New Metlakatla’s Fourth Generation troupe performs songs and dances for growing numbers of tourists. The last few years have seen a resurgence of interest in traditional art forms. Andrew Scott
Metlakatla’s new-found interest in tourism was partly dictated by the economy. Up and down the Alaska coast, traditional forest and fishing industries were depressed—and the situation was unlikely to change much in the immediate future. In fact, the large Louisiana-Pacific sawmill located next to the village would go out of business in 1999, when the federal government ceased logging operations in the Tongass National Forest. In the 2000s, the community would remodel its heritage cannery, formerly used only for cold storage, as a gift shop and retool its fish-packing plant to produce smoked-salmon souvenirs and a variety of specialty Alaskan seafood. Today the village also has a bottled water plant and a gravel quarry. But perched as it is on the ocean’s edge, surrounded by islands and lush, mountain wilderness, Metlakatla feels that its physical assets and First Nations culture can be of much more interest to travellers. And the community can always play its trump card: history.
The village of Metlakatla, Alaska, has moved from a traditional logging- and fishing-based economy to cautiously embrace tourism. The old cannery now packs smoked-salmon souvenirs and other specialty Alaskan seafoods for its gift shop. Andrew Scott
Although this vigorous Tsimshian village of fourteen hundred people is not, geographically speaking, within the scope of this book, I cannot allow William Duncan and the Metlakatlans to disappear from these pages as abruptly as they did from British Columbia. The Alaskan community has its own lengthy history, so a brief overview will have to suffice.
As with the first Metlakatla, the second one also prospered, despite the difficulties of starting over in a wilderness region. An immense church was erected, plus a cannery and a sawmill. Architectural oddities appeared in the landscape, including an octagonal guesthouse and a twelve-sided community hall. Wooden boardwalks led between tree stumps to gingerbread-trimmed houses. The band and police force still had their brass-buttoned uniforms and, in honour of its new country of residence, the community formed a baseball team and celebrated the fourth of July. Today, few signs of the nineteenth-century village remain; only four original houses are left, plus William Duncan’s cottage, which is now the museum.
But Metlakatla also brought old problems to its new location. Duncan, sadly, grew more and more intransigent as he got older. With the help of Henry Wellcome and several US investors, he organized the colony’s financial and business affairs as a private company, over which he had complete and rigid control. He was inflexible about education, refusing to provide any kind of advanced or vocational training. In 1908, more than one hundred villagers complained about Duncan’s policies and petitioned for a government school. Five years later, one was authorized.
As it had been in BC, the community once again became divided. Many individuals had been with Duncan from the beginning and remained his staunch supporters. Others felt it was time the village ran its own affairs. Conflicts grew common once more; this time they were usually between Duncan and the government teacher or various Tsimshian leaders like Edward Marsden, who had received an education in the eastern US, and Benjamin Haldane. When the missionary seized control of the village water supply and closed off the wharf, people began to wonder if perhaps he was suffering from a form of dementia.
Despite the urgent pleas of the Metlakatla village council, US officials were loath to remove Duncan. “This old man is a good man,” wrote interior secretary Franklin Lane, “and has led a life of great usefulness, and I don’t believe in taking harsh measures with him excepting as a very last resort.” Finally, in 1915, Lane wrenched control from Duncan by deciding that the government—which had set Annette Island aside as a First Nations reserve in 1891, “subject to such restrictions as may be prescribed from time to time”—could, if it wished, manage the island’s facilities on behalf of its inhabitants. Today, those inhabitants manage their own affairs, but still operate under the terms of the 1891 agreement; they are the only First Nations group in Alaska not to have concluded a land-claims agreement, and Annette Island is the state’s only First Nations reserve.
This old postcard reveals William Duncan’s stubborn, unyielding personality as he stands in front of his cottage at Metlakatla, Alaska, a few years before his death in 1918 at age 86. Author’s Collection
Duncan continued to live at Metlakatla, embittered and broken in spirit. He had become a truly tragic figure: his self-sacrifice, endless labour, innovative methods and unselfish, humanitarian goals were, in the end, sabotaged by a stubborn, unyielding personality. He told Henry Wellcome, who would spend the next two decades defending the missionary’s reputation, that he and his supporters were being treated “much worse” in the US than they had been in BC. He died in the village in 1918, aged eighty-six, and was given an elaborate funeral.
Duncan is buried in front of his church, and many Metlakatlans continue to revere him. His old cottage has been preserved almost exactly the way he left it. Above the narrow bed, his hats and black suits still hang on the wall. His huge old Bible is on the table, his books stacked along the shelves. Part of the cottage was a clinic, and bottles of saccharated pepsin, Break-Up-A-Cold tablets and C & W worm syrup line the cabinets. Since Duncan’s death, however, his church has been joined by seven others, including Evangelical, Presbyterian and Mormon houses of worship. The community is no longer solely Christian, either. Traditional ways are slowly returning.
At a 1987 potlatch celebrating the centennial of the move to Annette Island, neighbouring First Nations groups gave the Metlakatlans a number of traditional songs and dances to replace the ones they had lost as a result of Duncan’s zeal. Now, First Nations performers entertain tourists. New totem poles adorn the townsite, and a number of eager Tsimshian artists and sculptors have gone on to professional careers after taking specialized courses at the Metlakatla high school.
Secular problems like alcohol abuse and petty crime have crept back into Metlakatla’s social life, but they haven’t destroyed the fabric of the community or its friendly, open atmosphere. Even the members of the work crew I saw cleaning up garbage to settle their debts to society seemed happy. Back at the band council offices at the end of the day, they were laughing and joking as they wiped the sweat from their brows and punched out their time cards. William Duncan, I can’t help but feel, would have approved.
In what way, one may ask, was Metlakatla a utopian community? Duncan’s followers, after all, had no sense of utopia, especially in the early days. Most of them were there to flee a plague. It was only with reluctance that they allowed themselves to come under the missionary’s control. Duncan took advantage of an extreme situation to persuade—or perhaps “coerce” is the better word—an unwilling group to adopt a way of life that many disagreed with and some were adamantly opposed to. With the scourge of smallpox hovering over them, community members perhaps felt they had little choice in the matter.
But William Duncan had a clear utopian vision. And in time his vision was shared by a number of his followers. His vision was deeply Christian, of course. It did not reflect the dissenter tradition that inspired groups like the Doukhobors. Duncan, after all, was Church of England. He was not doctrinaire, however, as many of his actions—his persistent avoidance of ordination, for example, and his readiness, when the situation called for it, to abandon Anglicanism and form an independent church—proved.
Although Duncan’s utopian dream may have emerged from his own deep spiritual fervour, he was a practical man and able to adapt his vision to the circumstances he encountered on the ground. He wanted to “captivate” the ungodly and “radiate