An Ensemble of Names

Full chapter from my independent research: “Reading” Glacier Bay: a landscape of cultural and physical glaciation from the Little Ice Age to the 21st century"

Tree carving of unknown origin near the town of Hoonah, Alaska.

In reconstructing the Little Ice Age landscape of Glacier Bay before John Muir and the ice advanced into it, it is valuable to explore the way in which the Tlingit named its many topographical features. Indeed, like Muir’s descriptions of place, they are deeply revealing of both the physical features of the land, similar to geologic reconstructions using historical observations or dendrochronology, and what the landscape represents culturally for their namer, who is also a “reader” of that land. Though when considering John Muir’s adherence to the American style of place naming that is imperial, meaning that it seems to always be in support of the American empire by in many cases boasting its powerful figures, Muir and the Tlingit diverge in their “readings” of the landscape. Place names, according to Thomas Thornton,

“both by themselves an in the context of narratives, songs, and everyday speech, provide valuable insight into the ways humans experience the world and appropriate images of the landscape to interpret and communicate their experiences. Thus, in addition to conveying wealth of detail about the physical environment, place names also convey a great deal of information about the social environment” (1997, p. 209-210).

In this way, a place name reflects back on the namer, and their culture, by revealing the how they “read” nature in the context that they encounter it. However, this complicates Muir’s reputation as an emotional experiencer of nature that opposes industry and the powerful institutions of Mankind that are always trying, in his words, “to smelt and purify [all humans] into conformity” (1916). Indeed, Muir remains a complicated figure, but the vastly different styles of place naming in Glacier Bay between him and the Tlingit speaks to their deeply embedded cultural values regarding their interactions with nature.

But while imperial and Tlingit nomenclatures oppose one another in how they name the landscape, their biggest difference may be in the temporality of those names. This may not be as obvious in Ohio, where corn has grown predictable for hundreds of years, but becomes painstakingly evident in such a dynamic landscape as Glacier Bay. Landscapes like those along the Gulf of Alaska that are so sensitive to fluctuations in climate, whether annual or centennial, are in constantly motion whether the naked human eye can see it or not. And because imperial names, according to Thornton, are “unreflective and lacking in topographical content,” they are rigid and too slow to adapt to these changes (1997, p. 213). They do not account for the ebbs and flows of nature because they assume a constant world. Rapid change like the surges and retreats of ice in Glacier Bay, they assume, does not happen.

In imperial naming, the tallest mountain is the alpha mountain so consequently it is often named after the man of greatest power. Mount McKinley farther north is a good example of this. According to the New York Times, its naming is “an example of cultural imperialism in which a Native American name with historical roots was replaced by an American one having little to do with the place.” Similarly, the most mountain-like glacier, “the last of all the grand company to be seen,” was named for the man who first dared to climb and conquer it. But now that explorer’s namesake glacier, Muir Glacier, has melted so far from its glory that it barely appears on the map. That Muir fella couldn’t have been that important, I guess, thus muses in the cruise ship tourist, unfolding the map on the back of the National Park brochure for the first time. This kind of place naming is “unsystematic and meaningless” if you are trying to learn about the actual physical landscape (Thornton, 1997, p. 214).

Another example of imperial naming is Riggs Glacier in Muir Inlet. The name itself does not reveal anything about the glacier itself, nor about what it may have looked like one hundred years ago. It holds no historical value for Glacier Bay at all. In fact, in the mid 20th century it was still an unnamed tributary of the Muir Glacier that simply disappeared up into the Takhinsha Mountains (Fig 15).

Figure 15.   Photo of Muir Glacier taken August 13th, 1941. Note pre-Riggs tributary top right (United States Geological Survey: https://www2.usgs.gov/climate_landuse/glaciers/repeat_photography.asp).     

Figure 16.   Muir and Riggs Glaciers between ten and thirteen years before separation, taken on August 4th, 1950 (United States Geological Survey: https://www2.usgs.gov/climate_landuse/glaciers/repeat_photography.asp).

            But as Muir Glacier continued its 20th century retreat and eventually split, it created a new glacier with its own face that required a name (Fig. 16). This time, Thomas J. Riggs was given the great honor. The logic behind the naming of Mount McKinley and Muir Glacier, it appears, was also applied here, but even less so because he had no particular ties to Glacier Bay at all, let alone to his namesake glacier. Thomas Riggs Jr.’s only claim to the region is that he served as Governor of the Alaska Territory from 1918 until 1921 and worked as Commissioner for the construction of the Alaskan railroad (Riggs Jr., 1919). The glacier that was named after him hadn’t come into existence until it split from the larger and rapidly retreating Muir Glacier between 1960 and 1963 (Molnia, 2007). The case of Riggs Glacier is what Thomas Waterman, an anthropologist with a particular interest in Native American place names, is criticizing when he writes, “there is some reason for the use of the names of great men… but even this has been carried to extremes” (n.d.a.).

Moreover, its name tells us nothing of the physical features of the land, but supports the notion that the ways in which cultures name the land reflects much about how a culture perceives and “reads” nature. In this way, it is “not merely the fauna or topographical features of the country as such that are reflected, but rather the interest of the people in such environmental features” (Thornton, 1997, p. 212). In the imperial worldview, then, it would appear that narratives of fame, power, accomplishment, and gender are dominant, reoccurring, and most often attributed to environmental features that mirror the same qualities in the landscape. There are exceptions to this statement, considering place names like “The Smoky Mountains” and “Icy Strait”. However, many of these names that may appear descriptive, such as “Berg Bay,” are in fact direct translations from the Native name, Chookanhéeni, for that geographic location (NPS Tlingit Place Names map). The imperial pattern appears dominant in regions like Alaska that have been the fantastical object of nationalist mythology surrounding “the last frontier.” Theodore Catton writes that imperial naming in Alaska arises from an irresistable “romantic impulse to preserve America’s past” (1997, p. 217). Indeed, Alaska, and subsequently Glacier Bay, has been a proving ground for imperial power, upon which America has marked its territory by staking its important names, (Muir, McKinley, and Riggs) to the land. So, while reflective of American culture and deeply revealing of its general attitude toward the environment, or perhaps rather territory, this nomenclature does not help our effort to reconstruct past landscapes or contribute anything to scientific understanding of natural systems.

The same cannot be said for Tlingit nomenclature. In Thomas Thornton’s discussion of Native Alaskan place naming, he shares Thomas Waterman’s reflection that the indigenous style of naming is in itself a form of “poetry” composed by the place name’s “descriptiveness and their ability to relate the landscape to important aspects of their culture” (1997, p. 216). This “poetry” of place names has two parts. Firstly, the names are rich in their descriptions of the geographic landscape. For example, in Glacier Bay’s Western arm, T’ooch’ Gheiyi is a place name that translates to “Bay of Black” or “Dirty Glacier Bay” (Fig. 17, point 14). And, similarly, Sit’ Eeti Gheiyi in English means “The Bay in Place of the Glacier,” referring not only to the bay is it exists today, but how it came to be. In just hearing the name, the place can be visualized. In addition to their descriptiveness, the names are typically extremely dense on the landscape. Speaking to this, Waterman relates that indigenous Alaskan cultures were “extraordinarily industrious in applying and inventing names” (1997, p.215). In their descriptiveness of, and density on, the physical landscape, Tlingit places names are an excellent source of geographical information.

Figure 17.   An ethnographic map of Glacier Bay’s Western Arm (National Park Service: https://www.nps.gov/glba/learn/historyculture/upload/Tlingit-Place-names.pdf).

            However, access to the descriptive place names depends on the second part of their “poetry”; important aspects of Tlingit culture, from food gathering to historical events, provide the context out of which the names arise. This is why, as Waterman observes, the naming of Native Alaskan cultures tend to appear very “selective” to non-Natives (1997, p. 215). Indeed, a romantic-looking peak in the landscape will be nameless, while a side of its slope may have a handful. Or, alternatively, as Waterman observed, “a special name will be given to a rock no larger than a kitchen table while, on the other hand, what we consider the large and important features of a region’s geography have no names at all” (1922, p. 178). The rich and descriptive names are awarded based not on their beauty or power, but rather their practicality and sentimental value. Instead of political figures, they often relate to significant historical or traditional events, like the destruction of an ancestral village from a surging glacier or, more commonly, the gathering of food.

In this way, the names are useless without the cultural context from which they arise, a deep understanding of the meaning behind the name. For example, without having been given the map of Tlingit place names (Fig. 17), it would be impossible for a non-Tlingit to pin the location of T’ooch’ Gheiyi. This is because such knowledge is sacred and belongs to the culture, or even more specifically the individual culture of the clan that named it, so that for a non-Tlingit to locate the place they would have to be guided or included in this sacred circle of knowledge. As such, it is a profoundly local knowledge that is internalized within the members of its culture and is passed down within it through a rich tradition of oral storytelling. Indeed, this is how it is preserved and transmitted. For example, from the Kaagwaantaan clan, Herman Kitka’s knowledge of his ancestral history and corresponding geographic awareness is evident in is ability to recount in stunning detail the story of a man named Kaakeiz’wtí, who migrated with Kitka’s ancestors from their homeland in Glacier Bay to Sitka after being evicted by the Little Ice Age advance (Thornton, 1997, p. 300). Kitka knows the events of the story and its context so well because “the Journey of Kaakeix’wtí is Kaagwaantaan history. Because Herman Kitka draws his identity from these events, he knows this geography, even though he has not set foot in much of the territory. He even knows where Kaakeix’wtí liked to hunt his seals” (Thornton, 1997, p. 300).

The story of Herman Kitka embodies the two most important aspects of Tlingit place naming and the “poetry” that it composes. Firstly, it shows that “to be born Tlingit means to be placed in a particular sociogeographic web of relations indexed by geographic names”, such that the names are an essential component of Tlingit identity (Thornton, 1997, p. 295). And so, conversely, this “web of relations” is deeply intertwined with the landscape from which it arises. Moreover, the land and the culture are fundamentally inseparable:

“Personal names and titles passed down through Chookaneidi and T’akdeintaan clan matrillineages similarly refer to landmarks and events rooted in Glacier Bay. Thus, simply being a Chookaneidi or a Takdeintaan means belonging to Glacer Bay. The social and physical geography are intimately intertwined; one cannot be invoked without invoking the other” (Thornton, 1997, p. 223).

That the Kaagwaantaan clan embraced a Xakwnukweidí (a person of the people from Dry Fort in Dundas Bay) speaks to the profound meaning that underlies and bonds together the Tlingit web of social relations. To be from Glacier Bay is to be a vital part of this web. Though they may have originated from different parts of the bay, the Tlingit clans of Chookeneidí, T’akdeintaan, Kaagwaantaan, and Xakwnoowú all share in this bond, a “poetry” that embodies their sacred identity.

Secondly, the story highlights the importance of subsistence in Tlingit toponyms. The names and their contexts give valuable information about where to hunt and where to migrate in times of imminent danger. Some names that Thomas Waterman noted in his research of Native Alaskan cultures directly refer to places where food is caught or gathered, such as  “Dog-salmon place” or “Wild-potato place” (1922, p.182). In Glacier Bay, Ghaat Héeni, meaning “Sockeye River”, was the name of an old river where the Kaagwaantaan, Wooshkeetaan, and T’akdeintaan clans fished for sockeye salmon (NPS Tlingit place names map). In this way, while the names reflect a deep sense of belonging, they at the same time possess a certain practicality, a guide for both survival and everyday life.

Perhaps Thomas Thornton said it best when he writes, “strategically deployed in rituals and other communicative interactions, place names function not only to distinguish groups, but also to unite them. Toponyms embody both subsistence and sociological knowledge, and Tlingit learn to think with the landscape to achieve a variety of material and social goals” (1997, p. 302). To this end, the density of Tlingit place names on the land is a product of the richness and deep history of Tlingit inhabitation in Glacier Bay. And the ways in which their sense of identity is passed down from generation to generation is part of a sacred ritual of oral storytelling that both cherishes and depends upon toponyms for its geographic grounding. Indeed, this is why Glacier Bay is such a meaningful spiritual homeland; many clans and family lineages are rooted to the bay in the same way as its old growth forests join under the soil to create an immense and profoundly interconnected web, depending on one another for physical support and belonging.

However, because the toponyms are sacred property of the clans that own them and are virtually inseparable from the cultural context from which they are connected, they are very difficult to make sense of for non-Tlingit. Indeed, they must be accessed, mapped, and translated, supposing that the elder who still may know them, as Herman Kitka had, is willing to share them. Many are not, and would prefer the knowledge to pass away with them (Dauenhauer, 1990). Even when translated, the names often prove as “puzzles and conundrums” that requiring solving (Waterman, 1922). But when the Tlingit place names are solved and pinned on a map, their descriptiveness illustrates past landscapes in brilliant detail.

For anyone non-Tlingit, reconstructing these maps takes time and learning in Tlingit culture. Indeed, the reconstructor must be at least aware and respectful of the Tlingit web of social relations from which the toponyms arise. In the words of Nora Marks Dauenhauer, a Tlingit poet and student of anthropology, when a Tlingit “story (from Glacier Bay) is read by a person outside of the culture of the storyteller, the cultural context is lost” (1993, p. 8). In other words, the massive cultural gap, as highlighted by the different ways of naming Glacier Bay, must be bridged in some way. The question was how. To find out, I decided to set off to the Elmer E. Rasmuson Library of The University of Alaska Fairbanks, home to some of the most rare Tlingit texts available. But first I had to prepare. In advance, I emailed a librarian in inquiry about rare material from Glacier Bay as told in Tlingit oral narratives, especially of place names, and of indigenous perspectives on Americanization.[1] I described this project at length and asked a number of questions regarding what was stored away in the libraries many collections. But she stopped me there with a brief response, as if we could go no further until she knew the answer to the most important question of all. “Are you a student of Tlingit?” I told her I was not, and I sensed the closing of a hundred doors. I began to grow aware of how deeply the cultural gap between the Tlingit and myself is steeped. I thought that I could simply travel to Rasmuson, pick a book or tape off the shelf and see, almost magically, a past Glacier Bay in stunning colors. But I am not Tlingit, nor am I a student of Tlingit, so I am “lost” outside of the cultural context of the stories.  As an outsider to the “sociogeographic web of relations indexed by geographic names,” I am inhibited in my ambition to reconstruct Glacier Bay’s past.

But not all hope was lost. The project could still rely on translated material from spoken to written word, then on paper from Tlingit to English. But even here there is a major problem. Nora Marks Dauenhauer spells out this delicate and arduous process in “Haa Shuká Our Ancestors,” by prefacing a collection of oral narratives with fifty-nine pages describing the methods of translation. Dauenhauer says that “at each stage of the recording of oral literature, something gets lost… when the story is written down, we lose everything about the voice… quotation marks are a poor substitute for the marvelous gift of the human voice” (1993, p. 7). In each step taken towards a form that I can read, there is loss, because to retell a story is to change it: “even if the story is told over and over, it is never exactly the same, because the conditions are different, the audience is different” (Dauenhauer, 1993, p. 6). It is because of the slow passing of time relative to the brevity of each generation that the work of using place names for the reconstruction of past landscapes is made uncertain. In light of this fact I am reminded that such work is, after all, a reconstruction, and therefore conjectural, not unlike using tree rings to reconstruct the movements of landscape-carving glaciers during the Little Ice Age.    

Regardless, a sense of urgency is now forming in “mapping, transcribing, and interpreting place names” before they pass away with the memories of what few Tlingit elders remain. Indeed, it is with a “sober awareness” among those who remain, such as Nora and her husband Mark Dauenhauer, that “each death (of a an elder) brings the Tlingit language and the great oral tradition composed and transmitted in the language closer to extinction” (Thornton, 1997, p. 222). Time is running out, and the pace of documenting Tlingit oral history has quickened accordingly. Thomas Thornton reiterates the importance of speaking specifically with elders about place names: “to learn to Tlingit geography of Glacier Bay, we cannot ask just any Tlingit speaker; rather we must consult the much smaller circle of experts who are descendants of Glacier Bay and have experienced the landscape both first-hand and through the rich intellectual traditions of their ancestors” (1997, p. 225). Despite the difficulties in translating oral narratives, the careful work of individuals such as Nora and Mark Dauenhauer, forwarded by organizations committed to the fostering of Native Alaskan culture like the Sealaska Heritage Foundation, has made Tlingit geography of Glacier Bay accessible to non-Tlingit interests. Like mine.

The place names and details about past environments that have emerged from this arduous process work to set these still ethnogeographic maps into motion. Not only are Tlingit place names deeply reflective of their specific culture, referring to how that culture “reads” nature, but are also pictorial in their descriptions of a changing Glacier Bay. While the names are fluid and deeply connected with the land, Thornton reminds us that they are “durable” and survive time through the rich tradition of Tlingit storytelling. In this way, they are living in the memories of those particular elders, of the knowing descendants. All we have to do is access them. While etched in Tlingit memory, the place names flow with the ever-changing land so that our geographical map, which indexes a uniquely Tlingit “web of relations” and defines Tlingit identity, begins to stir into motion. As the names are known and interpreted, they fill gaps and bridge temporal inconsistencies. The density of Tlingit place naming on the land (Fig. 17) can then be “interpreted as an ensemble” of names that marches through time (Thornton, 1997, p. 223). That the map of names is set into motion means that the worlds of ethnography and cosmology are illuminating our understanding of geologic processes through time.

The Little Ice Age is a perfect example of this “ensemble” of names because it led to the development of Glacier Bay as I found it, a dramatic sprawling bay with steep cliffs and dense forest. In this transformative time (Connor et al., 2008), the very name for the bay itself reflected each step in the ice margin’s advance and retreat. The procession of place names begins with the oldest, S’é Shuyee (“End of the Glacial Mud”), then Xáatl Tú (“Ice Bay”), and concludes with Sit’ Eeti Geeyi (“The Bay in Place of the Glacier”) (Thornton, 1997, p. 223; Wiles et al. unpublished). In just hearing the names, which represent the progression of time, it is easy to picture what began as a very muddy, terrestrial landscape. That the first Tlingit name includes “glacial” suggests also that a glacier was distantly looming. If this was true, there may have been a system of rivers streaming through the mud. But the second name infers the prominence of a body of water, the beginnings of a “bay,” that was characterized by the presence of “ice.” Could the once distant glacier have advanced over this muddy landscape and reshaped it, leaving an icy bay upon retreat? From “mud” to “bay,” the landscape had drastically changed from terrestrial to aquatic. The final name is very descriptive, revealing that where there was once a glacier, there is now a bay.  In sequence, the names “neatly characterize the hydrological process contributing to the formation of the present Glacier Bay” (Thornton, 1997, p.  223).

[1] For more on this, see: Hinckley, Ted C. "The Americanization of Alaska, 1867-1897."