepared to assume, without deciding, that the Temagami Indians in 1850 enjoyed aboriginal rights to at least some part of the Land Claim Area and that these rights extended to the use and occupation of the lands in the traditional ways of a band."

They found it unnecessary, however, to deal with many of the issues put before the trial judge, because:

We are satisfied that any aboriginal rights enjoyed by the Temagami were extinguished by the Robinson-Huron Treaty of 1850. The Temagami were signatories to the treaty. Alternatively they adhered to the treaty by receiving annuities pursuant to it and later asking for a reserve as was promised in the treaty and still later receiving a reserve. Finally, their rights were extinguished, even if the Temagami were not signatories or adherents, because the treaty was at least a unilateral act of extinguishment by the sovereign authority.284

Thus the TAA gained and lost their Aboriginal rights over the course of a few sentences.

By stating that Aboriginal rights extended only to traditional uses, the Court of Appeal, like Justice Steele, inscribed in law a definition of Aboriginality that held First Nations in the past. Similarly, their understanding that the Crown had the power to extinguish 369 Aboriginal rights unilaterally reinforced a racialized definition of land ownership, where

Aboriginal people never owned lands and so the Crown could extinguish Aboriginal rights at its pleasure. But these arguments have already been made, and it is unnecessary to go over them again. It is, however, striking to regard how the conclusions reached at one level of court can be overridden by a higher level of court, when the case argued at the different levels is comprised of the same basic "facts." In this case, the Court of

Appeal judges seemed to be particularly swayed by the argument for Tawgawanene's participation in the Robinson-Huron Treaty on behalf of the Temagami band, since they spent a large percentage of their reasons for judgment on this topic.

When the case was finally decided by the Supreme Court of Canada in 1991, the judges there offered no comment on "the situation upon the signing of the Robinson-

Huron Treaty," and decided instead that the TAA's Aboriginal rights were "surrendered by arrangements subsequent to that treaty by which the Indians adhered to the treaty in exchange for treaty annuities and a reserve."285 While Justice Steele found that the ancestors of the TAA never had any Aboriginal rights in the lands, and the Court of

Appeal declined from considering the matter, the Supreme Court decided "that on the facts found by the trial judge the Indians exercised sufficient occupation of the lands in question throughout the relevant period to establish an aboriginal right." That this case, which according to the Supreme Court, raised "essentially factual issues," could be decided by different judges in different ways supports Fortune's observation that court cases can be decided based on differing interpretations of history. The facts are not obvious until they become the law. The Supreme Court of Canada was the furthest that the TAA could take their claim through the Canadian court system. In addition to finding that "the aboriginal right has been extinguished," the Court "conceded that the Crown has failed to comply with some of its obligations under this agreement [the Robinson-Huron

'yon

Treaty], and thereby breached its fiduciary obligations to the Indians." Thus in 1991, the TAA found that they had become treaty Indians in Canadian law, treaty Indians who were owed certain unfulfilled treaty obligations (namely some money and a bigger reserve). These unfulfilled treaty obligations have been the subject of negotiations between the province and the TAA ever since.

The Power of the (Legal) Truth

As discussed in chapter 1, the TAA resumed their roadblocks on n'Daki Menan on

November 11, 1989. By December 10, the police had arrested almost two hundred protesters, most of whom were TAA members. Ontario gained the authority to arrest these people by an injunction that prevented the TAA from interfering with road construction. Justice O'Leary at the Ontario High Court of Justice based his decision of granting the injunction on a number of "relevant facts about which there can be no dispute." Central among these facts was that the "defendant Indian bands are not the owners of and have no aboriginal rights in the land on which the extension to the Red

Squirrel Rd. is being built. That fact was determined by the judgment of Mr. Justice

Steele [and] upheld by the Court of Appeal." Justice O'Leary continued on to state that the "defendants have no right to interfere with the construction of the road yet they are doing just that. Only at its peril will our society allow anyone to flout the law. The

Attorney-General as protector of public rights and the custodian of the public interest is entitled to seek an injunction against those flouting the law." There could hardly be a more clear example of the power of the law to construct nature and subjects. Not only was Ontario legally authorized to remake the land as a site of industrial logging, but this was done in the name of the public interest. The public, of course, did not include the

TAA, who became criminals for attempting to assert their rights to land, rights that had been denied in law. Another Ontario judge, Justice Winkler (now Chief Justice of

Ontario), later quashed the cautions filed by the TAA in 1973. The judgment of the

Supreme Court of Canada in the Bear Island case led Justice Winkler to conclude that the

TAA had no interest in the cautioned lands, and so there existed no reason for the cautions to remain in effect.289

I am not sure how to end this story, except to say that it is not over. The TAA continue to struggle, through negotiations with the province and likely later with the federal government, for control over their territory. Yet the terms of this struggle have been indelibly marked by the Bear Island case, since, to non-Native governments at least, the lands now belong to the Crown (if they did not before). At a meeting I attended on

Bear Island last year between the TAA and Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources representatives, a TAA member stated: "The question is, who owns the bottom of the lake?, and I say the Indians do." One hundred thirty years later, not much has changed.

And yet it has. Conclusion

Toward Renewed Relationships

Temagami is no less famous today as part of the pristine Canadian wilderness than it was one hundred years ago. Campers and canoe trippers continue to descend upon the region each summer "to explore," as one promotional site puts it, "the vast Temagami wilderness."1 Environmentalists also maintain their efforts to save " Temagami's pristine wilderness regions," condemning the current forest management plan because it allows for "logging in Temagami's pristine back-country."2 Although the environmentalist protests that brought much attention to the region in the late 1980s and early 1990s have faded into history, the Temagami wilderness created by the protests—empty, untouched, and Canadian—exists very much in the present. As this thesis has endeavoured to show, the Temagami wilderness is a cultural rather than a natural phenomenon. It is the result of struggles over meaning, identity and, ultimately, land.

When, in 1901, Ontario created the Temagami Forest Reserve, provincial authorities did more than simply ban settlement from an area whose rocky soils dictated that European-style agricultural settlement would not succeed. Rather, the province legislated the region into existence as a site of timber nature to be managed under forest conservationist principles. In so doing, Ontario displaced one culture of nature and replaced it with another. The TAA's n'Daki Menan became part of Ontario's forest conservation regime, designed to benefit the province and the Canadian nation. Although 373 Ontario was ultimately unsuccessful in creating the region solely as a timber commodity, the province did succeed in constructing Temagami as a site of timber nature to the extent that the existence of the forest reserve became the reason that the TAA could have no

Indian reserve on their traditional territory. The Temagami forest had been created as a timber commodity, and as part of an imperially-imagined nation-building project, but this social construction of nature was simultaneously naturalized, making it appear that only nature (and not the provincial government) had determined the region's existence as a site of valuable timber.

At approximately the same historical moment, however, a different Temagami nature emerged as well. As increasing numbers of middle- and upper-class white tourists began to vacation in Temagami in the early twentieth century, travel literature and promotional material about the region proliferated. Within this writing, Temagami appeared as part of a pristine and unchanging Canadian wilderness for tourists, especially men, to visit. The constitution of the region as a wilderness tourism destination was every bit as cultural and historical a process as the construction of the district as a timber resource, yet within travel writing it appeared that nature (or God) had made Temagami for the pleasure of tourists. Temagami travel writing thus played a role in the making of the region as a site of wild Canadian nature and in the naturalization of both the wilderness and the nation. Within this social construction of nature, the TAA could exist only as part of the disappearing wilderness that tourists travelled to encounter.

374 The fact that Temagami existed simultaneously and "naturally' both as a timber commodity and a wilderness tourism destination reveals the flexibility of the category of nature. This is not to say that any construction of nature is equally probable or valid— certainly the physical presence of big, old pine trees made possible the constitution of

Temagami as both a timber commodity and a wilderness tourism destination—but it does show that nature, like race and gender, is a social category that is made in and through relationships of power. The differing constructions of nature as timber commodity and tourist destination both worked through the feminization of the Temagami forest as virgin, and therefore available for the taking, and through the racialization of the

Canadian nation as a white space. The TAA figured as helpers or hinderers of forestry and tourism industries, not as people with a valid claim to a very differently-imagined territory, and those immigrants deemed racially inferior appeared as threats both to the

Temagami forest and to the nation as a whole. As fire rangers, white men were imagined to have the particularly difficult job of protecting forests from fires set by non-English- speaking immigrants who were said to care little about the nation. At the same time, white men were also positioned as in danger of racial degeneration through too much contact with the racially-marked and feminized inhabitants of city spaces. Even as white men were considered necessary to protect the Temagami forest, then, the Temagami wilderness was imagined as necessary for white men so that they might, through their encounters with it, become better-equipped leaders in the building of a white Canadian nation. Over time, Temagami continued to be created as a site of Canadian nature to visit

and to cut down. The 1920s and 1930s saw the consolidation of both these constructions

of the region, as Ontario sold a large number of timber and pulpwood licences in the

Temagami forest and popular magazines advertised the district as a wilderness tourism

destination, particularly for the enjoyment of white sportsmen. Racist immigration policies continued to ensure that Canada developed as a white nation and, in much larger numbers than ever before, white Canadians sought out wilderness experiences in an effort to connect with a now more clearly defined sense of nationalism. In an attempt to control all activities in the region, the provincial government charged rent to members of the

TAA living on Bear Island. From Ontario's perspective, the fact that the region existed as a forest reserve—for tourists to visit and for industry to gain access to wood fibre—made it unnecessary for the province to create an Indian reserve for the TAA. According to the logic of the province, because the region had been treated as a site of nature under provincial jurisdiction, it existed as a site of nature under provincial jurisdiction. Thus earlier social constructions of the region offered a justification for contemporary ones, while at the same time the forest reserve appeared as a self-evident truth. Within this imagination, there was room for Temagami pines to be appreciated aesthetically and cut down for profit, but not for the possibility that these trees existed not only as nature, but as part of someone else's culture. When the TAA refused to pay rent and expressed their own understanding of the region, they found themselves permitted to reside on one square mile of n'Daki Menan. The remaining 3999 square miles, plus the view of Bear

376 Island from the shoreline, became consolidated as public space, part of the province of

Ontario and the Canadian nation.

In the protests of the late 1980s and early 1990s, Temagami was again culturally constituted as a site of Canadian nature, this time to be saved from the forest industry.

The nature produced at this historical moment differed from other Temagami natures insofar as wilderness tourism and forestry no longer fit easily together as possibilities for the region's nature. Yet the region continued to appear as a natural rather than cultural space and as part of the Canadian nation. The fact that the media discussed the TAA's land claim while also maintaining that the struggle at the Red Squirrel Road was over a commonly-understood wilderness area in Ontario, Canada, reveals the durability of

Temagami's status as a wilderness space. And although the project of Canadian nation- building became less explicitly racialized following World War II, the well-known anti- racist writer M. Nourbese Philip and three of her colleagues have discussed how the

Canadian wilderness continues to be racialized as a white space even within the context of a supposedly multicultural Canada.3 That wilderness spaces like Temagami are no more naturally wild or Canadian than they are naturally white was made clear by the

TAA in their court case when they contended that the district was not Canadian wilderness at all, but was rather n'Daki Menan, the territory inhabited and claimed by the

TAA for thousands of years. When Ontario won the case at the Supreme Court of

Canada, however, the Temagami region was again created as a public space under the

377 jurisdiction of the provincial government. The province thus regained the authority within

Canadian law to regulate the district as a site of nature.

The TAA, of course, always contested the making of the Temagami region as

Canadian nature and consistently insisted upon maintaining their own relationships with n'Daki Menan. For thousands of years, the TAA governed themselves and their territory according to their system of laws, customs and beliefs. They lived on n'Daki Menan without a great deal of interference from outsiders until late in the nineteenth century, and used their territory fully and with the intimate knowledge required to live off what they could attain from the land. They improved their chances of success at hunting and picking berries by burning parts of n'Daki Menan in spring and they ensured the propagation of the animal species upon which they depended for survival and trade through their system of family hunting territories. When non-Native people began in the

1870s to cut trees from just outside n'Daki Menan, the TAA were concerned. They seemed to understand that white lumbermen would not respect TAA boundaries and so they looked to the Department of Indian Affairs to protect their lands and interests. The

TAA wanted a reserve, they said, so that they might begin to grow potatoes and other crops on lands that could not be appropriated from them. They did not intend to give up hunting, trapping or otherwise using n'Daki Menan in ways that they deemed suitable, but given the changing circumstances of n'Daki Menan—the encroachment of non-

Native people and the related scarcity of animals to eat and trade—they thought it

378 necessary to take measures to ensure that they would have some means of support in the future.

When in 1910 Ontario refused to grant the TAA a reserve because of the region's status as a forest reserve, the TAA responded by challenging the existence of the region as a site of timber: n'Daki Menan was the TAA's homeland. Similarly, when tourists began to travel through the Temagami wilderness, the TAA had no doubt that tourists were in fact visitors to the TAA's home. For the TAA, the tourist industry provided a means of making a living on n'Daki Menan during the summer months, something which had become increasingly difficult to do with the incursion of non-Native people and regulations onto TAA territory. Facilitating tourists' Temagami trips did not mean for the

TAA letting go of n'Daki Menan and accepting tourists' definition of the region. It meant instead that even as tourists and TAA members inhabited the same physical space, they did not occupy the same place: tourists visited their own Canadian wilderness while TAA members helped tourists negotiate n'Daki Menan. Throughout the twentieth century, the

TAA continued to define the region according to their own systems. Yet as the century unfolded, the TAA found themselves ever more constrained in their attempts to enact their relationships with n'Daki Menan. Forest policy, game laws, cottage leases and other mechanisms limited both how and where the TAA could inhabit n'Daki Menan. The

1943 transfer of Bear Island from the provincial to the federal government illustrates perhaps most dramatically the spatial fixing of the TAA and the correlative expansion of non-Native people and activities onto land still claimed by the First Nation. But the TAA

379 persisted in asserting that they deserved much more than Bear Island and, in the 1970s

and 1980s, they relied on Canadian law to argue that TAA land encompassed all of

n'Daki Menan.

Today the TAA continue to assert their claim to land. As part of the National

Aboriginal Day of Action in June of 2007, for example, TAA members set up stations in the town of Temagami and at an access road popular with cottagers in order to inform passersby about the history of the First Nation's claim to n'Daki Menan. They also

erected permanent road signs where Highway 11 meets n'Daki Menan. The signs read,

"Welcome to n'Daki Menan, homeland of Teme-Augama Anishnabai." The Supreme

Court's denial of the TAA's claim to n'Daki Menan certainly has not altered the fact of it

for the TAA. The Court's decision has, however, profoundly shaped the terms of

discussion now taking place between the TAA and the provincial government. Ontario is prepared to have approximately 130 square miles of land on the east side of Lake

Temagami turned into a reserve for the First Nation (see Figure 3). The province's agreement to create this much larger reserve results directly from the Supreme Court of

Canada's determination that the Crown failed to comply with some of its obligations under the Robinson-Huron Treaty. One such obligation was the duty to provide the TAA with a reserve selected by the First Nation, a duty that Ontario determinedly refused to fulfill between 1885, when the Indian Department first asked the province about the matter, and 1973, when the TAA began their legal action. One result, then, of the Bear

380 Island case is that Ontario is now legally bound to create the reserve that the TAA began petitioning for in the 1870s.

As the TAA have known and explained to government officials for several generations, the TAA need a land base much larger than Bear Island so that they may survive and thrive on n'Daki Menan in ways determined by the First Nation. Whether the

TAA decide to become significant players in the forestry and mining sectors, to focus their energies on running lodges and information centres for visitors, or to incorporate all of these and other activities, they are better equipped for self-determination with a land base of 130 square miles than with only Bear Island. At the same time, negotiations between the TAA and Ontario are also premised upon the idea that the TAA lost any

Aboriginal rights they once had in n'Daki Menan through their supposed adherence to the

Robinson-Huron Treaty. While Ontario is willing to allocate the First Nation a bigger reserve, the province is unwilling to accept that the TAA have contemporary rights in the whole of n'Daki Menan that challenge Ontario's authority as sole land owner. As far as

Ontario is concerned, most of n'Daki Menan is simply Crown land in the right of the province. For members of the TAA, this is an extremely bitter pill to swallow. Many think it only fair that they should have an important say in all activities that take place on n'Daki Menan and do not think it possible that they could have lost their territory without even participating in a treaty. But in spite of the TAA's continued understanding that all of n'Daki Menan, and not merely 130 square miles, is TAA territory, the Supreme Court

381 decision means that a larger reserve is on the negotiating table, while co-existence on shared land is not.

In fact, as negotiations between the First Nation and Ontario have been taking place, so too has an integrated planning process initiated by the provincial government, the purpose of which was to create management plans for five provincial parks and eight conservation reserves in the Temagami region, as well as a recreation management plan for the Crown lands in the area (see Figure 1). The planning process began in June of

2004 when Ontario released the terms of reference for the process, and it was completed in August of 2007 with the approval by the Ministry of Natural Resources of the completed management plans. While TAA members were invited to be a part of the planning team alongside staff members from the Parks and Natural Resources branches of the provincial government, the TAA had no say in defining the terms of the planning initiative. The lands under discussion had already been determined by Ontario as parks, conservation reserves and regular Crown lands, and the planning project focused only on what specific land uses could take place under the province's previously-existing zoning regulations. Thus the TAA and others considered "stakeholders" in the region—local tourist and hunting operators, cottagers, other recreational users, and residents of adjacent

Native and non-Native communities—had the opportunity to express their opinions on topics including the following: whether campsites and portages on unregulated Crown lands should be maintained, and by whom; whether all-terrain vehicles should be allowed on portage trails within the planning area; whether house boaters should be allowed to

382 use campsites on Lake Temagami; and whether motorboats should be allowed within

Lady Evelyn-Smoothwater Provincial Park.4 Although Ontario acknowledged that the area covered within the planning process comprised part of the TAA's "traditional territory," the province simultaneously insisted that "the Temagami Land Claim is entirely separate from the integrated planning process."5 The reason, according to

Ontario, that the land claim had nothing to do with the planning process was that the province had left the lands likely to comprise the TAA's new reserve out of the area considered within the plan. By separating the planning process from the TAA's land claim, and by defining the land claim area as encompassing only the land within the potential new reserve, Ontario revealed that the province had no intention of allowing the

TAA to participate in the stewardship of n'Daki Menan in any meaningful way. While

Ontario found it "important to note" that the TAA had an "ongoing relationship with the land," the government also firmly delimited the scope of that relationship, making it clear that "Crown lands make up almost 96% of the land in the Temagami area."6

Outside the provincial parks and conservation reserves, forestry also continues in

Temagami. Although a recent document by the Ministry of Natural Resources is quick to point out that "significant proportions of the Temagami Crown Management Unit are currently in protected status," the majority of Crown lands remain open to logging, and the MNR intends to increase yearly harvesting levels in its next forest management plan, which will take effect in 2009.7 Within the new management plan, the Temagami region appears again as a site of timber nature to be managed by the provincial government in

383 the best interest of the public. Not surprisingly, maximizing wood supply is the province's key management objective. But in a political climate where it is no longer publicly acceptable to manage forests only as timber producers, the management plan also includes the goals of protecting wildlife habitat and maintaining old-growth characteristics, so long as these objectives do not interfere with "harvest flow policy constraints," which dictate that the wood supply to industry cannot drop more than ten percent.8 The TAA remain separate from their territory in a forest management plan that posits an external Temagami nature to be managed using the most up-to-date science and computer modelling techniques.

There exist other possibilities for relationships among Aboriginal and non-

Aboriginal peoples and governments and the non-human world that we live with and inhabit than those reflected both in current negotiations between Ontario and the TAA and in Ontario's strategies for managing the Temagami region. If nature is not an external entity to be managed as a tourist destination or timber commodity, and is instead inextricably linked to multiple cultures and histories, then recognizing these inevitable connections is a necessary part of beginning new, or rather renewed, relationships. The

Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples offers some interesting possibilities for conceptualizing ways that Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal peoples might live respectfully within and together with the non-human world that we share.9

The federal government created the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples

(RCAP) in 1991 following the demise of the Meech Lake Accord and the standoff

384 between Mohawk people and the Canadian army at Kanesatake (Oka). RCAP's wide- ranging mandate included an investigation of the evolution of relationships among

Aboriginal peoples, the Canadian government and Canadian society as a whole, and the

Commissioners were expected to propose specific solutions to problems plaguing those relationships today. After four years of consultations with Aboriginal communities across

Canada, many of which lasted several days, and following much research and reflection, the Commissioners produced a five-volume, over 3500-page report that called for sweeping changes to the relationships investigated in the Commission. One major focus of the report was past, present and potential future relationships among Aboriginal peoples, newcomers and land. The Commissioners' consultations led them to understand that Aboriginal traditions teach that peoples whom the Creator placed in particular locations have a sacred duty to maintain the balance between human and other-than- human beings within those lands. From the perspective of many Aboriginal people, the sacredness of this obligation makes unfathomable the idea that First Nations relinquished their lands to imperial or Canadian powers through treaty or otherwise. Instead, treaty- making processes provided instruments through which newcomers could become incorporated into already-existing relations between Aboriginal peoples and the lands they stewarded. Treaties thus stand not for the surrendering of land by one group to another, but for the intention to share land among members of the different parties to the treaty. From this point of view, it is little wonder that First Nations across Canada, including the TAA, have expressed discomfort with the idea that they must cede their

385 rights to their traditional territories in order to settle ongoing land claims with Canadian governments. The RCAP report concurs with Aboriginal people that the severing of ties between First Nations and their territories has no place in just future relationships among

Aboriginal peoples, non-Native people and the land that we have come to share.

The report proposes instead that such future relationships should be based upon four basic principles: mutual recognition, mutual respect, sharing and mutual responsibility.10 In explicating these principles, the report repeatedly emphasizes the importance of understanding past relationships and events in order to move toward renewed relationships in the present and future. Mutual recognition, for instance, requires that non-Aboriginal Canadians comprehend that Aboriginal peoples are the original inhabitants and stewards of this land, and that, flowing from this unique position, they have distinctive rights and responsibilities in the land.11 Mutual recognition thus means for non-Native people looking at history differently than we are used to doing, grasping, for instance, the significance of the fact that this land was neither empty nor wild prior to

European occupation. From the principle of mutual recognition, mutual respect is to follow, extending beyond relationships among different groups of humans to include respect for all the beings that make up the world. Suppression of rather than respect for

Aboriginal peoples, languages, cultures and ways of life has dominated Canadian government policy and mainstream culture for centuries. Building a culture of respect requires an understanding of this history and its consequences, particularly its consequences for the Aboriginal individuals and communities continuing to suffer from a

386 system where cultural difference has been coded as Aboriginal deficiency. The principles of sharing and mutual responsibility relate directly to land. Non-Native

Canadians are asked to examine the processes through which Aboriginal lands became part of the Canadian nation, regularly without the consent and against the wishes of various First Nations. A renewed relationship thus demands that Aboriginal peoples regain access to and control over a fair proportion of the land that has been taken from them.14 Mutual responsibility, based on recognition, respect and sharing, is to include a duty for Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people to act responsibly toward one another and toward the land we share.

What strikes me particularly about the report of the Royal Commission is the extent to which its recommendations echo what the TAA have suggested for generations.

When Chief Aleck Paul chastised the Canadian government in 1913 for selling licences to sport hunters while preventing TAA members from taking animals for food, for example, he did so by emphasizing the four principles discussed in the Commission's report. He recognized the authority of the federal government to regulate its own citizens, while insisting that the TAA did not need to be watched by Canadian authorities since the

First Nation had its own systems of taking care of the land. At the same time, Chief Paul insisted upon a respectful sharing of n'Daki Menan and expressed his displeasure with the government for selling fish and islands within n'Daki Menan without compensating the TAA. Finally, he highlighted the TAA's responsibility as stewards of the land to ensure the future continuity of both the TAA and n'Daki Menan. Almost thirty years

387 later, Joe Friday expressed similar sentiments when he suggested that the province of

Ontario and the TAA manage the Temagami region jointly. Friday's proposal indicated that he recognized the province as a political entity and expressed the TAA's frustration that Ontario had not similarly recognized the TAA or respected their rights and responsibilities toward n'Daki Menan. Yet he also demonstrated that the TAA remained open to the possibility of sharing n'Daki Menan in a way that would mutually benefit the province and the TAA. Currently, TAA members continue to express the importance of mutual recognition between the TAA and non-Native authorities. Members of the First

Nation want to be treated with respect by non-Native governments regarding issues that affect them and their territory, and they want to be allowed to have shared responsibility for all of n'Daki Menan.

The report of the Royal Commission indicates that First Nations across Canada have long expressed similar hopes and aspirations. The report's concrete recommendations based on the principles outlined above also show that the goals expressed by Aboriginal communities and reflected in the Commission are not outrageous or likely to cause the collapse of the Canadian nation, but are feasible and have the possibility of leading toward greater social and environmental justice in what would be a very different Canada. I do not mean here to argue that the nation-form as we know it is necessarily the political formation that will lead to greater justice.16 Rather, I want to emphasize the point that the recommendations of the Royal Commission need not merely sit on a shelf sounding nice to those who happen to come across them in their research, as they have done for the most part in the over ten years since their publication.

The practicality of the recommendations is not the problem. The lack of political will, particularly on the part of provincial governments, to bring the recommendations into effect, however, remains a reality, even as Aboriginal rights are now protected under the

Constitution Act, 1982, and Supreme Court decisions more regularly fall in favour of

First Nations.17 It is my hope that this thesis has shown that it is well past time for non-

Native people living in what has become Canada to listen to the concerns of Aboriginal individuals and communities and to support First Nations' quests for self-determination, which necessarily include First Nations-driven relationships with land.

An investigation of the historical discourses and practices through which one place, n'Daki Menan, transitioned from the homeland of the TAA to a part of the

Canadian wilderness suggests the need for non-Native people to let go of the idea of national wilderness and the exclusionary practices with which it is associated. Although the Canadian wilderness is ostensibly an empty space, it is in fact absolutely full: full of timber and other resources available for the taking; full of Euro-Canadian cultural expectations about the Canadian wilderness, a space that has historically included a wild yet fading Aboriginal presence for wealthy white men to encounter; and full of a similarly racist logic that has traditionally excluded people of colour from the Canadian nation. As M. Nourbese Philip and her colleagues have made clear, there is no room for people of colour in a mythic wilderness created primarily by and for Euro-Canadian men.18 There is no room either within a wilderness framework for Aboriginal self-

389 determination, or even for an Aboriginal presence in the present-day. And as explored in chapter 1, neither does wilderness equip us to live responsibly within the complex socio- ecological worlds we inhabit. It seems, then, that to the extent that Canadian wilderness excludes people of colour, the contemporary existence of Aboriginal peoples, and livable relationships with the other-than-human world, the movement toward greater justice can leave no room for Canadian wilderness.

The principles put forward in the Royal Commission report express the possibility that different kinds of relationships than those that have dominated the past might shape future relations among the differently located humans, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal alike, and the non-human world that we have come to inhabit together. Mutual recognition, for instance, means not only recognizing the interconnections between

Aboriginal and Euro-Canadian histories, but attending as well to how the histories of the immigrants of colour who have also played important roles in the shaping of this land entwine with these other stories. These various histories and their connections must be recognized so that we may understand that contemporary patterns of exclusion from or marginalization within the Canadian nation are products of history rather than nature. It seems quite appropriate that renewed relationships among the diverse group of humans and other-than-humans inhabiting what has become Canada should be based upon principles that have long existed within Aboriginal traditions. While these traditions have survived to the present in spite of the assimilationist and genocidal policies and practices

390 of imperial and Canadian governments, perhaps it is now possible that they might be allowed to flourish as the foundation of a just society.

391 Endnotes

Abbreviations Used in Notes

AO Archives of Ontario BITT Bear Island Trial Transcript INAC Indian and Northern Affairs Canada LAC Library and Archives Canada MNR Ministry of Natural Resources, Ontario ONAS Ontario Native Affairs Secretariat SGIA Superintendent General of Indian Affairs TAA Teme-Augama Anishnabai

Notes to the Introduction

1. Constitution Act, 1867, sections 91 (24), 92(5), 92A. 2. See Dickason, Canada's First Nations, especially "Canada When Europeans Arrived." 3. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 3. 4. Speck, Family Hunting Territories and Social Life; Trails in Time, "Traditional Land Use," 47-48. 5. Canada, Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. 6. See Temagami First Nation, "Membership Initiative." 7. See Canada, Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, Volume 1, xiv- xv.

Notes to Chapter 1

1. For details on this controversy, see Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 105-106; Killan, Protected Places. 2. This summary comes from the following sources: Temiskaming Speaker, "Environmentalist's Lawyer Slams MNR Sham"; Temiskaming Speaker, "Red Squirrel Debate Held"; Wight, "Another Look at Red Squirrel Road"; Temiskaming Speaker, "Review Planned for Red Squirrel Road Extension"; Temiskaming Speaker, "Consultants to Consider All Sides"; Young, "Extending Red Squirrel Is Key"; Young, "Tourist Operators Seek Alternatives"; Temiskaming Speaker, "Public Meetings on Red Squirrel"; Israelson, "Wilderness-Area Road Plan Attacked"; Israelson, "Wilderness Area Put on World Lisf; Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 281-284; Killan, The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 105-106. 3. Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 106. 392 4. Israelson, "Atwood Urges Stop to Plans"; Israelson, "Atwood Takes up Her Pen"; Atwood, "Profiting by Our Wilderness." 5. Temple, "Logging Approved in Virgin Forest"; Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 106. 6. Israelson, "'War' Waged over Future of Ontario's Wilderness"; Keating, "Kerrio Gives Pledge"; Toronto Star, "Save This Park"; Israelson, "Bomber Training Called a Threat." 7. Israelson, "Atwood Takes up Her Pen." 8. Israelson, "Conservationists Set for Showdown"; Keating, "Battle over Logging in Wilderness"; Israelson," 'War' Waged over Future of Ontario's Wilderness." 9. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 284; Bociurkiw, "Land Use Restriction Draws Ire." 10. Toronto Star, "Temagami Area Working Group"; Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 284-285; Israelson, "Committee Formed to Settle Temagami Issue"; Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 107-108; Temple, "Wilderness Committee Breaks Up"; King, "Panel on Future Use of Wilderness"; Temple, "Temagami Rivals at Loggerheads"; McLaren, "Wilderness Use to Test Cabinef; Temple, "Province Allows Logging." 11. Bociurkiw, "Land Use Restriction Draws Ire"; Israelson, "Where Will We Put Garbage?" 12. Israelson, "Committee Formed to Settle Temagami Issue"; Israelson, "'War' Waged Over Future of Ontario's Wilderness"; Israelson, "Kerrio Is Blowing the Temagami Fight"; O'Connor, "Two Sides in Temagami"; Israelson, "Kerrio Calls Halt to Controversial Road in Wilds." 13. Atwood, "Profiting by Our Wilderness." 14. Temple, "Temagami: One Big Family's Quarrel." 15. Speirs, "Indians Suffer." 16. Morrison, "Temagami Indians' Historic Land Claim." It is not surprising that James Morrison wrote such an article. He was very familiar with the history of the TAA's claim from the research that he conducted for the TAA in preparation for the First Nation's land claim court case. This case is the topic of chapter 5. 17. McLaren, "Group Sues Ontario"; Back, "Endangered Ecosystem"; Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 113. 18. Dutton, "51 Arrested in Temagami Protest"; Kenna, "Temagami Logging Approval"; Spears, "Temagami Indians Told to End Blockade." 19. Quinby, "Temagami Old Growth Studies (1989-1992)." See also Quinby, "Old Growth Forest Survey." 20. Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 113. 21. Haliechuk and Mitchell, "Court Ruling on Logging Road"; Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 112; Shimko, "Rally Urges Liberals to Save Wilderness." 22. Wilson, "Indians' Temagami Claim Dismissed"; McLaren, "New Round of Temagami Land-Claim Talks." 393 23. McLaren, "Ontario Government Starts Cutting Trees." 24. Henton, "Province Can Start Temagami Road Work; Toronto Star, "Temagami Blockade Planned"; Toronto Star, "Way Cleared for Protest"; Allen, "Court Dismisses Bid to Halt Blockade"; Henton," Group Endures Trip." 25. Henton, "Temagami's Life Hangs by Thread"; Appleby and Mackie, "Rae among 16 Arrested"; Henton, "Rae Arrested at Logging Protesf; Mackie, "More Arrests in Temagami Protests"; Toronto Star, "Police Arrest 30 More"; Henton, "Work Continues on Logging Road"; Henton, "Confrontation at Temagami Feared"; Henton, "The Two Sides of Temagami." 26. Killan, "The Development of a Wilderness Park System," 112; Toronto Star, "Temagami —Two More Protesters Were Arrested." 27. Toronto Star, "Temagami Logging Road Halted as Ontario Awaits Court Ruling"; Grant and Mackie, "Temagami Road Construction Halted"; Henton, "Extension of Logging Road"; Claridge, "Temagami Logging Road Called 'Last Straw'"; Mitchell, "Indians Fail to Halt Road"; Walkom, "Temagami Battle"; Claridge, "Judge Denies Bid by Indian Band"; Henton," Crews Resume Work"; Henton," Band Evicts Environmentalists." 28. Grant, "Natives to Resume Logging Road Blockades"; Henton, "Province Asks Court to Ban Road Blockade"; Henton, "49 Arrested"; Globe and Mail, "46 Protesters Arrested"; Henton, "Fifteen Arrested"; Canadian Press, "Nine People Arrested"; Henton, "Police Charge 3 Indian Chiefs"; Canadian Press, "19 Jailed"; Canadian Press, "Five Protesters Charged"; Canadian Press, "13 People Arrested"; Henton, "Temagami Braces for Next Round"; "Blockade: Red Squirrel and Liskeard Lumber Road"; Ferguson, "Temagami Reprieve Gives Natives Control." 29. Hodgins, "The Temagami Blockades of 1989." 30. Allen, "Ministry Wants Freeze on Temagami Logging." 31. Back, "Endangered Ecosystem." 32. Ontario, Ministry of Natural Resources, "Province and Teme-Augama Anishnabai Sign"; Allen," Ontario Gives Natives Veto." 33. Israelson, "Peterson's Big Winner in Forest Deal." 34. Israelson, "Temagami Not Yet Saved, Group Says"; Globe and Mail, "Stewardship Council Agreement Fails to Soothe All Temagami Factions." For a timeline of environmentalist activities related to Temagami see, http://www.ottertooth.com/Temagami/Milestones/tem_miles_env2.htm. This is the website of Brian Back, one of the founders of the Temagami Wilderness Society. 35. Globe and Mail, "Temagami Band Loses Claim." 36. In 2006,1 sat in on many negotiations meetings between the province and the TAA. Although the content of the meetings is confidential, the Ontario Ministry of Aboriginal Affairs keeps information about the Temagami negotiations on its website, available at http://www.aboriginalaffairs.gov.on.ca/english/negotiate/temagami/temagami.htm. 37. Jones, Sport and Pleasure in the Virgin Wilds, 3, 4. 38. Lampman, "Temagami." 394 39. "Experience Temagami: Canoeing"; "Experience Temagami: Introduction." 40. "Smoothwater: Temagami Excellence in Outdoor Adventure and Regional Cuisine." 41. "Great Ontario Outdoor Adventures: Signature Landscapes." 42. Earthroots. "Home page." 43. See Cronon, "The Trouble with Wilderness." I will discuss Cronon's article in further depth below. 44. Kelly, "Let the Lady Evelyn Be"; Pryer, "Preserve the Wilderness of Temagami"; Temagami Outfitting Company, "Welcome to Temagami"; Israelson, "Disputed Road Will Help"; Watson, "Minister Putting 180 Jobs at Risk"; Atwood, "Profiting by Our Wilderness." 45. Temple, "Temagami: One Big Family's Quarrel"; Dutton, "Ontario Indians Block Logging Road"; Speirs, "Temagami Band Finally Gets More." The TAA's claim to ownership in particular shall be a topic taken up in chapter 5. 46. Smith, "Indigenous Feminist Perspectives on Reparations." Andrea Smith is the author of Conquest: Sexual Violence and American Indian Genocide (Boston: South End Press, 2005). 47. Cronon, "The Trouble with Wilderness," 81 (emphasis in original). 48. Cronon," The Trouble with Wilderness," 85. 49. Wynn, "Troubles with Nature," xxi. 50. Sandilands, "Between the Local and the Global," 140. 51. For critical accounts of this conflict, see Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest; Magnusson and Shaw, A Political Space. 52. The assumption that forest industry workers necessarily have similar interests as do their bosses does not hold up to scrutiny. See Dunk, It's a Working Man's Town; Dunk, "Talking about Trees." 53. For a critical discussion of relationships between environmentalism and human labour in nature, see White, "Are You an Environmentalist." 54. For an excellent critique of this idea, see Clare, Exile and Pride. 55. Atwood, "Profiting by Our Wilderness." 56. Haliechuk,"Court Orders Halt." 57. Israelson, "Atwood Takes up Her Pen"; Israelson, "'War' Waged over Future of Ontario's Wilderness." 58. Camp Wabun, "Canadian Wilderness Canoe Trips"; Camp Keewaydin, "Ojibway Family Lodge." 59. Earthroots, "Wilderness Defenders Update"; "Experience Temagami: Introduction." 60. Mackey, The House of Difference. 61. Ibid. As Mackey also argues, however, multiculturalism policy does not mean the end of racism in Canada. She shows how discourses of multiculturalism have relied on and reinscribed the racial hierarchies and racist exclusions of earlier forms of Canadian nationalism. See also Bannerji, The Dark Side of the Nation. 62. Mackey, "Death by Landscape."

395 63. Members included Lawren Harris, J. E. H. MacDonald, Arthur Lismer, Frederick Varley, Frank Johnston, Franklin Carmichael and A. Y. Jackson. Tom Thomson, whose name and artwork are often associated with the Group, was not actually a member because he died before the Group formed. For further information about the Group of Seven, see the McMichael Canadian Art Collection website, available at http://www.mcmichael.com/collection/seven/index.cfm. The McMichael Gallery, located in Kleinburg, Ontario, houses many works by members of the Group of Seven. 64. Berger, "The True North." 65. For a collection of multiple perspectives on Emily Can* and her work, see Butvin and Sirois, Emily Carr: New Perspectives on a Canadian Icon. 66. Claire Campbell states that in order to provide Canada with impressive national symbols, artists sought out and depicted places that seemed particularly Canadian. Campbell argues this process served to elevate regional landscapes, transforming them into national art. See Campbell, Shaped by the West Wind, 145. 67. Hage, White Nation. 68. Berlant, The Anatomy of National Fantasy, 5. 69. Sandilands, "Ecological Integrity and National Narrative," 137. 70. See Bordo, "Jack Pine"; Crosby, "Construction of the Imaginary Indian"; Braun, "BC Seeing/Seeing BC"; Moray, Unsettling Encounters. Emily Carr and the Group have not erased Aboriginal peoples in similar ways, however. While Carr is most well known for her paintings of wilderness landscapes which sometimes incorporate stylized carved Native figures, she also painted many First Nations villages and totem poles. She is criticized, though, for representing Native culture as static and dying and in this way participating in the cultural production that was part and parcel of colonial rule. Members of the Group of Seven, on the other hand, played a role in colonialism by ignoring First Nations peoples and cultures in their work. 71. Berger," The True North," 6. 72. Cited in Berger, "The True North," 6. 73. Berger, "The True North," 9-11. 74. Ibid., 10. 75. Smith, "Immigration and Nation-Building," 55. 76. Mackey, The House of Difference, 30. 77. Ibid., 42. 78. Ibid., 40-41. 79. Cited in Berger," The True North," 21. 80. For an excellent analysis of the naturalization of the nation and racialized and gendered social relations in Banff National Park, see Sandilands, "Where the Mountain Men Meet the Lesbian Rangers." 81. This is the title of Alexander Wilson's book on the topic. See Wilson, The Culture of Nature. 82. King, The Truth about Stories.

396 83. Cronon's "The Trouble with Wilderness" is now more than 10 years old. In 1989, Ramachandra Guha made a similarly powerful argument about the imperialism of importing western ideas of wilderness into non-western contexts. See Guha, "Radical American Environmentalism." 84. Foucault, "Nietzsche, Genealogy, History"; Mills, Michel Foucault, 25. 85. Mills, Michel Foucault, 24. 86. Foucault," Questions of Method," 76. 87. Mills, Michel Foucault, 24. 88. Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, 49. 89. Mills, Discourse, 54-55. 90. Foucault, "The Discourse on Language," 219-220. 91. During my time on n'Daki Menan, I conducted two formal interviews with TAA members on the general theme of tourism. I also had the opportunity to listen to interviews with TAA elders that were recorded during the 1970s. Some of what I learned from these interviews appears in chapter 3. 92. See Cruikshank, Do Glaciers Listen?. In it, Cruikshank shows that within Athapaskan and Tlingit oral traditions, relationships between people and a changing landscape figure more prominently than do encounters between local peoples and European explorers. In explorers' narratives, on the other hand, much emphasis is placed on descriptions of local people. 93. See, for example, Teme-Augama Anishnabai, "The Native Dimension," 147-151. At the National Aboriginal Day of Action in June of 2007, which I attended in Temagami, TAA members gave out information brochures which featured a very similar timeline. The Day of Action also included an information session about the history of the TAA's claim, and the important dates discussed were the same as those on the brochure. 94. Anderson, Imagined Communities. 95. Ibid., 5. 96. Ibid., 6, 7 (quotation from 7). 97. Ibid., 44-^15. 98. Miles and Brown, Racism, 142. 99. Ibid., 144-146. 100. Balibar, "The Nation Form." 101. Ibid., 227, 221. 102. Ibid., 228. 103. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 98. 104. Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism; McLeod, Beginning Postcolonialism. 105. Said, Orientalism. 106. Davin, "Imperialism and Motherhood." 107. See Abele and Stasiulis, "Canada as a 'White Settler Colony'"; Bannerji, "Geography Lessons"; Dua, "Racializing Imperial Canada"; Dua and Robertson, Scratching the Surface; Furniss, The Burden of History; Mackey, The House of Difference; Perry, On the Edge of Empire; Razack, Looking White People in the Eye; 397 Razack, "Simple Logic ; Stasmlis and Jhappan, 'The Fractious Politics of a Settler Society"; Thobani, Exalted Subjects. 108. Thobani, Exalted Subjects. 109. On racism in Canadian law, see Backhouse, Colour-Coded. 110. See Bhabha, "DissemiNation," 297. 111. See Harris, Making Native Space. 112. See Bolaria and Li, Racial Oppression in Canada; Satzewich and Liodakis, Race and Ethnicity in Canada. 113. See Henderson, Treaty Rights in the Constitution of Canada; Anderson and Lawrence, Strong Women Stories:, Lawrence, "Real" Indians and Others; Knight, Indians at Work. 114. Abele and Stasiulis, "Canada as a 'White Settler Colony,"' 241. 115. Dua, "Racializing Imperial Canada," 121. 116. Bolaria and Li, Racial Oppression in Canada; Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 90, 293n75. 117. Adachi, The Enemy That Never Was, 27. 118. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 84-86. 119. Ibid., 92-93. 120. Buchignani and Indra, Continuous Journey; Kazimi, Continuous Journey. 121. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 95-96. 122. Ibid., 150. 123. Hawkins, Critical Years in Immigration; Jakubowski, Immigration and the Legalization of Racism. 124. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 146. 125. Ibid., 150-152. 126. Ibid., 97. 127. Colder v. Attorney-General of British Columbia, [1973] S.C.R. 313. 128. On the Nisga'a case and subsequent treaty, see Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 79-83; Indian and Northern Affairs Canada, "Fact Sheet: The Nisga'a Treaty." On the White Paper, see Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 83-84; Dickason, Canada's First Nations, 377-381. 129. Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 91. 130. For a discussion of Aboriginal rights and the Constitution Act, 1982, see Asch, Home and Native Land; Macklem, Indigenous Difference and the Constitution of Canada; Henderson, Treaty Rights in the Constitution of Canada. For commentary on cases related to Aboriginal rights, see Bell, "New Directions." The legal literature on this topic is vast and is discussed further in chapter 5. Commentators tend to agree that while the courts may be useful for furthering Aboriginal rights up to a point, the work of negotiating co-existence between First Nations and newcomers will have to take place in the political rather than the legal arena. See also Harris, Making Native Space, 296-297. 131. See Bannerji. The Dark Side of the Nation; Mackey, The House of Difference; Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 143-175. For similar arguments about Australian multiculturalism, see Ahmed, Strange Encounters; Hage, White Nation. 132. In The Dark Side of the Nation, Himani Bannerji notes that multiculturalism also makes political alliances among racialized groups difficult because it divides these groups along cultural lines rather than highlighting their shared experiences of discrimination within the nation. 133. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 217-247. 134. Layoun, Wedded to the Land?, 51. 135. Ibid., 14. 136. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 359. On the relationships between gender and the nation, see also Yuval-Davis, Gender and Nation. 137. Dua," Racializing Imperial Canada." 138. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 84-85. 139. Burton, Burdens of History. 140. Lawrence, "Real" Indians and Others. 141. See Burton, Gender, Sexuality, and Colonial Modernities; Parry, "Problems in Current Theories." 142. See Burton, Gender, Sexuality, and Colonial Modernities; Hall, "Old and New Identities"; McClintock, "The Angel of Progress"; McClintock, Imperial Leather; Mohanram, Black Body; Montrose, "The Work of Gender"; Pratt, Imperial Eyes; Spivak, The Spivak Reader; Stoler, Race and the Education of Desire; Trinh, Woman, Native, Other. 143. Frankenberg and Mani, "Crosscurrents, Crosstalk"; Hall, "When Was the Postcolonial?"; McClintock," The Angel of Progress." 144. There are exceptions, of course. See Berger, "The True North"; Mackey, "Death by Landscape"; Mawani, "Genealogies of the Land"; Sandilands, "Where the Mountain Men Meet the Lesbian Rangers"; Thobani, Exalted Subjects. 145. The understanding of race and sex/gender as social constructions is by now well explored. See Essed and Goldberg, Race Critical Theories; Butler, Bodies That Matter; Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs and Women. 146. Lawrence and Dua, "Decolonizing Antiracism." For a related critique of postcolonial theory, see Weaver, "From I-Hermeneutics to We-Hermeneutics." 147. Haraway, Primate Visions, 15. Scholarly attention to the social construction of nature has come from a number of directions, including feminist theory, environmental history, geography, anthropology and political ecology. Texts that particularly shape my thinking on this topic are: Anderson, "Culture and Nature at the Adelaide Zoo"; Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest; Cronon, Uncommon Ground; Haraway, Primate Vision; Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs and Women; Haraway, "The Promises of Monsters"; Moore, Kosek, and Pandian, Race, Nature, and the Politics of Difference. In recent years, geographers in particular have contributed a great deal to the literature on social nature. Sarah Whatmore suggests that perhaps it is because the discipline of geography straddles 399 the interface between nature and society that the turn to questions of nature have held a specific resonance for geographers. See Whatmore, Hybrid Geographies. For a survey of geographical work on social nature, see Castree and Braun, Social Nature. 148. Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest, ix-x. 149. In a recent work, Kay Anderson traces the longstanding European concern with human distinctiveness, showing how western humanism held the human's ability to transcend internal and external nature as key to human distinctiveness. She contends that a challenge to this view came from British encounters with Australian Aboriginal peoples, who, according to British colonists, showed no signs of developing from savagery to civilization, even with British interventions beginning in the late 1700s. This, according to Anderson, caused a crisis in existing ideas about what it meant to be human. But this crisis, instead of leading to a fundamental questioning of human distinctiveness, precipitated the oft-discussed but ill-explained nineteenth century shift from environmental to racial determinism in colonial racism. See Anderson, Race and the Crisis of Humanism. 150. Haraway, Primate Visions, 1. 151. Cronon, "The Trouble with Wilderness," 69. 152. See Soule and Lease, Reinventing Nature? 153. See Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest; Cronon, "The Trouble with Wilderness"; Braun and Castree, Remaking Reality; Haraway, "The Promises of Monsters." 154. Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest, 10; Cronon, "The Trouble with Wilderness," 85. 155. Cronon, "The Trouble with Wilderness," especially 78-79. 156. Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest, 13 (emphasis in original). 157. See, for example, Adamson, Evans and Stein, The Environmental Justice Reader; Bullard, The Quest for Environmental Justice; LaDuke, All Our Relations; Pulido, Environmentalism and Economic Justice; Shiva, Earth Democracy. 158. Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest, 71. 159. Ibid., 36-43. 160. Ibid., 42. 161. Ibid., 43. 162. Ibid., 22. 163. Ibid., 22. 164. Harris, Making Native Space, 265. 165. Ibid., xvii. 166. Ibid., 261,266. 167. Moore, Pandian, and Kosek, "Introduction: The Cultural Politics of Race and Nature," 1. 168. Ibid., 2-3. 169. Ibid., 3 (emphasis in original). 170. Smith, "Nature at the Millennium," 273. 171. Castree and Braun, "Preface," xii. 172. Anderson, "The Nature of'Race.'" 400 173. Cited in Darier, "Foucault and the Environment," 6. 174. Darier, "Foucault and the Environment." 175. Agrawal, Environmentality; Braun, "Producing Vertical Territory"; Luke, "Environmentality as Green Governmentality"; Rutherford, "The Entry of Life into History"; Peace, "Governing the Environment"; Rutherford, "Green Governmentality." 176. These include studies on topics as diverse as the British Columbia forest (Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest), parks (Hermer, Regulating Eden), linguistic nationalism (Linke, "There Is a Land"), and race (Anderson, "The Nature of 'Race'"). It has been pointed out, however, that feminists and historians of Africa began long before Foucault to conduct the kinds of studies which have become associated with Foucault. See Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism, 55-56. 177. Foucault," Questions of Method," 76. 178. Haraway, Primate Visions, 15. 179. Haraway, "The Promises of Monsters," 324. 180. Haraway, Primate Visions, 13. 181. Sandilands, The GoodNatured Feminist, 79. 182. See Braun, The Intemperate Rainforest, especially "Saving Clayoquot." 183. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 4. 184. A similar account of the more recent Temagami conflicts has also been written. See Bray and Thomson, Temagami: A Debate on Wilderness. 185. Indeed, both authors participated in the 1989 TAA blockade, and were arrested for their trouble. Hodgins, who is president of Camp Wanapitei, a summer camp on Lake Temagami purchased by the Hodgins family in 1956, also allowed the TAA to use Camp Wanapitei as a base camp for the 1989 blockade. See Hodgins, "The Temagami Blockades of 1989"; Camp Wanapitei, "History of Wanapitei." Yet there also exists some indication that the authors' support for the TAA depends upon the TAA's performance of a restricted definition of Aboriginality. An article co-authored by Hodgins, for example, asserts that "there is an intrinsic environmental quality to the aboriginal Land Claim," and that "traditional Euro-Canadian environmentalists do not possess a monopoly on preservation. Recognizing the right of self-governing indigenous people to the special use and co-management of much of their ancestral lands holds out the promise of a new stewardship grounded injustice." See Hodgins and Bordo, "Wilderness, Aboriginal Presence and the Land Claim," 68, 77. While these words reflect a commitment to justice and self-government for First Nations, they also express the idea that Aboriginal land claims are inherently good for the environment and connect in a necessary way to the preservationist interests of "traditional" Euro-Canadian environmentalists. This is a dangerous sentiment, for it echoes the colonialist logic that Aboriginal peoples are inherently closer to nature than Europeans, and therefore not full humans capable of owning land. See Escobar, "Whose Knowledge, Whose Nature?'; Katz, "Whose Nature, Whose Culture?." The not uncommon assumption within environmentalist discourse that Aboriginal peoples exist as ecological beings is one reason that Aboriginal struggles do not map easily onto environmentalist struggles. First Nations peoples do not generally 401 appreciate environmentalist attempts to circumscribe the use to which Aboriginal peoples may put their lands. As Marie Wilson states in a comment about how indigenous and environmentalist perspectives on land differ, "I have this awful feeling that when we are finished dealing with the courts and our land claims, we will then have to battle the environmentalists and they will not understand why." See Wilson, "Wings of the Eagle," 217. 186. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 254-255. 187. Lawson, "Environmental Interests and the Forest Products Industry." See also Lawson, "Nastawgan or Not?," 189-201. 188. Lawson, "Nastawgan or Not?," 191. 189. Ibid., 198. 190. Lawson, "Environmental Interests and the Forest Products Industry," 130-131. 191. Lawson, "Nastawgan or Not?," 193, 198. 192. Pratt, Imperial Eyes. Native guides have done much more than simply leading explorers on journeys. As Pratt explains, not only did guides carry explorers' equipment and personal belongings, but sometimes they even carried explorers. It was the normal practice, for example, for Andean guides to carry Europeans across the mountains on their backs (see image at page 154 of Imperial Eyes). 193. Theriault, Moose to Moccasins. 194. Ibid., 69. 195. The Silent Enemy. This film is a good example of a moment in the making of Temagami nature that I chose not to analyse. In particular, the fact that TAA members built the sets and made the outfits for a film written and directed by non-Native people and made for a non-Native audience about "authentic" pre-contact Aboriginal life (in which, conveniently, Aboriginal peoples are represented as nearly starving to death) makes this a tempting site to study the production of race and nature. I decided not to analyse the film, however, mainly because, unlike other moments that I did select, the film did not have a significant direct impact on TAA life. According to Theriault, helping with the making The Silent Enemy provided members of the TAA with a small income and was a mildly interesting thing to take part in, but was otherwise not very important. Certainly The Silent Enemy did not have as significant a personal impact on Theriault as did her later work in Boston and New York for a Sportsman's Show, where her job was to demonstrate "native customs" for American audiences. See Theriault, Moose to Moccasins, 98. Arguably, The Silent Enemy and the Sportsman's Show participated equally in the creation of an imaginary Indian for non-Native people to consume (see King, "Let Me Entertain You"), but this was not Theriault's concern. For her, the Sportsman's Show was hugely important because, unbeknownst to her, her baby Virginia who had accompanied her to the show was sick with rickets and pneumonia. While in Boston, Theriault's boss at the show took Virginia to the hospital, where the baby remained for two weeks. After her stay in the hospital, Virginia recovered well. Had she not gone to the hospital, Virginia would have died from her illnesses. Theriault, Moose to Moccasins, 94-100. 402 196. Theriault, Moose to Moccasins, 70. 197. Potts, "Last-Ditch Defence"; Laronde, "Co-Management of Lands and Resources." 198. Chief Potts relied on the language of sustainable development popular at the time to explain the TAA's land-use philosophy. 199. Speck, Family Hunting Territories and Social Life; Trails in Time, "Traditional Land Use," 47-48. 200. Trails in Time, "Traditional Land Use," 80-89. 201. The Wendaban Stewardship Authority (WSA) was established in 1991 to manage the area over which the road controversy took place. It included six TAA representatives, six Ontario-appointed representatives and a jointly appointed chair. Laronde says that, through meetings of the stewardship authority, she saw a shared land ethic emerge, and she felt glad to see that it was possible for people residing on n'Daki Menan to co- manage the land. Her only fear was that the Ministry of Natural Resources (MNR) would be unable to let go of its power over n'Daki Menan, and would therefore work against the WSA. See Laronde, "Co-Management of Lands and Resources," 101-102. It appears that her fears were well-founded. Bruce Hodgins, an Ontario-appointed representative on the WSA, comments that MNR bureaucracy continuously frustrated the efforts of the WSA. Before this happened, Hodgins was similarly optimistic about the potential of the WSA to co-manage land. See Hodgins, "The Temagami Blockades of 1989," 27-28. 202. See Laronde, "Co-Management of Lands and Resources," 93.

Notes to Chapter 2

1. By then, there was little left of the original forest reserves idea. In 1929, the government changed the name of the forest reserves, calling them provincial forests instead. The name change, however, did not lead to the creation of policy that would allow for the systematic management of these forests. For Hodgins and Benidickson's account of the forest reserve system, see Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 68-107, 153-176. For similar arguments, see also Gillis and Roach, Lost Initiatives; Hodgins, Gillis, and Benidickson, "The Ontario Experiments." 2. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 89-90; Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 186-187. 3. Nelles, Politics of Development, 205-206. 4. Hodgins, Gillis, and Benidickson, "The Ontario Experiments," 90. 5. To be fair, Hodgins and Benidickson do show that the creation of the TFR and provincial regulations under the Forest Reserves Act had negative effects on members of the TAA, including restrictions on their movement through the TFR and their ability to access game and other resources. See Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 136-152. But for the most part in their account, forest conservation in Temagami appears as a laudable, though ultimately unrealized, goal. Because of the authors' decision to deal in separate chapters with the establishment of the forest reserve 403 and the impact of the forest reserve on the TAA, it is difficult for the reader to gain a complete picture of the relationships between forest conservation and impacts of the TFR on the TAA. It thus appears that the two are remotely rather than inextricably connected, a representation that makes it possible for forest conservation to appear an innocent and benevolent activity. 6. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 27. For the development of this argument, see 27-67. 7. Chapter 5 will take up the contested character of these statements. While the TAA argued in court that they had lived as an organized society on n'Daki Menan since time immemorial, the Ontario government disagreed with this claim. The Supreme Court of Canada eventually determined, contrary to the two lower court decisions, that the TAA were indeed the original inhabitants of the region. 8. Indeed, as part of both these processes, members of the TAA have written and commissioned histories of pre-contact TAA life. See "Appellants' Factum Volume 3: History"; Trails in Time, "Traditional Land Use"; Potts, "Last-Ditch Defence"; Laronde, "Co-Management of Lands and Resources." Such stories can also be dangerous, particularly when they are used by non-Native governments, courts and people to position Aboriginal existence as outside of the present moment. See Lawrence, "Real" Indians and Others. 9. Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 7. 10. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 14-19. 11. Chief Cana Chintz to D. Laird, 9 September 1876, Library and Archives Canada (LAC), RG 10, vol. 1998, file 7208 (reel C-l 1131). 12. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 29-30, 35-40. 13. Temagamingue Post, Fur Trade Collection, Archives of Ontario (AO), F 431 (envelope 3), 1874-1886. See also Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 35-40. 14. See Temagamingue Post, Fur Trade Collection, AO; Ontario, Report of the Survey and Exploration, vii, viii, 86. 15. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 50-51. 16. Ontario, Report of the Survey and Exploration, v (emphasis in original); Toronto Daily Star," The Exploration of Northern Ontario." 17. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 22 May 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757, file 27043-9 (reel C-l2048); L. Vankoughnet to C. Skene, 8 June 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 18. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 12 June 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 14 August 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 19. This having been said, see Braun, "Producing Marginality," where he argues that the colonialist logic of a 1990s advertising campaign by a major forestry corporation became possible through and reiterated earlier colonial constructions of BC nature as separate from Aboriginal culture. He analyses the reports and diaries written by Geological Survey of Canada representative George Dawson, who, in the late nineteenth century, travelled much of the BC coast, charting its exploitable resources in isolation from the 404 Aboriginal people whom he also encountered and wrote about on his journeys. Braun shows that, while Dawson's chartings appeared to describe the pre-given truth about the BC coast, they in fact produced the area as a site of natural resources available for the taking through the constitutive erasure of First Nations peoples from their lands. Thus the Geological Survey of Canada was implicated in colonial rule not only in its charting of exploitable resources, and the subsequent exploitation of those resources for the benefit of the nation and the British empire, but also in the prior representation of resource sites as separate from the Aboriginal people living in and using them. Given Braun's analysis, it seems that I might also productively engage with survey reports written about the Temagami region. I have chosen not to, however, in part because I strongly suspect that my analysis would add little to Braun's, and also because, while the resource surveys of Temagami were certainly part of the colonization of the region, they had little impact on the TAA until later, when they played a part in determining that the creation of the TFR was a good idea. As such, these reports comprised part of the series of discursive practices that led to the setting aside of the TFR. While I certainly cannot purport to trace all the colonial threads that came together to produce the region as a natural, national space, I hope that it will become clear throughout this chapter that the creation of the TFR was a central thread in this process. 20. Chief Tonene replaced Chief Cana Chintz as chief in 1878. For a list of TAA chiefs from the 1820s to the 1970s, see Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, Appendix C, 299-300. 21. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 1 March 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 22. Ojibwa (also Ojibwe, Ojibway or Chippewa) is an English version of the Algonquian word Anishnaabe (also Anishnabai, Anishinaabeg, Anishinabek). Anishnabai like the TAA often call themselves by this term rather than the English designation. 23. Morrison, "Report Prepared by Researcher Jim Morrison." For a detailed account of events leading up to and resulting from this event, see Telford, "Aboriginal Resistance in the Mid-Nineteenth Century." 24. Canada, "Copy of the Robinson Treaty." 25. Report of the Vidal Anderson Commission, 5 December 1849, LAC, RG 10, vol. 266 (reel C-12652), 163121-163126. 26. L. Vankoughnet to J. A. Macdonald, 4 May 1883, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 27. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 1 March 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 28. Ibid. 29. Forwarded letter is C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 6 May 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; original is C. Rankin to C. Skene, 22 April 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 30. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 14 August 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 31. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 3 May 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 28 February 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet (enclosure), 28 February 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Skene to J. A. Macdonald, 26 May 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 32. L. Vankoughnet to C. Skene, 18 May 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 405 33. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 14 August 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 34. Chief Tonene to C. Skene, 11 February 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 28 February 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757;; C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet (enclosure), 28 February 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 35. L. Vankoughnet to J. A. Macdonald, 4 April 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 36. L. Vankoughnet to C. Skene, 6 June 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Skene to Chief Tonene, 11 June 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 37. Chief Tonene to C. Skene, 19 August 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 38. J. C. Phipps to C. Skene, 26 August 1882, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; L. Vankoughnet to C. Skene, 16 June 1883, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 39.1 do not mean to suggest that obtaining a reserve was the ideal solution to the TAA's problems. It seems instead from the historical record that the TAA pressured the government to set aside some lands for the First Nation so that its members could make the best of their (less than ideal) situation. 40. Deputy Superintendent General of Indian Affairs to J. C. Phipps, 28 April 1883, LAC, RG 10, vol. 10267, file 411/30-8-6 (reel T-7558). 41. G. B. Abrey to Superintendent General of Indian Affairs (SGIA), 12 February 1885, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; T. Walton to SGIA, 5 September 1884, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 42. G. B. Abrey to SGIA, 12 February 1885, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 43. T. Walton to SGIA, 28 September 1885, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 44. Secretary of State, Canada, to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 13 May 1885, Ontario Ministry of Aboriginal Affairs Archives (ONAS), file 186217 (fiche 1). 45. L. Vankoughnet to T. Walton, 16 October 1885, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 46. Lieutenant Governor of Ontario to Secretary of State, 18 July 1886, ONAS, file 186217. 47. Secretary of State, Canada, to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 27 February 1886, ONAS, file 186217; Secretary of State, Canada, to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 8 July 1886, ONAS, file 186217; G. Powell to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 24 November 1886, ONAS, file 186217; G. Powell to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 18 June 1887, ONAS, file 186217; G. Powell to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 27 October 1888, ONAS, file 186217; G. Powell to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 27 March 1890, ONAS, file 186217; D. C. Scott to A. White, 15 May 1896, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; H. Reed to A. White, 28 September 1896, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Sifton to J. M. Gibson, 20 March 1897, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 48. Lieutenant Governor of Ontario to G. Powell, 26 November 1886, ONAS, file 186217; Lieutenant Governor of Ontario to G. Powell, 20 May 1887, ONAS, file 186217. 49. L. Vankoughnet to R. Sedgewick, 23 May 1889, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; R. Sedgewick to L. Vankoughnet, 28 February 1890. 50. W. D. Hogg, statement of Dominion's case in the arbitration, 10 March 1894, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; O'Connor and Hogg to H. Reed, 11 May 1896, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757.

406 51. D. C. Scott to A. White, 15 May 1896, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; H. Reed to A. White, 28 September 1896, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; C. Sifton to J. M. Gibson, 20 March 1897, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 52. A. White to D. F. MacDonald, 10 April 1894, ONAS, file 186217. 53. Of the eleven page report by MacDonald, six pages are taken up with Chief Dokis's story, which begins with the Chief describing a letter Walton wrote to him to try to convince him to sell the pine timber on his band's reserve (the entire letter from Walton is transcribed into MacDonald's report). When Chief Dokis ignored the letter, Walton became very angry with him and told him that the government would sell the band's pine in spite of the Chief. Chief Dokis, alarmed at this prospect, wrote to the DIA and was reassured that the timber would not be sold without the band's permission. Walton again expressed anger toward Chief Dokis, this time for having written a letter to the DIA without sending it through the proper channels (i.e., through Walton himself), and Chief Dokis informed Walton that he did not consider it necessary to consult the Indian agent in all matters, particularly since he thought that Walton was either helpless or negligent in his duties. Chief Dokis concluded his story by stating that he and his band "will never surrender our right to our timber as long as I live." This story reveals both the determination of Chief Dokis to maintain control of his band's lands and his ability to manipulate a government mission to serve his own interests. It also shows the power that an individual Indian agent had in shaping the lives of the Aboriginal people he "supervised." After Chief Dokis's refusal to sell the timber, Walton would not to visit Lake Nipissing to deliver treaty annuities to the band. After the death of Chief Dokis, the Dokis First Nation was forced to sell its timber in 1908. See Angus, "How the Dokis Indians Protected their Timber." 54. D. F. MacDonald to A. White, 18 September 1894, ONAS, file 186217. 55. T. Walton to H. Reed, 22 March 1894, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; F. Caenikone to T. Walton, 2 April 1894, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Secretary of State, Canada, to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 13 May 1885, ONAS, file 186217; SGIA to the Privy Council, circa 3 March 1890, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 56. T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 31 December 1884, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, film .C1595a, 8-9. 57. G. B. Abrey to SGIA, 12 February 1885, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 31 December 1885, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 8-9; T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 31 December 1886, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 8-9; J. Turner to T. Walton, 31 May 1887, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; W. B. Maclean to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1897, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 30-34. 58. Harris, Making Native Space. 59. Chief Tonene to T. Walton, 11 February 1890, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 60. T. Walton to SGIA, 7 May 1887, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 61. T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1894, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 7-9. 407 62. T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1895, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 5-7. 63. See Beyers and Sandberg, "Canadian Federal Forest Policy"; Gillis, "The Ottawa Lumber Barons"; Gillis and Roach, Lost Initiatives, 68-89; Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth; Lawson, Levy and Sandberg," 'Perpetual Revenues and the Delights of the Primitive'"; Mackay, Heritage Lost; Nelles, Politics of Development; Swift, Cut and Run. 64. Nelles, Politics of Development, 184, 188. See also Swift, Cut and Run, 54. 65. Lower, Settlement and the Forest Frontier. 66. Nelles, Politics of Development, 184. 67. Swift, Cut and Run, 51-52. 68. Nelles, Politics of Development, 184. 69. See Rodgers, Bernhard Eduard Fernow. For a critical analysis of the implementation of a state-driven forestry regime in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Germany, see Scott, "Nature and Space." 70. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 69; Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 156-162, 177-201; Swift, Cut and Run, 52-53. 71. Fernow, "What is Forestry?," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 16. 72. Pinchot, "Principles of Conservation," 42. For information about Pinchot and the American conservation movement, see Hays, Conservation and the Gospel of Efficiency; Miller, Ground Work; Pinkett, Gifford Pinchot. 73. Swift, Cut and Run, 53. 74. Nelles, Politics of Development, 202. 75. Hodgins and Benidickson agree with this statement, and add that this commitment was "fleeting." Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 68. 76. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1899, AO, film B97 (reel 68), 6. 77. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1896, AO, film B97 (reel 56), 27. 78. Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 179. Delegates also considered that, before they could accomplish these tasks, it was necessary to educate the public about forest conservation. In addition, they determined that they would advocate for forest fire suppression, the implementation of less wasteful cutting practices, the planting of trees on farms, and the employment of trained forestry experts. See Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 163,179-181. When it began in 1900, the Canadian Forestry Association established similar objectives, which were: to educate the public about the results of forest destruction, and to teach the younger generation of the value of the forest; to recommend the division of the public domain into agricultural, timber and mineral lands, and to set aside some portion of the country into permanent timber reserves; and to promote tree planting, especially in cities, along highways, and in the prairies. See Canadian Forestry Association, Report of the First Annual Meeting, 10. 79. "The Canadian Forestry Association," 5; Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 163. 408 80. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1899, AO, film B97 (reel 68), 130-133. 81. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 9-11. 82. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 68-69. 83. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 3. 84. "Forestry," April 1901, 503. 85. "Forestry," February 1901, 454. 86. Ibid., 454^155. 87. Ibid., 455. 88. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 72. 89. Globe," Means Millions." 90. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 28 February 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; L. Vankoughnet to J. A. Macdonald, 4 April 1881, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 91. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 12. 92. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 3. 93. The TAA also supported themselves through trade. At least by the fifteenth century, the TAA had begun to trade with the Wendat (Huron) to the south, often relying on Nipissing intermediaries to transport meat and skins south to the Wendat and return north with corn, cornmeal and pottery produced by the Wendat. The Nipissing also acted as intermediaries when the fur trade with the French began and so, by the early seventeenth century, the TAA supplemented the resources available to them on n'Daki Menan with goods acquired from Europe as well as from other First Nations. See Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 13. 94. Chief Aleck Paul, speech recorded by Frank Speck. The gendered aspects of Chief Paul's statements will be taken up in chapter 5. 95. Trails in Time, "Traditional Land Use." 96. Harris, Making Native Space, especially 49-50. See also Said, Culture and Imperialism. Cole Harris convincingly argues in Making Native Space that in the second half of the nineteenth century, tfye culture of imperialism in the sense explored by Edward Said had a much greater impact on the creation of Native reserves in British Columbia than did John Locke's labour theory of property. 97. This was part of Paradis's (failed) colonization scheme to bring French Canadians to northeastern Ontario to settle. For more details about Charles Paradis, who was a strange and controversial figure, see: Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 56-61; Hodgins, Paradis of Temagami. 98. Ontario, Report of the Survey and Exploration, 89, 94. 99. See Loo, States of Nature. Tina Loo has shown that beginning in the early twentieth century, wildlife conservation policy played a role in the colonization of rural Canada by outlawing the subsistence hunting activities of rural residents, Aboriginal and non- Aboriginal both, while authorizing urban outsiders to treat the forest as their personal sport-hunting playground. 100. Recorded in Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 12-13. 409 101. Forest Reserves Act. Copy available at Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1898, AO, film B97 (reel 64), 7. 102. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 11. 103. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1896, AO, film B97 (reel 56), 25-26. 104. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 3. 105. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 12; A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1 -545-1-2, 8. 106. "Forestry," February 1901,454. 107. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 12. • 108. Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 167-173. 109. Algonquin National Park Act, 56 Vict, c.8 (1893), cited in Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 173. 110. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 68-89. 111.1 am inspired in this section by Antoinette Burton, who has written about the imperialist dimensions of British middle-class feminism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. She argues that British feminists relied upon and reconfigured imperialist discourses, including assumptions of white superiority, in order to articulate their own claims for subjectivity and rights. In spite of the fact that Indian women were actively involved in their own struggles, British feminists drew particularly from the Orientalist idea of an enslaved Indian woman in need of rescuing by her emancipated British 'sisters.' In this way, British women participated in the very culture of imperialism that many Indian women were struggling against. Burton contends that contemporary western feminists must recognize the imperialist legacy of western feminism, rather than merely celebrating the achievements made by their forerunners. See Burton, Burdens of History. 112. See note 63. 113. Nelles, Politics of Development, 187-188. 114. Canadian Forestry Association, Report of the First Annual Meeting; "Forestry," April 1901, 503; "The Canadian Forestry Association," 7; "Annual Meeting of the Canadian Forestry Association," May 1906, 61. 115. Cresswell, "The Canadian Conservation Movement." 116. Nelles, Politics of Development, 189-190. 117. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1896, AO, film B97 (reel 56), 9-10. 118. Loo, "Of Moose and Men." 119. Jasen, Wild Things. 120.1 will discuss this idea further in the following chapter. 121. Nelles, Politics of Development, 191. 122. B. E. Walker, a "banker, geologist, art collector, literary, critic and educationist," in response to a comment by Gifford Pinchot about how forestry is a business proposition. Cited in Nelles, Politics of Development, 191. 123. Lambert and Pross, Renewing Nature's Wealth, 179; "The Canadian Forestry Association," 5; "Forestry," February 1901, 455. 410 124. Canadian Forestry Association, Report of the First Annual Meeting, 9. 125. "Preservation of the Forests." 126. Loo, States of Nature. 127. "The Canadian Forestry Association," 7. 128. "Annual Meeting of the Canadian Forestry Association," May 1906; "First Meeting of the Commission of Conservation," 19; "Director's Report for 1910," 14. 129. Berger, "The True North," 5. 130. Ibid., 6. 131. Ibid., 17. 132. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 90-92. 133. "The Canadian Forestry Association," 2. 134. Stewart, "A Glimpse at Forestry Conditions," 239. 135. Thompson, "Forestry—A Neglected Industry," 26. 136. Ibid., 24-26. 137. Fernow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 7-8. 138. "Forestry," October 1901, 18. 139. Fernow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97(reel85), 11. 140. Clark, "A Canadian Forest Policy," 43. 141. Stewart, "Timber Vs. National Debt." 142. "Forestry," April 1901, 506. 143. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1897, AO, film B97 (reel 60), 11. 144. Stewart, "Canadian Forests and Forestry," 72. 145. Shaw, W. F. "The Forest Wealth of Ontario," 856. 146. "The Canadian Forestry Association," 8. 147. Campbell, "Forestry in Canada," 95. 148. "The Canadian Forestry Association," 8. 149. "Canadian Forestry Association: Important Conferences," 1064. 150. "Forestry," August 1900, 301. 151. Clark, "A Canadian Forest Policy." 152. Nelles disagrees with this position, arguing that the farmer was "invariably" the villain of conservation, viewed by both "foresters and lumbermen as an especially pernicious enemy of the forest." See Nelles, The Politics of Development, 192. Nelles's position, however, does not adequately account for the fact that conservationists wanted to get farmers' support of their movement, in large part because they understood farmers as a threat to forest conservation and therefore wanted to educate them on the benefits of conservation. As Aubrey White pointed out, the success of any forestry system depended on the support of settlers, since no system could "preserve the forest if settlers were moved by malice to destroy it." See Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1899, AO, film B97 (reel 68), 131. 153. Stewart, "A Glimpse at Forestry Conditions," 240. 411 154. Femow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 14. 155. "Forestry," January 1901, 424. 156. Ibid. 157. Ibid. 158. Toker, "Our Forests in Danger," 339. 159. Ibid. 160. "Forestry," September 1901, 17. 161. Fernow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 13-14. 162. Campbell, "Forestry in Canada," 95. 163. Ross," Canadian Forestry Education," 69-70. 164. Stewart, "The Approaching Timber Famine," 21. 165. Ibid., 22. 166. Hearst became Minister of Lands, Forests and Mines in 1911, and became the Premier of Ontario in 1914. The Department of Lands, Forests and Mines was the 1906 to 1920 equivalent of the earlier Department of Crown Lands. From 1920 to 1972, it was the Department of Lands and Forests, and in 1972, it became the Ministry of Natural Resources. This name stands today. 167. "Northern Ontario's Timber Resources," 183. 168. See "The Canadian Forestry Association," 8; Campbell, "Forestry in Canada," 95; Stewart, "Canadian Forests and Forestry," 72; "Forestry," September 1900, 324; "Canadian Forestry Convention," 2. 169. "The Canadian Forestry Association," 8. 170. Stewart, "A Glimpse at Forestry Conditions in Canada," 239-240. 171. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 30. 172. Fernow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97(reel85), 13. 173. See "Northern Ontario's Timber Resources"; Dickson, "Our Forest Reserve Problem"; "Forestry," August 1900, 300-304; Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1896, AO, film B97 (reel 56). 174. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 3. 175. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1896, AO, film B97 (reel 56), 9. 176. Ibid. 177. Fernow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97(reel85), 11. 178. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1896, AO, film B97 (reel 56). 179. Canadian Forestry Association, Report of the First Annual Meeting, 16. 180. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 31. 181. Thompson, "Forestry—A Neglected Industry," 26. 182. Fernow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97(reel85), 11. 412 183. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1899, AO, film B97 (reel 68), 29. 184. See Hoehn,"European Forestry";"Forestry," August 1900. 185. Thompson, "Forestry—A Neglected Industry," 26. 186. Fernow, "The Forest as a Resource," 1903, Department of Crown Lands, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 25-26. 187. Of course the ideas themselves were not to come from local farmers. See note 152. 188. Stewart, "A Glimpse at Forestry Conditions in Canada," 239-240. 189. Ibid., 239. 190. Scholars have shown how the supposedly "degraded" condition of non-European women marked non-European societies as uncivilized and therefore in need of European intervention. European femininity, characterized by domesticity, purity and submissiveness, was held up as the ideal to which all societies should aspire and against which societies were measured and often found deficient. See Acoose, Iskwewak; Fee, "The Sexual Politics"; Stevenson, "Colonialism and First Nations Women in Canada." 191. Thompson, "Forestry—A Neglected Industry," 25; Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 5; "The Canadian Forestry Association," 3; "First Meeting of the Commission of Conservation," 20; Dickson, "Our Forest Reserve Problem," 66; Leavitt, Forest Protection in Canada, 116; Globe, "Reserve of 1,400,000 Acres"; "Forestry," July 1900, 278; "Forestry," September 1900, 325; "Forestry," October 1900, 344; "Forestry," March 1901, 479; "Forestry," April 1901, 503; "Forestry," May 1901, 529; Stewart, "Canadian Forests and Forestry," 71; Canadian Forestry Association, "Ontario Timber Regulations," 476; Armstrong, "The Railroad and the Forest," 1050; "Mr. Aubrey White," 221. Conservationists also recognized wind, fungi and insects as additional threats to Canadian forests, but considered these threats insignificant compared with fire. See Campbell, "Forestry in Canada"; Dickson, "Our Forest Reserve Problem." 192. Thompson, "Forestry—A Neglected Industry," 25; A. White, memorandum, 20 February 1911, AO, RG 1-68-0-3 (box 2); A. White, memorandum, February 1911, AO, 1-68-0-4 (box 3); Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1898, AO, film B97 (reel 64), 12; "The Canadian Forestry Association," 3; Leavitt, Forest Protection in Canada, 133; Canadian Forestry Association, Report of the First Annual Meeting, 14; Campbell, "Forestry in Canada," 92; "Forestry," October 1900, 344; "Forestry," February 1902,12; "Forestry," April 1902,16; Raney, "Canoe Trips in Temagami," 193. 193."The Canadian Forestry Association," 5. 194. Campbell, "Forestry in Canada," 92. 195. "Mr. Aubrey White," 221 (emphasis mine); See also Armstrong, "The Railroad and the Forest," 1050; "First Meeting of the Commission of Conservation," 20; Globe, "Reserve of 1,400,000 Acres." 196. Curwood, "The Timber Supply of the Future," 119. 197. Batten, "The Warders of the Silence," 51. 198. Ibid., 57. 199." A Canadian Forest Ranger." 413 200. Cameron, "A Day's Journey in the Wilds," 1021. 201. "Annual Meeting of the CFA," April 1903, 398. 202. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1899, AO, film B97 (reel 68), 131. 203. Ibid.; A. White, draft report, 1910, AO, RG 1-68-0-3 (box 2). 204. A. White, draft report, 1910, AO, RG 1-68-0-3 (box 2); see also A. White, memorandum, February 1911, AO, 1 -68-0-4 (box 3). 205. Toronto Daily Star, "No More Students as Fire Rangers." 206. "The Toronto 1909 Convention," 8. 207. Catriona Sandilands similarly notes that recruits for the National Park Warden Service were expected both to be "mountain men" and to possess a certain degree of civility considered necessary for working for the Canadian government. The latter requirement, Sandilands argues, meant that park wardens were to be white as well as male, since it would have been "culturally unthinkable" for government officials to hire members of the Stoney Nation as representatives of the state of which the Stoneys had become legal wards. See Sandilands, "Where the Mountain Men Meet the Lesbian Rangers," 147. 208. Feminist scholars have shown how this is the case in nationalist discourse more generally. See Layoun, Wedded to the Land?; Yuval-Davis, Gender and Nation. 209. "Forestry," August 1900, 304. 210. Armstrong, "The Railroad and the Forest," 1050. See also Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1904, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 23; Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1903, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 7. 211. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 6. 212. Ibid., 7. 213. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1898, AO, film B97 (reel 64), 11. 214. Ibid. 215. Ibid. 216. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1904, AO, film B97 (reel 85). 217. Trails in Time, "Traditional Land Use," 87. 218. Armstrong, "The Railroad and the Forest," 1050. 219. Ibid. 220. "Indians as Fire Rangers." 221. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75); Globe, "Scotch Indians of Temagami"; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 3,49; "A Visit to the Temagami Reserve," 107. 222. "Indians as Fire Rangers." 223. Armstrong, "The Railroad and the Forest," 1050. 224. Ibid. 225. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 6-7. 226. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1898, AO, film B97 (reel 64), 11. 227. "Indians as Fire Rangers." 228. Armstrong,"The Railroad and the Forest," 1050. 414 229. "Indians as Fire Rangers." 230. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 6. 231. Armstrong, "The Railroad and the Forest," 1050. 232."Indians as Fire Rangers." 233. Donald McKenzie, recorded interview, 17 December 1973. 234. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1899, AO, film B97 (reel 68), 131. 235. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 6. 236. "Indians as Fire Rangers." 237.Ibid. 238. A. White, memorandum, February 1911, AO, 1-68-0-4 (box 3). 239. Ibid. 240. A. White, draft report, 1910, AO, RG 1 -68-0-3 (box 2). 241. Ibid. 242. "First Meeting of the Commission of Conservation," 19; Canadian Forestry Journal "Director's Report for 1910," 14. 243. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 13. 244. G. B. Abrey to SGIA, 12 February 1885, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 31 December 1886, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 8- 9; T. Walton to SGIA, 17 September 1889, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief Tonene to T. Walton, 11 February 1890, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 245. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 6; Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 13, 15. 246. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 3. 247. "Forestry and Colonization," 110. 248. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 15. 249. Ibid., 13. 250. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1 -545-1 -2, 6-7. 251. A. White to J.D. McLean, 28 June 1911, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 252. A. White to J.D. McLean, 22 June 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 253. Chief Francois Whitebear to DIA, 21 May 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief Alexander Paul to F. Pedley, circa 1 July 1912, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 254. J. D. McLean to A. White, 18 January 1906, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Temagami Band to G. P. Cockburn, 23 February 1907, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; S. Stewart to A. White, 11 January 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief Francois Whitebear to DIA, 21 May 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; G. P. Cockburn to J. D. McLean, 24 July 1911, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief Alexander Paul to F. Pedley, circa 1 July 1912, LAC, RG 10, vol.7757. 255. Temagami Band to G. P. Cockburn, 23 February 1907, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. The reserves to which the TAA refer were those negotiated under the James Bay Treaty, or Treaty No. 9, in 1905 and 1906. 256. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 4. 257. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 13. 415 258. Donald McKenzie, recorded interview, 17 December 1973. 259. E. J. Davis, recommended regulations for forest reserves, 11 December 1902, AO, RG 1-545-1-3, 22. 260." Ontario Forest Reserves," 331. 261. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 82. 262. Grand Trunk Railway, The Eldorado of New Ontario, 3. 263. Toronto Daily Star, "Enthusiastic Over Lake Temagami." 264. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 94. 265. Canadian Forestry Association, "Ontario's Forest Policy," 254. Nelles argues that conservationist reasons for this sale were merely the pretext under which the province "held its usual pre-election timber limit auction" (Nelles, Politics of Development, 205). 266. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 83; F. Cochrane, notice, circa 1905, AO, RG 1-549-0-3, 49. 267. A. White, memorandum, 2 December 1903, Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1904, AO, film B97 (reel 85), 11. 268. Ontario, notices of sale of damaged pine timber, 5 February 1909, 17 August 1909, AO, RG 1-549-0-3, 73, 79; A. White, memorandum, 28 November 1904, AO, RG 1-68- 0-2 (box 1); A. White, memorandum, 28 February 1910, AO, RG 1-68-0-3 (box 2); A. White, draft memorandum, circa 1910, AO, RG 1 -68-0-3 (box 2); A. White, memorandum, 9 September 1912, AO, RG 1-68-0-4 (box 3); W. Hearst, recommendations to sell timber, 27 February 1912, 10 February 1914, AO, RG 1-545-1- 4,166-168, 391-395; A. White, memorandum, 23 March 1914, AO, RG 1-545-1-4,413- 415; Deputy Minister to Chief Forest Ranger, 24 September 1910, AO, RG 1-273-3-29 (box 7). 269. Globe, "Two Townships Less in Forest Reserve"; Globe, "New Ontario Prepares its Program"; A. White, memorandum, 7 June 1910, AO, RG 1-68-0-3 (box 2); Deputy Minister to Chief Forest Ranger, 24 September 1910, AO, RG 1-273-3-29 (box 7). 270. Globe, "Survey of Temagami Islands"; Lease 1, 8 December 1905, AO, RG 1-165- 1. 271. A. White, memorandum, 9 February 1910, AO, RG 1-68-0-3 (box 2); A. White, draft report, 1910, AO, RG 1-68-0-3 (box 2). 272. D. C. Scott to A. White, 15 May 1896, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; H. Reed to A. White, 28 September 1896, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; A. White to H. Reed, 3 February 1897, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 273. A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 6. 274. J. D. McLean to A. White, 18 January 1906, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; A. White to J. D. McLean, 25 January 1906, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 275. F. Pedley to A. White, 6 February 1906, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; J. D. McLean to A. White, 8 February 1907, ONAS, file 186217. 276. J. D. McLean to A. White, 18 March 1907, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 277. A. White to J. D. McLean, 26 March 1907, ONAS, file 186217. 278. S. Stewart to A. White, 11 January 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 416 279. A. White to S. Stewart, 20 January 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 280. J. D. McLean to A. White, 7 February 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 281. A. White to J. D. McLean, 14 June 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 282. Secretary of State, Canada, to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, 13 May 1885, ONAS, file 186217. 283. J. D. McLean to Chief Francois Whitebear, 17 June 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 284. G. P. Cockburn to J. D. McLean, 19 June 1911, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; A. White to J. D. McLean, 28 June 1911, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 285. G. P. Cockburn to J. D. McLean, 24 July 1911, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; J. D. McLean to A. White, 26 July 1911, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 286. Chief Alexander Paul to F. Pedley, circa 1 July 1912, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 287. J. D. McLean to A. White, 4 October 1912, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 288. A. White to J. D. McLean, 13 March 1913, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; J. D. McLean to G. P. Cockburn, 31 May 1913, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 289. A. Grigg to J. D. McLean, 21 September 1917, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; quotation from D. C. Scott to G. P. Cockburn, 7 April 1914, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; A. White to J. D. McLean, 13 March 1913, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 290. T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1895, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1904, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1905, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 31 March 1910, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 31 March 1911, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library. 291. 8 June 1971, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 2). 292. C. Skene to L. Vankoughnet, 14 August 1880, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 293. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75), 13. 294. A. White to J. D. McLean, 22 June 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 295. E. J. Davis, annexed regulations, 11 December 1902, AO, RG 1-545-1-3, 22-25. 296. Commissioner to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, recommendation, 20 July 1906, AO, RG 1-545-1-3,248. 297. Chief Aleck Paul, speech recorded by Frank Speck. 298. Chief Alexander Paul to SGIA, 3 September 1917, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757.

Notes to Chapter 3

1. See Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 108-135. Hodgins and Benidickson include a chapter on Temagami tourism during this time. The chapter, entitled "This Is Ontario's Heritage," is a detailed account of the services that sprung up to meet tourists' needs, the laws and policies that regulated tourism in the region, the summer camps for boys that started in Temagami, the activities that tourists conducted in the region, and controversies over land management that occurred as a result of the 417 conflicting interests of tourists and resource industries. I will deal with some of their arguments in further depth below. 2. See, for example, Blunt, Travel, Gender, and Imperialism; Grewal, Home and Harem; Holland and Huggan, Tourists with Typewriters; Leask, Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing; Pratt, Imperial Eyes; Spurr, The Rhetoric of Empire. 3. Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 5. 4. Ibid., 7. For Pratt's analysis of women's travel writing, see 155-171. 5. Ibid., 170. 6. Ibid., 6. On page 4, Pratt defines contact zones as "social spaces where disparate cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in highly asymmetrical relations of domination and subordination." 7. In her excellent work about the gendering of nation and empire in travel writing, Inderpal Grewal notes that travel narratives written by British men in the nineteenth century represented Englishwomen's beauty as reflecting the beauty of the English landscape. In contrast to this, travel narratives that noted the beauty of foreign landscapes often noted the people of those lands as unattractive, a narrative move that, as Grewal points out, served to alienate the people from their land. Unfortunately, Grewal does not pursue this point further, and as a result, the reader is unable to gain an in-depth understanding of the relationships between the making of landscape and the making of race and gender in the context of empire. See Grewal, Home and Harem, 44. 8. Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 29, 31. For Pratt's analysis of Linnaeus's classification system, see 15-37. 9. Jasen, Wild Things. 10. Ibid., 4. 11. Ibid., 31, 29. 12. Ibid., especially chapter 2, "Taming Niagara" (reference to number of visitors cited on 44). 13. Ibid., 7. 14. Ibid., 8-9, 12, 13. 15. Ibid., 3-4. 16. Ibid., 3, 105. 17. Ibid., 26. 18. Ibid., 26. 19. Jones, Sport and Pleasure in the Virgin Wilds, 3, 4. 20. Jones, Sport and Pleasure in the Virgin Wilds; Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming." The quotation is from Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming," 13. The spelling of Temagami was inconsistent throughout the period. Common spellings included Temagami, Temagaming and Timagami. 21. Rod and Gun was a periodical published under a variety of names (for example, Rod and Gun in Canada and Rod and Gun and Motor Sports in Canada) until the 1970s. The magazine had as its mandate to inform readers about the best places in Canada to canoe, shoot game and catch fish. The magazine also supported fish, game and forest 418 conservation, as indicated by its support of the Canadian Forestry Association discussed in chapter 2. By 1913, it had a circulation of approximately 18 000 (Loo, States of Nature, 34). Obviously pleased with the magazine's success, a 1906 editorial immodestly declared that "something must be said of the great services rendered to the Dominion by the manner in which the Magazine has made the many wonders of Canada known first to Canadians, secondly to our cousins across the southern border, and also to the world at large. As a resort for sportsmen and tourists Canada is no longer unknown, thanks largely to our work." See " Our Birthday." 22. Jones, Sport and Pleasure in the Virgin Wilds, 52; Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming," 5. 23. The Chief, "Away 'Up North,'" April 28,1894, 368; other two parts are The Chief, "Away 'Up North,'" May 5,1894; The Chief, "Away 'Up North,'" May 12,1894. 24. T. Walton to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1895, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 5-7; Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1900-1901, AO, film B97 (reel 75); A. White, memorandum, 7 January 1901, AO, RG 1-545-1-2, 8. 25. Wadsworth, "With Rifle and Rod," 151; Another Wet Bob, "Temagaming." 26. "Greeting." 27. "Canada and the Tourist." 28. Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming"; "Timagami, Mississagua, French River." 29. Globe," Means Millions." 30. Globe, "Reserve of 1,400,000 Acres." 31. E. J. Davis, report, 31 December 1901, AO Sessional Paper 3. 32. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 112-114. 33. For a critical account of the anti-modern primitivism that led to the development of many boys' camps in North America at this time, see Deloria, "Natural Indians and Identities of Modernity." For an analysis of the relationship between summer camps and changing ideas about childhood, see Van Slyck, A Manufactured Wilderness. 34. W. B. Maclean to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1903, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library, 29-35; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1904, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library. 35. Clerk of Forestry, annual report, 1904, AO, film B97 (reel 85). 36. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 82. 37. New York Times, "Hunting Season." 38. Toronto Daily Star, "One Hundred Miles in a Canoe." 39. Globe, "With Cameras and Rods"; Globe, "Northland Notes of Summer Travel"; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1905, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library. 40. "The 'Bobs' on Temagami," 425; Globe, "Northland Notes of Summer Travel"; Lease 1, 8 December 1905, AO, RG 1-165-1. 41. Hooper," By Backwoods and Waters," 652. 42. "Camp Temagami." 419 43. "Our Medicine Bag," September 1905. 44. Norris, "Fishing in Beautiful Temagami District," 696. 45. Toronto Daily Star, "Enthusiastic Over Lake Temagami." 46. T. J. T., "Two Weeks in Temagami," 18; Raney, "Canoe Trips in Temagami," 186. 47. See T. J. T., "Two Weeks in Temagami"; Raney, "Canoe Trips in Temagami." 48. Jasen, Wild Things, 20-21. 49. Globe, "To Temagami"; Jasen, Wild Things, 21. 50. See Emery, A Young Man's Benefit. At the turn of the twentieth century, the Independent Order of Odd Fellows (I. O. O. F.) was a fraternal organization of working- class men and the largest social society in Canada and the United States. A volunteer group of mutual aid—members gave time and money to help one another through illnesses, for instance—it had its origins in similar organizations that begun in England in the early nineteenth century. The I. O. O. F. exists in modified form today. See http://www.ioof.org/, accessed August 15,2007. 51. New LiskeardSpeaker, "Oddfellows Have Glorious Trip." 52. Ibid. 53. See Campbell, "Camping in Canada," 182. 54. Jasen, Wild Things, 22-25, 116,151-152. 55. Ibid., 24. 56. Ruddy, "A Gentleman of Temagami"; Adams, "A Lady's Hunting Trip"; Cameron, "A Day's Journey in the Wilds." 57. Ruddy, "A Gentleman of Temagami," 545. 5 8. Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 155. 59. Jasen, Wild Things, 22. 60. Dickson, "Exploring Northern Ontario," 879. 61. Fair, "A Trip to Matachuan," part 1; Barnard, "Northern Ontario," part 1. 62. Walton, "A Woman's Views on Camping Out." 63. See Mills, Discourses of Difference. In it, she shows how white women struggled against external constraints to create travel writing that would be published and read. 64."Canada and the Tourist," 4. 65. "The Keewaydin Club's Canoe Tours," 624. 66. Johnson, "Some Delights of Camping Out," 128. 67. Thurston, "Two Weeks in Paradise," 1135. 68. Raney, "Canoe Trips in Temagami," 191. 69. Dickson, "Exploring Northern Ontario," 879. 70. Walton, "A Woman's Views on Camping Out," 72-73. 71. Adams, "A Lady's Hunting Trip," 400. 72. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 24. 73. Farr, "A Trip to Matachuan," 1. 74. Barnard, "Northern Ontario," part 2, 388; Barnard, "Northern Ontario," part 1, 351. 75. Cameron, "A Day's Journey in the Wilds," 1019,1020. 76. Jasen, Wild Things, 114-115. 420 77. Ibid. For a Temagami example, see Ruddy, "A Gentleman of Temagami." 78. Walton, "A Woman's Views on Camping Out," 73. See also Jasen, Wild Things, 115. 79. Cameron, "A Day's Journey in the Wilds," 1019,1021. 80. G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1905, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library. 81. Globe, "Northland Notes of Summer Travel"; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 2, 1082. 82. Schubart, "A Moose Hunt," 289. 83. Commissioner to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, recommendation, 20 July 1906, AO, RG 1-545-1-3, 248; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 31 March 1911, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; L. V. Rorke to A. F. MacKenzie, 12 July 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 84. G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 31 March 1911, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library. 85. Farr, "A Trip to Matachuan," part 2, 4. 86. See Farr, "The Indian, the Loon and the Bear"; Farr, "Ducks and Duck Shooting"; Farr, "A Trip to Matachuan," part 1; Farr, "The Indian's Spring"; Farr, "The Snowshoe"; Farr, "The Grouse of Timiskaming"; Farr, "Indians and the Weather"; Farr, "Is the Indian Hardy?"; Farr, "The Old and the New"; Farr, "Papegouche's Ghost"; Farr, "In Mooseland"; Farr, "In the Woods." As I shall discuss further below, Farr was also a regular contributor to Rod and Gun. He considered himself quite the expert on "the Indian" and topics such as the Indian's habits, sense of humour, methods of shooting and trapping, child-naming practices, and love of sunny weather. 87. Farr, "A Trip to Matachuan," part 1, 1. 88. See Hulme, "Polytropic Man"; McClintock, Imperial Leather; Montrose, "The Work of Gender." 89. They described some of these encounters, anyway. Patricia Jasen comments that "at Native communities situated at the heart of a wilderness tourist industry, such as Lake Temagami, venereal diseases, including syphilis" became more prevalent (Wild Things, 136). No mention was made in travel accounts of sexual encounters between white tourists and TAA women. 90. Theriault, Moose to Moccasins, 18. 91. Ibid., 16-18. 92. Victoria Grant and Mary Katt, personal communications with author, July 2006; A. W. C, "A Cruise in the Ojibway Paradise," part 2, 344; "The 'Bobs' on Temagami"; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 1, 937; Theriault, Moose to Moccasins. 93. Globe, "Scotch Indians of Temagami"; W. C. Caldwell, diary, AO, MU 839; Beswick, "After Fish in Temagami"; Yeigh, "Touring in Temagami Land"; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 1. 94. Chief Francois Whitebear to DIA, 21 May 1910, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Donald McKenzie, recorded interview, 22 November 1973.

421 95. G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1904, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 30 June 1905, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; G. P. Cockburn to SGIA, annual report, 31 March 1911, DIA, Victoria University E. J. Pratt Library; M. R. Lovell, "Perm Professor's Discovery"; Victoria Grant, personal communication with author, July 2006. 96. Mary Katt, personal communication with author, July 2006. 97. New York Times, "Hunting Season"; Commissioner to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, recommendation, 20 July 1906, AO, RG 1-545-1-3,248. 98. J. H. R., "The Keewaydin Campers," 917. 99. Creelman, "From Timagami to Wanapitei," 546. 100. Mary Katt, personal communication with author, July 2006; Loo, "Of Moose and Men." Tina Loo brings an interesting perspective to this discussion, though one that equally reflects the class base of wilderness tourists. In an article about hunting and masculinity in British Columbia, she suggests that the attempt by sport hunters to control their guides in the bush was related to their sense of entitlement as bosses and managers at home. They wanted to be obeyed by their Aboriginal guides partly because they were used to being obeyed by their employees. Loo further contends that big game hunters emphasized the importance to a successful hunt of sports' abilities to manage their guides. In this way, big game hunters not only attempted to bring into the bush the urban class-based system from which they benefited in their daily lives, but also masked their dependence on their guides by constructing guides as obstacles to a successful hunt (since, according to sports, guides had to be managed and controlled to ensure that they did their job). Loo also indicates how guides subverted tourists' attempts to manage them, for example by taking tourists through the bush at break-neck speeds. 101. "Timagami, Mississagua, French River," 588, 592. 102. Engineer," South of Abitibi," 274. 103. Clarke, "Canoeing Experiences in Canada," 270; Farr, "Ducks and Duck Shooting," 475. 104. St. Croix, "An Exploration to the Height of Land," part 4, 6; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 1, 939-940; Me, "Biff and Hec and Me," 574. 105. North, "Hunting the Loon," 363; Grand Trunk Railway, Temagami: A Peerless Region, 1. 106. An Eye Witness, "In Temagami's Tangled Wild," 41. 107. Ibid., title. 108. "Fields and Pastures New." 109. Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming," 6, 7; The Chief, "Away 'Up North,'" May 12,1894; Cameron, "A Day's Journey in the Wilds," 1020. 110. Barry, "Timagami, a Region Organized by Nature," 167; Grand Trunk Railway, The Playgrounds of Canada, 10. 111. New York Times, "The Call of the Camp"; Creelman, "From Timagami to Wanapitei," 546; Johnson, "Some Delights of Camping Out," 126. 112. Another Wet Bob, "Temagaming"; Yeigh, "Touring in Temagami Land," 325. 422 113. O'Connor, "An Ideal Summer Trip," 2; Fischer, "Canoe Cruises in Canadian Reserves," part 2, 506; Raney, "Canoe Trips in Temagami," 191; "Condensed Canoe Trips"; Parkinson, "Lake Timagami," 170. 114. Clowes, "August Days in Temagami," 831. 115. "Timagami, Mississagua, French River," 589; Grey Owl, Pilgrims of the Wild, Il­ ly, Dickson, Wilderness Man, especially 50-82. 116. Farr, "In the Woods," 327. See also Jasen, Wild Things, 135. 117. Farr, "In the Woods," 327; Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming," 8; "Timagami, Mississagua, French River," 592. 118. Dixmont, "Moose Hunting in Temagami," 835; Me, "Biff and Hec and Me," 570. 119. Lampman, "Temagami." 120. Wadsworth, "With Rifle and Rod," 151; Globe, "Primeval Beauty"; "Fields and Pastures New"; Toronto Daily Star, "Ontario: A Field"; Globe, "With Cameras and Rods"; Hyndman, "One Hundred and Fifty Miles by Canoe," 734; Fischer, "Canoe Cruises in Canadian Reserves," part 2, 506; New York Times, "Vacation Delights"; Camp Temagami, "Camp Temagami," 7. 121. An Eye Witness, "hi Temagami's Tangled Wild," 36. 122. For regulations of and controversies over damming lakes in the Temagami region, see AO, RG 1-273-3-29, RG 1-273-3-30. 123. Wadsworth, "With Rifle and Rod," 149; Globe, "Primeval Beauty." 124. Grand Trunk Railway, Temagami: A Peerless Region, 1. 125. Lampman, "Temagami," New York Times; Clowes, "August Days in Temagami," 827. 126. See, for example, Grand Trunk Railway, The Playgrounds of Canada. 127. A. W. C, "A Cruise in the Ojibway Paradise," part 2, 343; Yeigh, "Touring in Temagami Land," 324. 128. See Cronon, "The Trouble with Wilderness," 75. 129. Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 3, 50; Clowes, "August Days in Temagami," 837. 130. The Chief, "Away 'Up North,'" April 28, 1894, 368; Jones, Sport and Pleasure in the Virgin Wilds, 50; Barry, "Timagami, a Region Organized by Nature," 166; Me, "Biff and Hec and Me," 569. 131. Clowes, "August Days in Temagami," 837; O'Connor, "An Ideal Summer Trip," 1; Another Wet Bob, "Temagaming"; "The Keewaydin Club's Canoe Tours," 624, 621; Hyndman, "One Hundred and Fifty Miles by Canoe," 734; "A Boys' Camp in Temagami," 51; Barry, "Timagami, a Region Organized by Nature," 168. 132. Grand Trunk Railway, Temagami: A Peerless Region, 1. 133. For a discussion of the tourist gaze, see Urry, The Tourist Gaze. 134. Jasen, Wild Things, 82-83. 135. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 30. 136. Ibid.

423 137. Sangster, "The Woods Indian," 124; Farr, "A Trip to Matachuan," part 2, 2; New York Times, "The Call of the Camp"; Globe, "The Wonderland of the Dominion," 4. 138. Globe, "Temagami." 139. Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming"; Me, "Biff and Hec and Me," 569. See also Campbell, Shaped by the West Wind, 98, 101. Campbell makes a similar observation about Georgian Bay travel literature, stating that writers often described Aboriginal peoples alongside other "natural" elements like geological formations and lake conditions. She also notes that the reputed savagery of the Georgian Bay Iroquois and Ojibwa reinforced for non-Natives the idea of the region as wilderness, while at the same time the wilderness character of the Georgian Bay made its Aboriginal inhabitants appear particularly wild. 140. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 30. 141. North, "Hunting the Loon," 363; Yeigh, "Touring in Temagami Land," 326; "Our Medicine Bag," April 1903,409. 142. The Chief, "Away 'Up North,'" May 12, 1894; Farr, "In the Woods," 327-328; St. Croix, "Second Sight and the Indian," 103. 143. Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 1, 936. 144. Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 4,146. 145. St. Croix, "An Exploration to the Height of Land," part 3, 8. 146. Farr, "A Trip to Matachuan," part 1,3. 147. Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 4,138; Cameron, "A Day's Journey in the Wilds," 1020. 148. "The 'Bobs' on Temagami," 424; Farr, "The Indian's Spring," 27; Hyndman, "One Hundred and Fifty Miles by Canoe," 734; A. W. C, "A Cruise in the Ojibway Paradise," part 1, 322; North, "Hunting the Loon," 365. 149. See Boag, "Thinking Like Mount Rushmore"; Jasen, Wild Things, 106-107,140. 150. Armstrong, "Down the Mississaga," 60-61; Armstrong, "Out of Doors," 15; "What Should Be Done with the Islands," 12. 151. "Why We Take to the Woods"; Another Wet Bob, "Temagaming." 152. E. and S. W., "John Green, Guide," 10; Hooper, "The Call of the Strenuous Life," 131. 153. Quoted in Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 114; Raney, "Canoe Trips in Temagami," 191; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 2, 1080. 154. Parkinson, "Lake Timagami," 167; Jones, Sport and Pleasure in the Virgin Wilds, 4-5; Camp Temagami, "Camp Temagami," 6; "Timagami, Mississagua, French River," 589. 155. Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 3, 47, 44; Raney, "Canoe Trips in Temagami," 190. 156. Cameron, "A Day's Journey in the Wilds," 1020; Warman, "How God Made Temagami," 1043; Augustin, "Indian Cooking in Northern Canada." 157. See Spivak, "Can the Subaltern Speak?" 158. Jasen, Wild Things, 16. 424 159. Toronto Daily Star, "Temagami, Mecca of Sportsmen." 160. Toronto Daily Star, "Temagami, Mecca of Sportsmen"; "The Ontario Government and the Lake Temagami Islands"; "Canada and the Tourist," 4; Wilson, "A Land of Enchantment," 1297; Dorchester, "Physical Culture," 347. 161. Gummer, "The Still Small Voice," 710; "Timagami, Mississagua, French River," 585; Thurston, "Two Weeks in Paradise," 1133. 162. Robson, "The Value of the Tourist Sportsman." See also Campbell, Shaped by the West Wind, 83. Campbell observes that although "we tend to think of the romantic wilderness seeker and the profit-minded logger as ideological opposites and political foes competing for the environment," wilderness appreciation and resource extraction have never in Canada been mutually exclusive activities. In the 1880s, for example, company owners vacationed in the same Georgian Bay region from which their companies extracted timber. Today, the Canadian economy remains dependent on the export of raw natural resources even as national narratives emphasize the wilderness character of Canada. There has, however, been a cultural shift. While Georgian Bay cottagers of the 1880s may not have minded watching logs float past their cottage windows, tourists no longer find it acceptable to encounter signs of resource extraction on their wilderness vacations. In Temagami, for instance, one contemporary environmentalist concern is that the new forest management plan, discussed further in the conclusion of this thesis, allows for the possibility that clearcuts will be visible from Maple Mountain, an iconic Temagami tourist destination (and also a sacred site for the TAA). See Earthroots, "How You Can Help Protect Temagami." 163. "Our Medicine Bag," July 1907; Toronto Daily Star, "Rail Mill." 164. Hodgins and Benidickson, The Temagami Experience, 57, 81; Farr, The Dominion of Canada as a Field for Emigration, 3, 15; Jasen, Wild Things, 149. 165. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 109. 166. Ibid., 128. For their story of the dam controversy, see 124-135. 167. "Our Medicine Bag," November 1911 (emphasis mine); Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 126. 168. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 124. 169. Braun, Intemperate Rainforest, 109-155. 170. Norris, "Fishing in Beautiful Temagami District," 698, 703; Barry, "Timagami, a Region Organized by Nature"; Beswick, "After Fish in Temagami," 316; Toronto Daily Star, "One Hundred Miles in a Canoe." 171. Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 31. 172. K. K. K., "Spring's Unrest," 1380; The Guide, "The Lure of Northern Ontario," 1207. 173. Barton, "The Health Value of a Summer Vacation," 71; Walton, "A Woman's Views on Camping Out"; Angus, "Temagami," 864 (emphasis mine). 174. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 26. 175. "Timagami, Mississagua, French River," 596; Bresnan, "The Delights of Temagami," 1331-1332. 425 176. Armstrong, "A Canoe Trip through Temagaming," 5; Jones, Sport and Pleasure in the Virgin Wilds, 51. 177. Livingston, "One Hundred Miles," 8; An Eye Witness, "In Temagami's Tangled Wild," 37-38. 178. "Timagami, Mississagua, French River," 596. 179. Ruddy, "A Gentleman of Temagami," 545. 180. Victoria Grant, personal communication with author, July 2006. 181. Carrell,"Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 4,139-141. 182. Farr, "In the Woods," 328. 183. Donald McKenzie, recorded interview, 17 December 1973. 184. See Deloria, Playing Indian, where he makes a similar argument about the United States. He traces white Americans' fascination with Aboriginal people and culture, analysing different moments when white Americans have dressed up as Indians, and arguing that "playing Indian" has allowed white Americans to claim a number of identities, including a national identity in opposition to Britain. 185. Weller, "A Moose Hunt," 1168; Wadsworth, "With Rifle and Rod," 256; Bentley, "Three Weeks in Temagami," 630; J. H. R., "The Keewaydin Campers"; Farr, "In the Woods," 333; Horr, "The Lord of the Silent Lakes," 423. 186. Wadsworth, "On a Moose-Run," 58-59; A. W. C, "A Cruise in the Ojibway Paradise," part 2, 343; Beswick, "After Fish in Temagami," 318. 187. A. W. C, "A Cruise in the Ojibway Paradise," part 2, 343. 188. Barnard, "Northern Ontario," part 2, 388; Adams, "A Lady's Hunting Trip," 403. 189. Tina Loo similarly argues that big game hunting in British Columbia allowed sport hunters to constitute themselves as white, masculine and bourgeois. See Loo, "Of Moose and Men." 190. Barnard, "Northern Ontario," part 2, 390; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 3,48; Barnard, "Northern Ontario," part 3, 446. 191. Barnard, "Northern Ontario," part 3,446-447. 192. Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 1, 939; Warman, "Wild Life," 1180. 193. Loo, States of Nature; Sandlos, Hunters at the Margin. 194. Chief Aleck Paul, speech recorded by Frank Speck. 195. Dickson, "Exploring Northern Ontario," 884; Wadsworth, "On a Moose-Run," 57. 196. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 28. 197. King, "You're Not the Indian I Had in Mind," 48. 198. Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 4, 146; Carrell, "Our Fishing and Hunting Trip," part 1,939-940. 199. Commissioner to Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, recommendation, 20 July 1906, AO,RG 1-545-1-3, 248.

426 Notes to Chapter 4

1. W. C. Cain to Pete Misabi, 12 June 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; W. C. Cain to John Katt, 15 June 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; W. C. Cain to W. Pishabo, 15 June 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; W. C. Cain to A. Mattias, 17 June 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; L. V. Rorke to A. F. MacKenzie, 12 July 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 2. See Benidickson, "Idleness, Water, and a Canoe"; Campbell, Shaped by the West Wind, 107,113-114, 145-147; Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 184. 3. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 178. 4. Globe, "North Road Reveals Fine Scenic Glories." For a detailed look at tourism in Temagami from the 1920s to the 1960s, see Hodgins and Benidickson, "Recreation and the Temagami Wilderness." 5. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 92; Mackey, House of Difference, 33. 6. Thobani, Exalted Subjects. 7. See, for example, McNaught, The Penguin History of Canada. 8. For a discussion of tensions between "wilderness" and "homeland" paradigms, see McCormack, "Native Homelands as Cultural Landscapes." 9. Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 147. 10. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 83,160-161. The quotation is by William Milne, cited in Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 160. 11. Ibid., 165-169. 12. Ibid., 166-168. 13. Ibid., 165-166. Finlayson quotation on 165. 14. G. Friday to DIA, 6 June 1927, LAC, RG 10, vol. 8007, file 411/20-7-6-0 (reel C- 9486); G. P. Cockburn to J. D. McLean, 27 June 1927, LAC, RG 10, vol. 8007. 15. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 178-182, 195. After the Depression, more camps appeared in Temagami, including the first girls' camp, Cayuga, which opened in 1940. 16. Ibid., 185-188. 17. Ibid., 188. 18. Ibid., 189. 19. Ibid., 188-189. 20. Lee, "Ontario's Railway"; Globe, "Anglers Enjoy Timagami"; Globe, "Attractions of Temagami." 21. Globe, "Temiskaming and Northern Ontario Railway"; Globe, "A World Apart." 22. Globe, "A World Apart"; Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 221; Globe, "Attractions of Temagami." 23. Globe, "Lost from Civilization." 24. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 190; Sinclair, Temagami Lakes Association, 25. 25. Sinclair, Temagami Lakes Association, 25. 26. Quoted in Sinclair, Temagami Lakes Association, 25 (emphasis mine). In 1934 at the age of sixty-one, Robert Newcomb murdered his wife, Faith, and then killed himself (Sinclair, Temagami Lakes Association, 28). In a rather bizarre repetition of this gendered violence, members of the Temagami Association dedicated a memorial plaque to Robert Newcomb, which remains to this day at the site of the old HBC post on Bear Island. Faith is nowhere mentioned on the plaque, which reads: "In memory of Robert Burton Newcomb, 1872-1934, first president of the Temagami Association. This tablet has been erected by a great number of his Canadian and American friends and associates." 27. Sinclair, Temagami Lakes Association, 25. 28. Joe Friday to DIA, 29 July 1940, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 29. J. A. Marleau to T. R. L. Maclnnes, 3 August 1940, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 30. Quoted in Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 191. 31. Quoted in Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 172. 32. Hodgins and Benidickson, Temagami Experience, 172. 33. Ibid., 184-185. 34. G. P. Cockburnto Secretary, DIA, 1 July 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; T. McGookin to H. W. McGill, 13 September 1938, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 35. A. F. MacKenzie to W. C. Cain, 10 July 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; L. V. Rorke to A. F. MacKenzie, 12 July 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; L. V. Rorke to A. F. MacKenzie, 17 June 1930, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 36. L. V. Rorke to A. F. MacKenzie, 12 July 1929, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 37. Chief William Pishabo to G. P. Cockburn, 25 January 1932, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 38. T. McGookin to H. W. McGill, 13 September 1938, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 39. Chief William Pishabo, A. Mattias, J. Mattias, A. Paul, T. Potts, J. Katt, J. Paul, B. McKenzie, G. Pishabo, C. Potts, D. McKenzie, J. Twain, H. Twain, C. Moore Jr., C. Paul, M. Katt, D. Potts, J. Pishabo, P. McKenzie and J. Aguna to DIA, 1 October 1935, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Bear Island Indians and L. Wittig to A. Levesque, 24 August, 1936, LAC, RG 10, vol. 10708, file 30-6. 40. W. C. Cain to A. F. MacKenzie, 18 November 1936, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; A. F. MacKenzie to A. Levesque, 25 November 1936, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; 29 August 1938, J. C. Caldwell to T. R. L. Maclnnes, 29 August 1938, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 41. H. W. McGill to W. C. Cain, 1 September 1933, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; H. W. McGill to W. C. Cain, 23 May 1938, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 42. W. C. Cain to A. F. MacKenzie, 23 July 1934, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; W. C. Cain to H. W. McGill, 29 June 1938, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 43. J. P. Marchildon to J. A. Marleau, 5 September 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 44. Ibid. 45. R. H. Bliss to J. P. Marchildon, 15 September 1939, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 1). 46. R. S. Hyslop to Department of Lands and Forests, 15 September 1939, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 1). The clearings referred to in this report were those made by TAA members beginning in the late nineteenth century. See T. Walton to L. Vankoughnet, 10 February 1890, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 428 47. W. C. Cain to D. J. Allan, 20 October 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 48.Ibid. 49. J. A. Marleau to DIA, circa 31 October 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 50. D. J. Allan to H. W. McGill, 23 October 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; H. W. McGill to W. C. Cain, 25 October 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 51. J. A. Marleau to J. P. Marchildon, 28 September 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 10708, file 30-6. 52. Quotation from Chief John Twain to W. Little, 8 July 1940, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. See also J. A. Marleau to DIA, circa 31 October 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief John Twain to W. Little, 28 May 1941, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief John Twain to H. W. McGill, 16 June 1941, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief John Twain to W. Little, 8 March 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Chief John Twain to W. Little, 26 June 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 53. Minister, Department of Mines and Resources to F. A. MacDougall, 15 April 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; Department of Lands and Forests to Department of Mines and Resources, receipt, 26 April 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; H. C. Nixon and C. F. Bulmer, order-in-council, 15 June 1943. 54. Minister, Department of Lands and Forests to Lieutenant-Governor in Council, draft recommendation, 18 May 1943. 55.Ibid. 56.Ibid. 57. H. W. McGill to Deputy Minister, Department of Mines and Resources, 25 May 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 58. C. N: Jackson to F. A. MacDougall, 20 February 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 59. H. W. Crosbie to C. N. Jackson, 3 March 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 60.Ibid. 61. Director, Indian Affairs Branch to W. Little, 10 July 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 62. H. W. McGill to Deputy Minister, Department of Mines and Resources, 25 May 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 63. T. McGookin to H. W. McGill, 13 September 1938, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 64. J. A. Marleau to grade 3 class, 28 March 1939, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 65. John Turner to J. P. Marchildon, 5 July 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; J. P. Lanoie to undisclosed recipient (Marchildon), 6 July 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 66. H. S. Shannon to H. W. McGill, 17 December 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 67. Claire Campbell observes that similar dynamics were at work on Georgian Bay when cottagers appreciated Natives' historic association with the Bay, but did not like it when Aboriginal people made claims in and to the present by camping or picking blueberries close to cottages. See Campbell, Shaped by the West Wind, 102-103. 68. D. J. Allan to H. W. Crosbie, 21 July 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757. 69. For a discussion of the legal construction of Aboriginal spaces and bodies as degenerate, see Razack, "Gendered Racial Violence." 70. Joe Friday to Department of Lands, circa August 1942, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 1). 429 71. Ontario to DIA, 18 August 1942, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 1). 72. Chief John Twain to W. Little, 26 June 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; R. D. Cumming to DIA, 1 July 1943, LAC, RG 10, vol. 7757; E. J. Young to Department of Mines and Resources, 16 October 1945, Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (INAC), file 411/30-6-0 (vol. 1); A. Paull to R. A. Hoey, 4 September 1946, INAC, file 411/30-6-0; Temagami Band Council, resolution, 22 January 1947, INAC, file 411/30-6-0. 73. W. C. Bethune to F. Matters, 26 May 1960, INAC, file 411/30-6-0; W. C. Bethune to Regional Supervisor, 26 May 1960, LAC, RG 10, vol. 10708, file 30-6; Chief John Twain to Nipissing Indian Agency, 2 June 1960, LAC, RG 10, vol. 10708, file 30-6; P. Matters to W. C. Bethune, 7 June 1960, INAC, file 411/30-6-0; F. Matters to W. C. Bethune, 27 June 1960, INAC, file 411/30-6-0. 74. Temagami Band Council, resolution, 10 January 1961, INAC, file 411/30-6-0; Temagami Band Council Resolution, 3 February 1964, INAC, file 411/30-6-0. 75. Amended Reply to Statement of Defence to Counterclaim and Joinder of Issue, 29 January 1979, para. 7. 76. Ontario, order-in-council, 17 November 1970, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 2); Canada, order-in-council, 8 June 1971, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 2). 77. Director of Legal Services, MNR, to Minister, MNR, 11 September 1973, INAC, file 411/30-1 (vol. 2); Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 5.

Notes to Chapter 5

1. Chief John Twain to H. R. Conn, 5 April 1954, Teme-Augama Anishnabai (TAA), "History of the Struggle," 12-13. 2.1 do not intend in this chapter to go over all the critiques of the decisions made in this case. For analyses of the Supreme Court of Ontario decision, see Clark, Indian Title in Canada; Clark, Justice in Paradise; Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 97-100; Hall, "Where Justice Lies"; Potts, "Last-Ditch Defence." For commentary on the Ontario Court of Appeal decision, see McNeil, "The Temagami Indian Land Claim." For commentary on the Supreme Court of Canada decision, see McNeil, "The High Cost of Accepting Benefits." In this last article, McNeil questions the legality of adhering a First Nation to a treaty by affording its members only partial benefits under the treaty (the TAA began receiving treaty payments in 1883, but did not receive their tiny reserve until 1971). In Anglo-Canadian law, the partial performance of one party to a valid contract (though McNeil also argues that the treaty was not a valid contract between the TAA and the government) does not generally mean that the contract has been fulfilled and that the other party is therefore obligated to fulfill his or her end of the contract. McNeil concludes his article by calling the decision by the Supreme Court "inadequate," "puzzling and disappointing," and suggests that it is valueless as a precedent, since it offers no clear principles for other courts to follow. He considers, therefore, that the best 430 approach may be simply to ignore the decision. Ignoring this decision is certainly easier for some people than for others, and the TAA have had little choice but to attempt to make the best of a questionable decision that now carries with it the force of law. All negotiations between the TAA and the government that have taken place subsequent to the Supreme Court decision have taken as a starting point that the TAA have no Aboriginal rights to their lands, and that all rights that they have come from their adherence to the Robinson-Huron Treaty. This does not mean, though, that the TAA have nowhere else to go. The decision was certainly devastating for the TAA, but as Chief Potts stated in a book published in 1992, "We began our struggle for justice in 1877, and after 112 years, have no intention of giving up." Some hope rests with the argument made by scholars of Aboriginal law that treaty rights, which stem from solemn contracts made between First Nations and European powers, carry with them more legal protection for First Nations than do Aboriginal rights. See, for example, Asch, Aboriginal and Treaty Rights in Canada; Slattery, "Making Sense of Aboriginal and Treaty Rights." Chief Potts's statement can be found in Potts, "Last-Ditch Defence," 228. 3. The Supreme Court of Ontario no longer exists, and the Ontario Superior Court of Justice now stands in its place. 4. See Sarat and Simon, "Cultural Analysis, Cultural Studies"; Weaver, "Salmon for Sale, Moose for Meat." 5. Siley, "Making a Place for Cultural Analyses of Law," 41. See also Butler, "Sexual Inversions"; Delaney, "Making Nature/Marking Humans"; Hunt, "Foucault's Expulsion of Law"; Poulantzas, State, Power, Socialism; Hunt and Wickham, Foucault and Law. 6. Delaney, "Making Nature/Marking Humans," 489. 7. Ibid., 489 (emphasis in original). 8. TAA, "Teme-Augama Anishnabai, Deep Water People." The cautions were actually filed on behalf of the TAA by the Bear Island Foundation. The Bear Island Foundation was created by members of the TAA in 1971 as a non-profit corporation whose purpose was to obtain funds and use them for religious, educational or charitable purposes. See Charter issued to Bear Island Foundation, 5 November 1971, ONAS, file 7970 (vol. 2). 9. Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1995] O.J. No. 1624, para. 34. 10. Potts, "Last-Ditch Defence," 206. 11. TAA, "Teme-Augama Anishnabai, Deep Water People." 12. Chief Gary Potts to C. I. Fairholm, 7 November 1973, INAC, file B-8260-126-1. The Department of Indian Affairs (DIA) became the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development (DIAND) in 1966. The Department is also known today as Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (INAC). 13. Chief Gary Potts to C. I. Fairholm, 7 November 1973, INAC, file B-8260-126-1. 14. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 2. 15. Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1995] O.J. No. 1624, paras. 35-38, 49. 16. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 19. 431 17. The material by Chief Potts provides a much fuller TAA perspective than is available in the historical record for the earlier times that I study. Whereas only a few letters, speeches and petitions offer insight into TAA perspectives of the nineteenth and most of the twentieth centuries, here there exists enough documentation to examine more thoroughly how the TAA articulated themselves and their claim to n'Daki Menan. 18. Report to Commissioner for presentation to INAC Minister, 28 August 1974, INAC, fileB-8260-126-5. 19. The National Indian Brotherhood is now the Assembly of First Nations. For a brief history of the organization, see Assembly of First Nations, "Assembly of First Nations: The Story." 20. Chief Gary Potts, Speech for the National Indian Brotherhood. 21. Chief Gary Potts to Queen Elizabeth II, circa 1976, INAC, file B-8260-126-6. 22. C. I. Fairholm to Chief Gary Potts, 3 January 1974, INAC, file B-8260-126-1; Canada, "Copy of the Robinson Treaty." This, at least, was the government's interpretation of the effects of the treaty. First Nations did not necessarily agree. See Asch, Aboriginal and Treaty Rights in Canada. 23. Report to Commissioner for presentation to INAC Minister, 28 August 1974, INAC, file B-8260-126-5; Chief Gary Potts to J. H. Faulkner, 2 March 1979, INAC, file B-8260- 126-7; C. T. W. Hyslop to Chief Gary Potts, 9 June 1975, INAC, file B-8260-126-5; J. H. Faulkner to Chief Gary Potts, 17 May 1979, INAC, file B-8260-126-7; C. T. W. Hyslop to Chief Gary Potts, 10 July 1975, INAC, file B-8260-126-5; Chief Gary Potts to A. J. Epp, 1 November 1979, INAC, file B-8260-126-7. 24. Chief Gary Potts to Queen Elizabeth II, circa 1976, INAC, file B-8260-126-6; Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 25. Delaney, "Making Nature/Marking Humans," 501. 26. Ibid., 491, 489. 27. Ibid., 500-501. See also Gabel, "Reification in Legal Reasoning"; Razack, Looking White People in the Eye; Williams, "Alchemical Notes." 28. Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 29. Ibid. 30. Chief Gary Potts to J. H. Faulkner, 2 March 1979, INAC, file B-8260-126-7. 31. For an excellent discussion of women as mothers in the context of the British empire, see Davin, "Imperialism and Motherhood." 32. TAA, Meeting materials. 33. Chief Gary Potts to A. J. Epp, 1 November 1979, INAC, file B-8260-126-7; Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 34. Chief Gary Potts, Speech for the National Indian Brotherhood. 35. Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 36. Chief Gary Potts, Speech for the National Indian Brotherhood. 37. This does leave open the question of how the TAA considered the treatment of non- European "immigrants" to Canada. The TAA did not explicitly construct themselves against non-Europeans in the way that they did against non-human animals, since they 432 placed both European and non-European immigrants in the category of immigrant, and identified the treatment of racially-marked immigrants as similar to their own treatment. But while they took a stand against their own treatment as immigrants, they said nothing about the unjust treatment of non-dominant groups of immigrants. One might read this silence as an assertion by the TAA that the poor treatment of some groups of immigrants is acceptable, or one might read it as merely highlighting the specific unacceptability of the poor treatment of Aboriginal peoples, while leaving aside any discussion of other racist practices of the Canadian state. 38. Chief Gary Potts, Speech for the National Indian Brotherhood (emphasis mine). 39. Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 40. Report to Commissioner for presentation to INAC Minister, 28 August 1974, INAC, file B-8260-126-5. 41. TAA, Meeting materials. 42. J. H. Faulkner to Chief Gary Potts, 9 January 1979, INAC, file B-8260-126-7; Chief Gary Potts to J. H. Faulkner, 2 March 1979, INAC, file B-8260-126-7. 43. Report to Commissioner for presentation to INAC Minister, 28 August 1974, INAC, file B-8260-126-5; Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 44. Chief Gary Potts, Speech for the National Indian Brotherhood. 45. The literature on this topic is quite vast. See Backhouse, Petticoats and Prejudice; Coombe, "Room for Manoeuver"; Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown; Hart and Bauman, Explorations in Difference; Henderson, First Nations Jurisprudence and Aboriginal Rights; Just, "History, Power, Ideology and Culture"; Kulchyski, Unjust Relations; Lazarus-Black and Hirsch, Contested States; Loo and McLean, Historical Perspectives on Law and Society; Rosenberg, The Hollow Hope; Smart, Feminism and the Power of Law. 46. See, for example, Monture-Angus, Journeying Forward. 47. See, for example, Boldt and Long, The Quest for Justice. 48. See Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 87. As Culhane explains, the federal government's Comprehensive Claims Policy includes a requirement that the settlement of any claim depends upon a First Nation surrendering their Aboriginal title to land, a requirement that is "unjust and humiliating" for Aboriginal peoples, who are often extremely reluctant to sign agreements that include this provision. 49. Chief Gary Potts to M. A. Inch, 7 May 1980, INAC, file B-8260-126-8. 50. "Royal Proclamation of 7 October 1763," 212. For a detailed discussion of the Proclamation and its effects, see Slattery, The Land Rights of Indigenous Canadian Peoples, 191-349. 51. Amended Reply to Statement of Defence to Counterclaim and Joinder of Issue, 29 January 1979, paras. 3, 4. 52. Bear Island Trial Transcript (BITT), TAA oral argument, vol. D, 600. 53. "Royal Proclamation of 7 October 1763 " 212. 54. Legal scholars have argued, however, that the Proclamation was not the only source of Aboriginal rights, and that Aboriginal rights are in fact inherent rights, recognized 433 within rather than created by British or Canadian law. See, for example, Asch and Macklem. "Aboriginal Rights and Canadian Sovereignty"; Clark, Native Liberty, Crown Sovereignty; Foster, "Forgotten Arguments"; McNeil, "The Temagami Indian Claim." 55. BITT, cross-examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 40, 7032. 56. BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. D, 597. 57. BITT, cross-examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 40, 6940-6941. 58. Delaney, "Making Nature/Marking Humans," 491. 59. Weaver, "Salmon for Sale, Moose for Meat," 2. 60. Ibid., 19^0. 61. Weaver, "Making Salmon," 33-34. Weaver also discusses instances of Sto:lo resistance to the imposition of restrictions on their right to fish. One example is the Van der Peet case, in which Dorothy Van der Peet pled not guilty to charges of selling salmon under an Indian food fish licence. See R. v. Van der Peet, [1996] 2 S.C.R. 507. 62. The terms "Aboriginal rights," "Aboriginal rights to land," and "Aboriginal title" appear fairly interchangeably throughout this chapter, as they do in the Bear Island case. In legal terminology, however, Aboriginal rights and Aboriginal title have come to exist as two different things, with Aboriginal title existing as a subset of Aboriginal rights. For a discussion on this topic, see McNeil, "Aboriginal Title and Aboriginal Rights." 63. Statement of Claim of the Attorney General for the Province of Ontario, 8 May 1978, para. 6. 64. Amended Reply to the Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al. and Joinder of Issue, 12 January 1979, paras. 2, 4, 5, 9, 10. 65. Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al., paras. 4, 6, 10. 66. Amended Reply to Statement of Defence to Counterclaim and Joinder of Issue, 29 January 1979, paras. 3, 5, 6. 67. Counterclaim of Gary Potts et al., 20 September 1978, para. 1. 68. For a discussion of some of the precedents that have shaped contemporary Canadian rulings on Aboriginal rights and title cases, see Culhane, "The Great Chain of Precedent." 69. Weaver, "From I-Hermeneutics to We-Hermeneutics," 21. 70. For a discussion of the tensions in the common law between maintaining tradition and allowing for change, see Hutchinson, Evolution and the Common Law. 71. Yogis, Canadian Law Dictionary. 72. This was possible because the precedent established in the Baker Lake test was not binding on Justice Steele's court. Had the Supreme Court of Canada determined the Baker Lake test, Justice Steele could not have altered it in the same way. 73. For a longer discussion of the Baker Lake case, see Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 92-97. 74. Hamlet of Baker Lake et al. v. Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development et al, [1979] 107 D.L.R. (3d) 513 at para. 542. Kent McNeil discusses what he calls the "serious difficulties" in Justice Mahoney's test. For instance, if the social organization requirement stemmed from the perceived need for claimants to show that they had an Aboriginal system of property ownership, then what if their system did not require that they occupied the lands to the exclusion of other societies? See McNeil, "The Temagami Indian Land Claim," 187. 75. Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 72-97. 76.1 would like to thank Adriel Weaver for bringing this point to my attention. 77. Delaney, "Making Nature/Marking Humans," 491. 78. BITT, cross-examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 40, 7032. 79. A factum is a written argument that includes a statement of facts, a list of issues, an explanation of arguments, a statement of the order or relief sought, and appendicies containing a list of cases citations, regulations and statutes. Yogis, Canadian Law Dictionary. 80. Hall, "Where Justice Lies," 231. Much of this article's information relating to the preparation of the TAA's case was gathered by Hall through conversations with Jim Morrison, a researcher hired by the TAA. During the trial, Morrison spent twenty-eight days on the witness stand and his testimony fills twenty-three volumes of transcript. 81. BITT, examinations of Alex Missabi (vol. 35, 6202-6204), Michael James Paul Sr. (vol. 35, 6211), William Twain (vol. 35, 6231-6236) and Chief Gary Potts (vol. 39, 6782-6784). Chief Potts offered extensive testimony, as we shall see, about the band's oral history, stating during trial that he considered it part of his responsibility as chief to gain knowledge about the TAA's oral tradition through listening to the stories of the elders. Chief Potts explained that he collected many stories over time from a number of TAA elders, many of whom died before the commencement of the trial. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 38, 6704. 82. BITT, examination of Alex Missabi, vol. 35, 6202. 83. Factum and Written Argument, Bear Island Foundation, Part IV, Band Issue, Volume V, 56-78. 84. Factum Summary, Bear Island Foundation, 1; Factum and Written Argument, Bear Island Foundation, Part IV, Band Issue, Volume V, 51; BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. E, 725; BITT, examination of Edward Rogers, vol. 16, 2869. 85. BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. E, 724, 771. 86. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 38, 6702 -6703. 87. Factum Summary, Bear Island Foundation, 1-2; BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. E, 726. 88. BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. E, 769, 724; Factum and Written Argument, Bear Island Foundation, Part IV, Band Issue, Volume V, 79-82; BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. D, 662. 89. Hall, "Where Justice Lies," 231. 90. BITT, examination of Craig Macdonald, vol. 22, 4041; BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. E, 677-679; BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. D, 627. 91. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 39, 6733-6734. 92. Ibid., 6762-6766. 93. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 37, 6493-6617; BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 38, 6618-6726. 435 94. Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al., para. 4. 95. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 37, 6481. 96. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 39,6737-6762. 97. Ibid., 6733. 98. BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. E, 677. 99. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 39, 6732 (emphasis mine). 100. Scratching the surface of words like Ontario often reveals their implication in relationships of colonial power, where the appropriation of Aboriginal lands and languages results in the formation of places controlled by non-Native governments and known as, for example, Toronto, Ontario and Canada. "Ontario" likely stems from one of three Iroquoian words, kanadario, onitariio or skanadario, all of which describe a beautiful lake or body of water. See Government of Ontario, "About Ontario: Did You Know?'; Indian and Northern Affairs Canada, "Aboriginal Place Names." 101. Factum and Written Argument, Bear Island Foundation, Part IV, Band Issue, Volume V, 24-25. 102. Ibid., 25-93. 103. See Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies. 104. Factum and Written Argument, Bear Island Foundation, Part IV, Band Issue, Volume V, 49. 105. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 37, 6495-6496. 106. Ibid., 6520, 6579; BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 38, 6657. 107. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 38, 6650, 6660-6661. 108. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 37, 6611. 109. BITT, cross-examination of Chief Gary Potts, 40-6930. 110. Ibid., 6933. 111. Ibid., 6931. 112. Ibid., 6908. 113. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. A, 123. 114. Ibid., 124-125. 115. Ibid., 160. 116. Ibid., 161. 117. BITT, cross-examination of Michael Paul, vol. 35, 6217. 118. BITT, cross-examination of William Twain, vol. 35, 6250. 119. BITT, examination of William Twain, vol. 35,6233. 120. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. A, 187-188. 121. Ibid., 189-190. 122. Ibid., 191, 193. 123. Ibid., 192. 124. Ibid., 193-194. 125. Ibid., 8. 126. Ibid., 27. 127. Ibid., 10. 436 128. Ibid., 32-49. 129. Ibid., 17. 130. Ibid., 18. 131. Ibid., 17-20. 132. Ibid., 20. 133. Ibid., 40. 134. Ibid., 11-13. 135. Ibid., 30. 136. Ibid., 13-15. 137. Ibid., 16. 138. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 203. 1850 was a significant year in this case because it was the year that the Robinson-Huron Treaty was signed. The argument that the Temagami band did not become fully a band until after 1850 was important for Ontario's next argument which, as will be discussed below, was that Tawgawanene signed the treaty on behalf of the not-quite-formed Temagami band. 13 9. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. A, 166-170. 140. Factum and Written Argument, Attorney-General, Volume 3, paras. 499-506. 141. BITT, cross-examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 39, 6820. 142. Factum and Written Argument, Attorney-General, Volume 3, paras. 515-517. 143. BITT, examination of Charles Bishop, vol. 1, 227-230, 335-338. 144. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 271. 145. Ibid., 273 (emphasis mine). 146. Ibid., 274-275. 147. Ibid., 276. 148. Ibid., 276-277. Again, 1850 was the year deemed important for another part of Ontario's argument, which was that even if the Temagami band did not sign the treaty, the result of the treaty having been made meant that the lands in question had been ceded to the Crown. 149. Ibid., 278-280. 150. Statement of Claim of the Attorney General for the Province of Ontario, 8 May 1978, paras. 5, 6; Outline of Plaintiff s Argument, 746. 151. Amended Reply to the Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al. and Joinder of Issue, 12 January 1979, para. 2; Statement of Claim of the Attorney General for the Province of Ontario, 8 May 1978, para. 6. 152. Amended Reply to the Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al. and Joinder of Issue, 12 January 1979, para. 3; BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. C, 414. 153. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. C, 424. 154. Outline of Plaintiff s Argument, 757. 155. Factum and Written Argument, Attorney-General, Volume 3, para. 544. 156. Ibid., para. 545. 157. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. A, 36-37. 158. Ibid., 37. 437 159. Ibid., 38. 160. Ibid., 15-16. 161. Ibid., 11. 162. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 273. 163. Ibid., 274. 164. Ibid., 274-275. 165. BITT, cross-examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 40, 6918-6919; BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 275. 166. BITT, cross-examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 40, 6924. 167. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 276. 168. Ibid. 169. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. F, 1061. 170. See Lawrence, "Real" Indians and Others, 31; Thobani, Exalted Subjects, 277n85. 171. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 276. 172. Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al., para. 1; Amended Reply to Statement of Defence to Counterclaim and Joinder of Issue, 29 January 1979, para. 5. 173. Index of Plaintiff s Argument, 725-726. 174. Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al., paras. 3, 6. 175. Amended Reply to the Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al. and Joinder of Issue, 12 January 1979, para. 5. 176. TAA Written Argument, 46 (emphasis in original). 177. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 37, 6492-6493. 178. Ibid., 6598-6599. 179. BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. F, 896-897. 180. Ibid., 897. 181. Ibid., 898,903. 182. Ibid., 897-899. 183. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 37, 6493. 184. TAA, Meeting materials. 185. Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 186. BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. F, 903. 187. Chief Gary Potts, "Report to Band Members." 188. To complicate matters, however, Chief Potts later indicated that the TAA considered non-human animals as having rights as well. In an interview on CBC radio in 1990, he said that the TAA wanted to ensure that people respected the fact that "the land itself is a living thing and everything that depends on the land has a place as well. Just because they can't speak English, the moose or the ducks or the fish, that doesn't mean that they don't have rights." See Potts, The Battle over Temagami. 189. Factum Summary, Attorney-General, 27-29; BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 328-340, quotation from 338. 190. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 327.

438 191. Legal scholars have argued against this view, and courts have also decided against this perspective, instead understanding Aboriginal title as proprietary in character. Related to this is the question of whether treaties were required for the cession of Aboriginal lands to the Crown. If Aboriginal title did not comprise a proprietary interest in land, then it is conceivable that formal procedures were unnecessary for the Crown to acquire title. But if Aboriginal title did exist as a proprietary interest in land, then treaties, took on a different meaning. For commentary on this matter, see Donovan, "The Evolution and Present Status of Common Law Aboriginal Title"; McNeil, "Extinguishment of Aboriginal Title in Canada." 192. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 351. 193. Ibid., 344. 194. Quoted in BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 352. 195. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 358. 196. Ibid., 397. 197. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. F, 1028. 198. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 398. 199. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. F, 1028. 200. Factum and Written Argument, Attorney-General, Volume 6, para. 912. 201. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. F, 1028. 202. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 407. 203. Factum and Written Argument, Attorney-General, Volume 6, paras. 933-939. 204. Ibid., paras. 942-944. 205. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 408^09. 206. Ibid., 408. 207. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. D, 565-567. 208. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. C, 429-430,432. 209. Ibid., 441. 210. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 344. 211. Ibid., 408-409. 212. For legal commentary on the "frozen title" theory of Aboriginal rights, see Bell, "New Directions"; Slattery, "Understanding Aboriginal Rights"; Slattery, "Making Sense of Aboriginal and Treaty Rights." 213. Factum and Written Argument, Attorney-General, Volume 6, paras. 909-914, quotation from 910. 214. This subtitle comes from a 1990 painting by Gerald McMaster that depicts a clownish version of John A. Macdonald on a red and yellow background reminiscent of Halloween. The painting is called "Trick or Treaty," and those words, along with the words "Have I got an Act for you," are written on the painting. See http://www.britesites.com/native_artist_interviews/gmc25.htm. 215. Amended Reply to Statement of Defence to Counterclaim and Joinder of Issue, 29 January 1979, para. 6.

439 216. Amended Reply to the Statement of Defence of Gary Potts et al. and Joinder of Issue, 12 January 1979, para. 9. 217. BITT, examination of William Twain, vol. 35, 6231. 218. BITT, examination of Chief Gary Potts, vol. 39, 6798. 219. Ibid., 6799. 220. BITT, TAA oral argument, vol. E, 854; Factum of the Appellants, paras. 16, 78. 221. Factum of the Appellants, paras. 17,18, 86. 222. Ibid., para. 19. 223. Ibid., para. 78. 224. Amended Reply to Statement of Defence to Counterclaim and Joinder of Issue, 29 January 1979, paras. 6, 7. 225. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 200. 226. Ibid., 204. 227. Factum of the Attorney-General for Ontario, para., 11. 228. Ibid., para. 55. 229. Ibid., paras. 15-21. 230. Ibid., para. 22. 231. Ibid., para. 23. 232. Ibid., para. 73. 233. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 242. 234. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 244-246. 235. BITT, Ontario oral argument, vol. B, 285. 236. Ibid., 286. 237. Ibid., 287. 238. Instead, similar constructions re-emerge. The TAA, for instance, reinforced the idea of themselves as a sovereign and self-governing nation among other First Nations by explaining the Aboriginal law that forbids one chief from selling the lands belonging to another tribe. Similarly, by arguing that their ancestors never surrendered n'Daki Menan, the TAA constructed the lands in question as belonging by default to the band. Ontario, on the other hand, assumed Crown ownership as the default, as evidenced by the province's argument that Aboriginal lands can become Crown lands by the unilateral actions of the Crown. Clearly, the lands always already belonged to the Crown, since there was no need to purchase them from the Indians in order to make them Crown lands. By representing the lands as always already belonging to the Crown, Ontario also reinforced the idea that Aboriginal peoples could not own land. 239. Fortune, "Constructing Delgamuukw" 83. 240. R. v. Sparrow, [1990] 3 C.N.L.R. 160. 241. Fortune, "Constructing Delgamuukw" 88n31. See also Asch and Macklem, "Aboriginal Rights and Canadian Sovereignty." 242. Fortune,"ConstructingDelgamuukw" 84. 243. Carr, What is History?, 10, 11; Fortune, "Constructing Delgamuukw" 99. 244. Fortune, "ConstructingDelgamuukw" 86. 440 245. Ibid., 96, 88. 246. Factum of the Appellants, paras. 17, 86-88. 247. Factum of the Attorney-General for Ontario, para. 9. 248. A quotation from anthropologist Sally Weaver, cited in Hall, "Where Justice Lies," 232; Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 98. 249. He decided to deal with each reason that led him to his conclusion, rather than selecting only one. See Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 52. There, Justice Steele states that "the plaintiff is entitled to the relief claimed and the defendants' counterclaim fails. There are several grounds upon which this result can be reached. I have decided to deal with all of the grounds, rather than base my decision on one ground alone, because of the exhaustive nature of the evidence and argument submitted on all of the issues, and because of the importance of the case, and thus the likelihood of appellate review. I wish any appellate court to have my findings of fact relating to all issues raised at trial, as well as my reasons thereon." 250. Justice Steele determined that Aboriginal rights were created by the Proclamation, that these rights consisted of the right to use the lands for the purposes and in the manner enjoyed in 1763, and that the TAA had failed to prove that their ancestors had any Aboriginal rights in the lands. Further, he held that the Robinson-Huron treaty had the effect of extinguishing Aboriginal rights in the land claim area, and that the TAA ancestors were party to the treaty or later adhered to it. He also decided that Ontario enacted legislation the effect of which was to extinguish Aboriginal rights in the region, and that Ontario had the constitutional authority to extinguish Aboriginal rights unilaterally. Finally, Justice Steele determined that the TAA were too late to bring their action forward. Set Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, paras. 54-61. 251. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 3 (emphasis mine). 252. Ibid, paras. 20, 64 (emphasis mine). 253. Ibid, para. 79; St. Catherine's Milling and Lumber Co. v. The Queen (1888), 14 A.C. 46 (P.C.). 254. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 95. 255. Ibid., paras. 91, 95 (emphasis mine). 256. See Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 98; Hall, "Where Justice Lies," 237-238. Culhane discusses how, in the 1970s and 1980s, Canadian courts struggled over the interpretation of history in the context of Aboriginal rights cases. The results, she says, were varied, and often contradictory. Some judges, for example Justice Hall in the Calder case, spoke about the importance of interpreting historical documents in light of contemporary (non-Aboriginal) knowledge about First Nations peoples that challenges the previous (European) idea that Aboriginal peoples were a "subhuman species." Other judges, like Justice Steele, came to just the opposite conclusion. In his discussion of Justice Steele's decision, Tony Hall comments that notions of racial inequality were certainly "ubiquitous and deep-rooted" among colonial officials dealing with Aboriginal peoples in past centuries, but that that does not mean that contemporary jurisprudence needs to legitimize past racist principles. 257. That judges "find" things to be the case based on the evidence presented to them is interesting to consider in light of Fortune's discussion of how legal decisions can come down to a matter of historical interpretation. In those kinds of cases, it is particularly clear that judges do not "find" self-evident facts, but rather produce truths by deciding what to find as fact. Yet the idea of judicial objectivity is inscribed in the very term "to find" (it was there all along!). It seems, then, that this term is one subtle way that the objectivity, and thus power-neutrality, of the courts is reinscribed. 258. Culhane, The Pleasure of the Crown, 99. 259. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 35. 260. Ibid., para. 159. 261. Ibid., para. 158. 262. Ibid., para. 126 (emphasis mine). 263. Ibid., paras. 151, 171. That the fur trade was well-established in the area was significant for Justice Steele because it showed that there were Indians in the area trading furs. Since there was no substantial drop in the fur trade in the region prior to or around 1763, he concluded that there was no mass movement out of the region as hypothesized by Bishop. Also, throughout his reasons, Justice Steele called the lands in question the "Land Claim Area." Like Ontario, the judge refused to refer to the lands as n'Daki Menan, as he made clear in his statement that "The defendants referred to the land claim area as 'n'Daki Menan.' I refer to it as the 'Land Claim Area.'" Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 4. 264. In what was perhaps his most bizarre finding, Justice Steele determined that the "historical facts in this area indicate much stronger individual family control over the hunting territory than band control." He explains that "aboriginal rights in land must be held by a band," and further that "a present-day band whose member families had their ancestral family hunting territories on the same lands as the band holds today can only claim those lands to the extent that their ancestors held the lands in 1763 as a band, not as individual families." See Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, paras 159,22. Justice Steel offered no explanation for why Aboriginal rights must be held by a band, but suggested that this requirement was related to the fact that the Crown obtained cessions of territories from bands rather than from individual families. According to Justice Steele, then, TAA ancestors occupied the lands in question in 1763 as an organized society. But, as the judge figured, Aboriginal rights could only be created by the Crown if the organized society was organized in a way authorized by the Crown. The TAA ancestors, it seems, were not careful to organize their society around the criteria Justice Steele imposed over two hundred years later. 265. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 166. 442 266. Ibid., paras. 128, 129. 267. Ibid., para. 167. 268. Ibid., para. 242. 269. See Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 31. 270. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 115. 271. Hall, "Where Justice Lies," 235. 272. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 99. The evidence from trial of Aboriginal rights in 1763 is at paras. 103-115. 273. Ibid., para. 116. 274. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 109. 275. Ibid., paras. 218, 163,112. 276. Hall, "Where Justice Lies," 233. 277. The TAA called no white women (or Aboriginal women or women of colour) as witnesses. It is impossible, therefore, to comment with any certainty on how Justice Steele might have taken up the question of objectivity had women taken the stand. It seems fair to speculate, however, that since objectivity has historically been considered to rest with white men in particular, then Justice Steele might have found objectivity to exist in the realm of white men who had not lived among Indians. 278. Attorney-General for Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1984] O.J. No. 3432, para. 51. 279. Ibid., paras. 41,42. 280. Ibid., para. 287. 281. Ibid., para. 44. 282. Ibid., para. 45. 283. Ontario (Attorney-General) v. Bear Island Foundation, [1989] O.J. No. 267, para. 7. 284. Ibid., para. 8. 285. Ontario (Attorney-General) v. Bear Island Foundation, [1991] S.C.J. No. 61, para. 7. 286. Ibid., para. 6. 287. Ibid., para 7. 288. Ontario (Attorney-General) v. Bear Island Foundation, [1989] 63 D.L.R. (4* ) 756. 289. Bear Island Foundation v. Ontario, [ 1995] O.J. No. 3431.

Notes to the Conclusion

1." Experience Temagami: Parks." 2. Earthroots, "How You Can Help Protect Temagami." 3. Philip, Mistry, Chan and Modeste, "Fortress in the Wilderness." 4. Ontario, Temagami Integrated Planning: Management Options Workbook. 443 5. Ontario, Temagami Integrated Planning: Background Information, 10, 7. 6. Ibid., 13, 12. 7. Ontario, Summary of the Long Term Management Direction, 4, 19. 8. Ibid., 7. 9. Canada, Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. 10. Canada, Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, Volume 1, 677. 11. Ibid., 678. 12. Ibid., 681. 13. Ibid., 682. 14. Ibid., 688. 15. Ibid., 689. 16. A different kind of nation-form may, however, offer promise. Andrea Smith has argued that post-colonial theorists too quickly write off the nation as an inherently oppressive political formation that is necessarily based on racialized and gendered exclusions. Smith contends that indigenous feminist approaches to nationhood offer alternative ways of imagining the nation. Within an indigenous feminist framework, the nation is considered in terms of sovereignty, where sovereignty is the Creator-given right to be responsible to a specific territory rather than the right to control and subjugate land. The nation, then, does not have to be about conquest, control and exclusion, but can be about a shared responsibility to land. See Smith, "Indigenous Feminist Perspectives on Reparations." For a similar perspective on indigenous sovereignty in the Canadian context, see Monture-Angus, Journeying Forward. 17. One such decision is Haida Nation v. British Columbia (Minister of Forests), [2004] 3 S.C.R. 511. In this case, the Supreme Court of Canada determined that the government of British Columbia has a duty to consult with and accommodate the interests of the Haida before undertaking actions that might infringe upon the Haida's asserted rights to Haida Gwaii even if those rights are not legally recognized by Canadian governments. This decision has led other provincial governments, including Ontario, to develop procedures for meaningful consultations with Aboriginal communities affected by the provinces' land-use decisions. The prospect of meaningful consultations with and accommodations of the interests of First Nations marks a significant shift in provinces' historical pattern of doing as they pleased with land considered to belong to the Crown. 18. Philip, Mistry, Chan and Modeste, "Fortress in the Wilderness." Bibliography

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a/.,[1979]107D.L.R.(3d)513.

447 Ontario (Attorney-General) v. Bear Island Foundation, [1989] 63 D.L.R. (4 ) 756.

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Ontario v. Bear Island Foundation, [1995] O.J. No. 1624.

R. v. Sparrow, [1990] 3 C.N.L.R. 160.

R. v. Van der Peet, [1996] 2 S.C.R. 507.

St. Catherine's Milling and Lumber Co. v. The Queen (1888), 14 A.C. 46 (P.C.).

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