"In the beginning, it was the root, the tree, the bark that taught my ancestors,” says Todd Labrador as he splits a long spruce root into sinewy twine used to stitch birchbark onto a canoe frame. Each summer, Labrador builds a birchbark canoe at a shelter in Kejimkujik National Park and National Historic Site in Nova Scotia. This particular canoe was nearing completion in August 2019 when I signed up for a one-day workshop with Labrador, keen to say I had a hand in building this traditional and oh so Canadian craft. “We don’t have the elders to teach a lot of these things anymore, but the material will teach you how, if you listen to it.”
Because of COVID-19 public health restrictions, this summer's workshop is a demonstration only and goes by the title, the Kejimkujik Birch Bark Canoe Project. It’s open to the public Thursday to Sunday, from 9:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. until September 5 in a shelter at the far end of Merrymakedge Beach. You can can observe Labrador at work, ask questions and listen to his stories. Parks Canada hopes to resurrect the workshop next year. In the meantime, the visitor centre also has one of Labrador's canoes at an exhibit that outlines its history and construction.
“If you don’t have the elder to teach you, the root will teach you,” Labrador continues. “The birch bark will teach you. The wood will teach you. You can still learn, but you have to be a good student.”
Todd Labrador peels bark from boiled spruce roots to prepare them for splitting/Darcy Rhyno
Labrador can trace his own roots in the park's geographic footprint back seven generations, but his ancestors have lived in this 404 square kilometre (1560 square mile) swath of Nova Scotia wilderness at the heart of Mi'kma'ki — roughly, what’s known today as the Maritime Provinces — for thousands of years. It only took a few generations for those traditional skills to be forgotten. By listening to the materials, Labrador is relearning them and through this project, passing some of what’s he’s learning along to other students of the traditional ways.
One of those students is a Mi’kmaw man who, like Labrador, has been teaching himself to build a birchbark canoe. He’s come to this workshop in hopes of honing his skills. As we boil, strip and split the roots Labrador has supplied, the Indigenous student gains insight. Spruce roots are better than pine. Boiling the roots too long will weaken them. He also learns the finer points of splitting the root with a sharp knife so the ropes remain long, even and strong. The secret, Labrador shows him, is to push the knife to the thicker side of the root whenever it strays and threatens to sever its length. The blade will naturally return to the middle of the root.
Todd Labrador, left, shows a workshop student how to secure birch bark to the canoe frame/Darcy Rhyno
As my Indigenous classmate learns, so do I and so do the other two participants, a couple from Quebec. These are not easy skills to master for the three of us. While Labrador is splitting roots without so much as a glance at his knife, we’re struggling to keep the root from separating into short, useless lengths. Then again, we’re not likely to split another root in our lives, let alone build a canoe.
I have other reasons for attending this workshop. While I grew up and still live close to the park I’ve always known as Keji, I was only vaguely aware of the Mi’kmaq presence here. It was the camping, paddling and hiking that attracted me. This workshop is part of my effort to gain a much deeper understanding of the park’s Mi’kmaq heritage.
Sunrise on Kejimkujik Lake, as seen from Jeremy's Bay Campground/Darcy Rhyno
The name of the park is very close to the original Mi’kmaq word for the area Kejimkuji’jk, meaning little fairies. Kejimkujik Lake lapping a few metres away from our shelter was once known as Fairy Lake. A small corner of it retains the English translation, Fairy Bay. Today, we might think of the little people that take on various forms in Mi’kmaq mythology not as fairies, but as gnomes or dwarves. It’s thought that some of the petroglyphs on these shores represent Wiklatmu’j or rock spirits translated by settlers as stone dwarves.
These small, swift and mighty folk are said to paddle birchbark canoes and wield powerful magic, but they aren’t usually dangerous to people. They’re a joyous lot, sometimes seen singing and dancing. They might pull the odd practical joke like tying knots in hair or putting someone’s clothes on backwards. However, things can get serious for those who show disrespect to others or to the natural world. That’s when belongings might be destroyed or curses cast. They might even kidnap someone who strays into the woods alone.
The information centre has an exhibit on the park's petroglyphs/Darcy Rhyno
Some 500 petroglyphs — one of the largest collections in eastern North America — are etched on slate exposed by glaciers that retreated over 10,000 years ago. The Mi’kmaw Cultural Landscape Monument — also at Merrymakedge Beach — marks the trailhead to the petroglyphs. Nearby at the Mi’kmaw Encampment Site stands a wigwam made from birchbark harvested in the park. Interpreters host public programs here, including encampments, but visitors are welcome to use it any time.
Sixty Mi’kmaq sites, including the petroglyphs, have been identified within the park. Indigenous history here is so long and substantial that the inland portion of Keji was designated a National Historic Site in 1995, the only national park with this dual status, “because it is a significant Mi'kmaw cultural landscape that attests to Mi'kmaw occupancy of the area since time immemorial,” according to the park’s management plan. In addition to the illustration of Wiklatmu’j, the petroglyphs depict sea-going canoes, traditional clothing and even hints of a written Mi’kmaq language.
Kejimkujik Lake, as seen from Ritchie Island, has long been a Mi'kmaq gathering place/Darcy Rhyno
Labrador is fully aware of the importance and fragility of the petroglyphs. He pauses in our workshop to show us a photo of one. “The petroglyphs in Keji are fading quickly, but we try to keep them alive.” He talks about why petroglyphs are found in this particular location. “My father told me it’s a mawio’mi or gathering. Here, ancestors would celebrate and share stories, maybe talk about who hunts where.” For 3,000 to 4,000 years, Kejimkujik Lake was one of the most important places for mawio’mi because it’s at the convergence of well traveled paddling routes with accompanying portages and trails reaching from the Bay of Fundy in the west to the Atlantic coast in the east. The park expanded to the coast in 1988, creating a separate area known as Kejimkujik National Park Seaside.
Place names in the park sometimes hint at Mi’kmaq and natural history. The place where the Mersey River drains from Kejimkujik Lake is named Eel Weir because the Mi’kmaq harvested eels here. Today, Keji is one of several parks coordinating research into the health of American Eel populations in eastern Canada. Other ongoing park programs monitor and protect the endangered Blanding’s turtle, mainland moose and American marten as well as threatened species such as the eastern ribbonsnake. Populations of American Eel remain stable in Nova Scotia, though it’s still a species of special concern.
A Todd Labrador display canoe at the park's information centre/Darcy Rhyno
European settlement interrupted millennia of continuous Mi’kmaq movement across these lands. In 1842, Joseph Howe — one of Nova Scotia’s best known politicians and then Commissioner of Indian Affairs — granted 12 plots of farmland to Mi’kmaq families in what is now Kejimkujik National Park. Traditionally nomadic, they struggled on land unsuited to farming. As hunting and fishing enthusiasts discovered the region, Mi’kmaq adapted to earning livelihoods as guides and crafters.
Labrador’s great grandfather, Joe Jeremy, was one such skilled crafter. Keji’s popular 344-site frontcountry campground at Jeremy’s Bay is named for him. He scratched out a living weaving baskets and carving oak tool handles. Labrador says Jeremy was often paid in milk, butter, eggs or pork.
In this centenary year of Canada’s great tall ship, the Bluenose — its likeness graces the dime — a connection to Joe Jeremy has come to light. Among his many skills was the crafting of mast hoops. These are used on vessels of all sizes to help sails ride up and down masts. When the shipwrights at Lunenburg’s Smith and Rhuland Shipyard needed to fit the sails to the tall masts of the Bluenose so she could win back the International Fisherman’s Cup from the Americans, there was only one choice. Joe Jeremy’s mast hoops helped the Bluenose go on to a 17-year undefeated record against all challengers.
Securing birch bark to the canoe using spruce root/Darcy Rhyno
Labrador tells this story with pride. He’s pleased that his great grandfather’s role in building one of the world’s finest ships is being recognized. “When I build a birchbark canoe,” Labrador says, “there’s a lot of ancestors around me and spirits smiling. I’m sure today my great grandfather would be smiling, knowing that his legacy is being captured.”
The spruce root I’ve been splitting is ready. I take it to the canoe where Labrador shows me how to stitch a sheet of birch bark onto the frame. I make tiny holes with an awl and thread the root through. It’s delicate, slow work, but Labrador finds it meditative. “You need to focus completely on what you’re doing,” he says.
As Labrador oversees my work, I get to ask questions and hear more stories. He tells me it takes about 1,000 feet of root rope to bind a 19-foot canoe together. He harvested plenty for this workshop, all from the park where he has permission to gather materials. Harvesting spruce root has him thinking about climate change. In recent years, unusually long dry spells have characterized Nova Scotia summers. “I was in the forest right after daylight to dig these.” He points to roots he soaked in the lake to make them flexible. “The ground is so dry, it’s dusty.”
Homemade stew and bread at the end of a canoe-making workshop/Darcy Rhyno
As I finish, Labrador’s wife, Laurie calls us to the table for dinner — a hearty beef stew and thick slices of homemade bread. In the past, we might be eating moose or bear stew with bannock, she tells us.
Over dinner, Labrador explains how he’ll finish the canoe by waterproofing the seams. Traditionally, he would have used pine sap or spruce gum. “We melt it over the fire and add a little bear grease and crumbled charcoal.” Today, he just uses a commercial marine sealant, the only part of the canoe that doesn’t come from Keji.
Labrador has hosted workshops and built canoes across the country and as far away as Paris, but says there’s nothing like building one right here on the shores of Kejimkujik Lake. “My great-great-great grandfather lived right up here, and my other one, Stephen Labrador, lived over here,” he says, motioning with his hand. “This was our land. This is where we lived. It’s like coming back home.”
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