Archaeology of ancient living spaces

Winter pithouses, often clustered along river and lake shores, were commonplace within the B.C. Interior for millennia.

Pithouses were constructed from thousands of years ago to as recently as the 1900s and built by digging a foundation in the ground before building

a wooden structural frame. The wooden frame was then covered with hides, bark, sod, piled sediment and tree boughs.

After the houses were abandoned, the roof would eventually collapse inward, leaving a distinctive oval-, circular- or rectangular-shaped depression in the ground. Developments within the last 50 years have adversely impacted, if not completely destroyed, many pithouses within the B.C. Interior.

Nevertheless, occasionally the undisturbed remains of winter pithouses are encountered by archeologists. In these instances, archeologists are sometimes afforded the opportunity to excavate a portion or all of a pithouse.

Ideally, the pithouses that remain throughout the province would be recorded and mapped, but not dug, as digging archeological sites essentially destroys the integrity of the sites.

Archeological sites are considered an important link to the past and site preservation is typically the preference.

However, if development is encroaching on the pithouse or if First Nations communities would like to learn more about a particular site, sometimes a pithouse will be excavated.

Similar to when people move houses in the present day, the majority of possessions within the pithouse were packed up and taken with the occupants when they moved into summer tents at the end of winter.

In some cases, tools and other seasonal items were stored within the pithouse until the following year.

Inevitably, a few items were inadvertently left behind. The forgotten or lost artifacts can help paint a vibrant picture of the past inhabitants of the house.

Much can be learned from excavating the remains of an abandoned house and archeologists approach this type of research with a well-organized plan and in consultation with local First Nations communities.

There are many ways to approach excavating a pithouse and it depends on the time available and the goals of the excavation.

If it is not feasible or possible to excavate the house in its entirety, it is common to excavate a trench across the centre of the house or to excavate half of the house.

In these scenarios, archeologists lay out a grid across all or a portion of the house in one-metre squares and then excavate each one-metre by one-metre unit in carefully measured increments.

The digging is precise and detailed and often completed with small hand tools and trowels.

A particular focus is placed on noting changes in the sediment layers. Artifacts are collected and recorded based on the location of the find from within each one-meter by one-meter unit.

Archeologists are looking for evidence of structural elements of the house to help explain how the house was constructed and organized.

As crews delve deeper into digging inside the pithouse, it can be determined how many times the house was occupied and rebuilt, how the interior of the house was organized (e.g., hearth locations, sleeping areas, entrance ways), how many people likely occupied the house and what types of activities were taking place and so forth.

Collected samples can highlight what type of foods were eaten by the occupants, what types of plant and animal resources were used and how long ago the house was inhabited.

Finding personal items that were left behind can be particularly revealing; for instance, uncovering a drilled shell pendant or a bone whistle tucked beneath a sleeping area.

Archeology provides a view into the past and excavating a family’s home from thousands of years ago provides a personal connection to past residents of the Southern Interior.

Phoebe Murphy is a Kamloops-based archeologist.

Digging the 2019 archeology field school

After a 10-year hiatus, an archeology field school is being conducted in the Kamloops area.

The 2019 Thompson Rivers University archeology field school is a collaborative project with the Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc Natural Resources Department. The field school provides an opportunity for students to learn survey, excavation and mapping techniques in Secwepemcúlecw (lands of the Secwépemc), while also visiting nearby archeology sites.

The school offers six weeks of field training, including a six-credit summer field training in archeology course and a three-credit lecture-based course called plateau prehistory.

The field training course gives students experience in standard archeology methods that can be applied to a range of careers and offers students the opportunity to learn outside of the classroom setting.

Field courses also provide students the unique experience of understanding the process of community engagement and working with Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc in a collaborative and community-directed project.

Rather than have specific research questions and conduct archeology work to test theories and formulate interpretations based on the data recovered, the 2019 field school is an example of Indigenous archeology. Indigenous archeology involves a collaborative and community-directed approach to projects and strives to make archeology more representative of, responsible to and relevant for Indigenous communities.

The collaborative work between myself and Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc Culture and Heritage Department archeologists Leslie LeBourdais and Ryan Dickie began by discussing a field school location that would contribute to the cultural heritage management goals of Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc.

Several locations were presented to Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc chief and council, which made the decision where to conduct the archeology field work. Prior to commencing field work, there was a smudging performed by Tk’emlups knowledge keepers and and TRU students were welcomed by representatives of Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc, who explained the significance of the archeology work being undertaken.

Following community protocols is an important aspect of any archeology project. Protocols and collaborative projects between archeologists, universities and First Nations communities are particularly important when work is being conducted on federal lands. In the absence of a federal heritage act, protection and management of archeology and heritage resources on Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc reserve lands, for example, are conducted in accordance with the heritage conservation bylaw and the ancestral remains policy.

All archeology work must also have an approved research protocol agreement between an individual and Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc. The 2019 TRU archeology field school not only gives students the opportunity to leave the classroom and dig in the dirt, it also presents the opportunity to witness and be a part of decolonizing the past.

Nadine Gray is a Kamloops-based archeologist and instructor at TRU.

Look for evidence in all claims made

How do you tell when an archeologist is making stuff up?

His lips are moving.

A couple of months ago, I was watching a show promoting the idea that an ice bridge route from Europe to eastern North America might have helped ancient Solutrian people migrate into North America.

It followed the typical science show format, first outlining the proposal with supporting information, then bringing in opposing opinions for balance.

I won’t go into the details of the show, or offer my thoughts on which side (if either) I believe.

Suffice to say that seldom have I been so annoyed with the presenters on all sides of a science show.

In science, the traditional evolution for theories and hypotheses tend to either begin with an observation followed by an attempt at explanation, or an idea, followed by attempts to collect data to test its validity.

Over time, in hard sciences, this has tended to lead toward ever more simple and elegant theories and models that help to effectively explain the world around us.

This same quest for elegance and simplicity has also been a hallmark of many earlier archeological theories and explanations.

Over and over, we find examples where an archeologist digs a site, then makes grand pronouncements about the people, their practices and patterns of living. Inevitably, as more work is done in other sites, more data is uncovered that raises the “but wait, what about this …?” question over and over again.

Take the question of how humans populated the Americas as presented in the TV show.

There are currently two major competing theories to explain how people first came to the Americas.

The first and most well known is the Ice Free Corridor theory that has held sway for much of the 20th century.

According to this theory, during, the last Ice Age, lowered sea levels created a land bridge across the Bering Strait from Siberia to Alaska.

This allowed Clovis people to enter the Americas through a gap in the ice along the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains.

Simple, straightforward, easily understood.

Unfortunately for the proponents of this Clovis First theory, inconvenient facts began to accumulate, no matter how much they tried to ignore them.

Ancient archeological sites in Chile have been found that confidently pre-date the Clovis sites initially associated with the Ice Free corridor theory.

This, along with refinements in the timing of the ice retreats, combined with ongoing studies of sea level variation over time along the coast of British Columbia, have resulted in the development of a Coastal Migration theory.

This theory suggests people could have followed the edge of the coast into ice-free parts of the Americas prior to the existence of the ice-free corridor. Though the cracks in the Clovis First theory had started to appear quite a long time ago, it was still taught in schools and presented in popular science televisions programs up until quite recently.

So, what is a non-archeologist to do when watching an archeology program on TV?

First, be suspicious of elegant and simple explanations.

This may work for astrophysicists and chemists, but unfortunately, humans tend to be distressingly messy and complex and almost always defy simple explanations.

Second, look for the “cover your backside” terms that prudent scientists use.

These are terms like “The data suggest that ...” and “Based on the evidence we think that ...” and “One of the possible explanations might be ...” This alerts the viewer that these are not cast-in-stone facts, but are theories, ideas or stories attempting to explain what might have happened.

Always be suspicious of the “archeology expert” trying to sell his or her pet idea without solid evidence to back it up.

Archeologists are in the business of making inferences of the past and not necessarily proving hard facts.

Clinton Coates is a Kamloops archeologist.

Scraping Away at the Past

Sometimes in archaeology, it’s just the one thing you find at a site that hints at what was happening there. A single clue that unfolds into a story, drawing lines between the artifacts, the place, and the people who lived there.

This week, in a green little valley northwest of Skeetchestn, it was a whole bunch of the same clue: distinctive stone tools known as scrapers, popping up on our spring surveys with unusual frequency.

Scrapers are implements used to remove flesh and hair from animal hides, and they’ve been perfected for use here over thousands and thousands of years.

Unlike blades like knives or spear tips, scrapers are characteristically steep-edged, so as not to pierce the hides they’re pressed into. Scrapers are often fastened to handle of wood or antler, but are also used simply gripped in the hand—when their shape and use earns them the name “thumbnail scrapers”.

When skillfully applied, a scraper’s smooth-sharp form not only cleans the skins, but also softens and stretches them with each stroke.

Used for millennia to prepare animal skins as fabric, scrapers are a common enough artifact on the Plateau—and indeed across the Indigenous world.

But the number turning up in this lush little spot off the Deadman Valley is suggesting that whole animal processing has been going on here for a long time. While our work here is only preliminary, the number of scrapers here relative to other kinds of tools is already intriguing.

And “here” matters, as it so often does in Indigenous land studies: the closest named place to our survey area is an ancestral site called K’ésce7ten.

In Secwepemctsin, the name means “dry meat place” and is known to have been a Skeetchestn village for ages. There are pithouses, mounds, and stone platform features here built, and occupied, well before living memory.

 And, as the name suggests, it’s a place well-suited to procuring and processing game, which means not only curing meat for storage but working the hides (and hooves, sinew, bone and antler) into useful goods.

There’s really no overstating how important this hide preparation has been to keeping people warm, dry, and stylish for millennia. Animal skins have been a ubiquitous fabric for, well, ever.

Skins have not only been essential for outfitting people from head to toe, but for slinging and swaddling babies, wrapping and carrying goods, for use in households for anything from shelter to décor.

In order to be made—and kept—durable, pliable and waterproof, skins require serious work: cleaning, scraping, soaking, scraping, tanning with brains and smoke and scraping, and then scraping some more. Did I mention the scraping?

For archaeologists, all that work can be seen in a dedicated toolkit, a collection of artifacts that appears regularly enough to be correlated with an activity.

The stone scrapers we’re finding on site are an essential part of that gear, and their occurrence over time and space can tell us a lot about continuity and change in animal use, textile manufacture, and even toolstone selection.

In archaeology, as with Indigenous place names, even small things can be a big clue, part of a story to tell and preserve.

The Archaeology of Development: Please Call Before You Dig

A colleague recently called me to ask for advice on how to respond to a developer who wanted to build a large lakeshore development within a registered archaeological site but did not want to obtain a Site Alteration Permit under Section 12 of the Heritage Conservation Act. From my conversation with my colleague, apparently the developer did not think they needed to consult an archaeologist or the Archaeology Branch because the area had been previously disturbed.

To make a long story short, the developer went ahead with the development and in the process destroyed significant intact archaeological deposits that were still present underneath the disturbed surface. Indigenous monitors on site stopped construction work and contacted the Archaeology Branch, who issued a stop work order. This resulted in irreparable destruction of important archaeological deposits – a non-renewable resource. It also resulted in long delays to the developer’s schedule and major unplanned costs.

Archaeologists have lost count of the number of times construction managers, developers, government officials, and landowners have said that an archaeological assessment or archaeological monitoring of a development site is not needed because, “…it’s all disturbed.” There have also been countless times an archaeologist had had to stop construction during monitoring for archaeological resources because there were intact archaeological deposits present in an area where everyone expected the entire work site to be previously disturbed.

This highlights the need for developers to engage qualified professionals to assist them with their compliance with relevant laws, regardless of how a work site appears on the surface. Professional archaeologists and indigenous communities together have the technical expertise and knowledge of the complex history of human presence in B.C. to provide expert advice.

Often, archaeologists can provide site specific recommendations that allow developers to move forward with some understanding of the archaeological costs involved with proceeding with development. Plans can be changed to avoid areas with high archaeological sensitivity, and still allow for development to proceed without the unnecessary and costly delays that usually give archaeology a bad reputation in the news.

While it is true that archaeological sites that have been previously disturbed may be managed in a different way from sites that have not been disturbed, it is also true that both intact and disturbed archaeological sites are afforded the same protection under the Heritage Conservation Act. To quote one of my mentors, “A disturbed site is still a site.”

Who foots the archeology bill?

There have been several articles published in various newspapers in the last number of years about homeowners facing unanticipated archeology bills.

A pretty common statement is, ‘Why isn’t the government paying for this? Why do I have to pay?”

The answer isn’t completely straightforward, but we have a user-pay system in B.C.

Most of the earlier archeological studies in B.C. were government-funded through the Ministry of Highways, which gave money to the Archaeology Sites Advisory Board to conduct work in advance of planned highways.

Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, but ceasing in the early 1980s, a handful of archeologists would set out in the summer with a truck, a tent and some sturdy hiking books.

They would survey the various transportation corridors to document archeological sites.

In the mid-1970s, BC Hydro was booming with proposed developments and it conducted archeological assessments in advance of hydroelectric projects.

This was done in conjunction with universities in the province, moving to using private contractors by the mid-1980s, thus creating the user-pay model we see today.

After a re-write of the Heritage Conservation Act and the implementation of the Forest Practices Code in the mid-1990s, a wider net was cast for the requirement of archeological study.

Then both larger and smaller-scale developers became required to conduct archeological assessments where conflicts with sites would occur, furthering the payment-responsibility model we see today.

There are many reasons why an archeological study or assessment may occur.

A small percentage of archeology conducted in B.C. is academic in nature.

In these cases, the archeology is paid for by the institution undertaking the research, usually universities or museums, as they stand to benefit from the research through published research papers and future grants for additional research and study.

In most cases, however, archeological studies are done through the process of cultural resource management, when a proposed development conflicts, or may conflict, with archeological sites.

In many cases, our government does still pay for archeological assessments with taxpayer dollars when the archeological assessment is being conducted as part of a project or development that will benefit the taxpayers at large.

Highways are a common example.

Utilities corporations, such as FortisBC and BC Hydro, pay for archeological assessments when developments to install or upgrade those services are required. This in turn is paid through the fees collected by users of those utilities.

This payment model also applies to smaller developers.

An individual or company planning a residential or commercial development is financially responsible for any required archeological assessments, just as they would be financially responsible for undertaking a geotechnical assessment prior to designing a housing foundation on a steep slope, for example, or a hydrology study in advance of installing a septic system.

As it stands, those who are positioned to benefit from a given development bear the costs associated with any required archeological assessments.

If the profits or benefits from a given development are not going to be shared with the wider public, the users who will benefit bear the cost, be that a large mining corporation with shareholders, a family-run winery or an individual homeowner building a dock.

As a side note, a common theme archeologists observe when people are upset about facing unexpected costs is that they purchased a property without being aware there are or could be archeological concerns.

Currently, protected archeological sites aren’t listed on property titles unless there is a legal covenant or notice of heritage assessment in place, but these are generally rare.

In some cases, individuals can avoid being surprised by making this a consideration before purchasing property and discussing it with their realtor, especially if they intend to develop or make substantial changes to an existing development.

This type of due diligence could help alleviated the unexpected nature of some of these situations.

Kim Christenson is a Kamloops archeologist.

Heritage is an Anchor of Society

In September 2016, I stood on a promontory overlooking the North Thompson Valley in Kamloops, contemplating the view with two other archeologists.

Below us was a golf course built where people had told me about artifact hunting, dust flying around two new housing developments underway and, right beneath our feet, the crumbled soil of a 7,000-year-old archeological site that had just been bulldozed.

That was the moment we realized the need for this column.

We saw that, like many growing communities engrossed in the day-to-day challenges of development and expansion, heritage was being lost to neglect, disinterest and the rush to remake the world.

To help preserve the heritage in our midst, we aimed to open a dialogue with this community about history, archeology and Indigenous heritage.

We began the Dig It column to bring awareness to the importance of heritage to our community as a whole.

And we’re happy with how the conversation is going with you, the public.

To those of us who know, Kamloops is an archeological and historical wonderland, a rich timescape of more than 500 generations of human experience inscribed on the land.

Sharing that with KTW readers has been an engaging and eye-opening experience as we learn how to write and understand history together.

We are so grateful you are reading, happy you are learning, and delighted with all the positive emails and letters from interested and enthusiastic readers.

We see the columns pinned to bulletin boards in workplaces and shared with friends and colleagues and we know we’re going in the right direction.

However, as citizens, we can only do so much of this work.

At some point — and that point is now — we need our municipal leaders to learn, too.

We need our city to promote the value of heritage and to take up in earnest the recognition, preservation and education surrounding heritage.

Heritage is a public trust. Our governments are responsible for caring for it on our behalf and on behalf of our kids and grandkids.

In the present, lack of sustained, direct and meaningful support for heritage in our city is eroding the legacy we’re leaving to the Kamloops of the future.

Saving and savouring the unique and irreplaceable heritage of our region is at the heart of the Dig It column.

The way our past is remembered and preserved helps shape our society in the present and acts as an anchor for the society we wish to become.

As readers of this column, you’re becoming ambassadors of that heritage.

We hope you’re empowered by what you read here and we want you to share with others what you learn from Dig It.

Tell your friends and relatives, your classmates and your teammates what you’ve come to know.

And be sure to tell your elected representatives, too, because that’s how we spread the word that heritage matters.

Dig in — and continue the conversation.

The Archaeological Impact Assessment

The Archaeological Impact Assessment (AIA) is a stage of cultural resource management focussing on the impacts a project may have on archaeological sites. It is conducted by a qualified professional archaeologist, involving the visual inspection and subsurface testing of a project area followed by an evaluation of identified archaeological sites in relation to development activities.  An AIA may follow an Archaeological Overview Assessment (AOA), where documented archaeological sites or the likelihood of archaeological sites was noted.  Ideally, AIA is initiated early in project design to allow adequate time for the implementation of site-specific recommendations.

In BC, an archaeological site must not be damaged nor artifacts removed except under a Heritage Conservation Act (HCA) permit.  This also applies to an AIA, where subsurface testing may intercept buried archaeological deposits and artifacts collected.  An archaeologist’s HCA permit outlines the methods they implement during AIA fieldwork, analysis, and reporting for the proposed project.  The Archaeology Branch of the provincial government reviews applications and issues HCA permits.  First Nations bands in whose territories a project is proposed also review and comment on HCA permit applications.  Further, the archaeologist will apply for First Nations cultural heritage permits where bands have developed their own permitting systems.

The AIA fieldwork is conducted by crews composed of archaeologists and First Nations members. Following visual inspection, subsurface testing is initially conducted through manual shovel testing to discover and define the extent of buried archaeological sites.  Where there is a likelihood of deeply-buried archaeological sites, mechanical procedures such as auger or backhoe testing may be implemented.

If archaeological sites are found, the artifacts are collected and to-scale maps are produced of the site area.  Information is collected on the depth, extent, and type of artifacts recovered as well as any features encountered at the sites (e.g., cultural depressions, buried hearths, culturally-modified trees, etc.). In some cases, evaluative units measuring 1 m x 1 m may be excavated in a systematic manner to gain additional information about the archaeological deposits.  Following fieldwork, the archaeologist makes site interpretations based on analysis of the artifacts and field data.     

At this point, the archaeologist must evaluate and review the sites versus project plans so that management strategies can be formulated where impacts might occur. 

An evaluation considers the sites’ significance relating to scientific, public, economic, historic, and ethnic variables.  These relate to a site’s potential to generate understanding about human history; contribute to other disciplines or industries; provide educational, interpretive, or economic opportunities; and, reflect connections to current ethnic groups.  Ethnic significance is typically determined through discussion with the applicable First Nations for Indigenous sites.    

Project plans are then reviewed to identify the extent of possible impacts to archaeological sites.  These include direct impacts such as mechanical blading of site sediments and indirect impacts like on-going erosion to site areas or artifact collecting due to increased public access.  If it is determined that developments may alter a site, the management strategies take into account the type of impact, the level of disturbance, and the evaluated significance of the site.

The recommended strategies may include site avoidance, protection measures, excavation programs, and/or construction surveillance.  With the exception of site avoidance, these strategies may involve additional, possibly significant amounts of archaeological work and HCA permits. It is always preferable to avoid or reduce impacts to an archaeological site both in terms of preserving a culturally-important, non-renewable resource and to the cost-implications for proposed projects.

At the conclusion of an AIA, an HCA permit-compliant report must be submitted to the Archaeology Branch for review. The Archaeology Branch will respond in writing about the recommendations and outline requirements for any additional archaeological work relating to the project.  The report is also provided to applicable First Nations so they may remain knowledgeable about archaeological results and recommendations pertaining to their identified territories.

The inconvenient truth of Indigenous archaeology

Last week, a pair of artifacts were identified on the site of a planned work camp related to the construction of the Coastal Gas Link pipeline in Unist’ot’en, a sub-unit of traditional Wet’suwet’en territory. The inland northwest LNG project has been in the news lately as authorities struggle with how to address the different jurisdictions of traditional hereditary governance and Indian Act band administration.

The unearthing of the artifacts, believed to date to at least 2,400 years ago, would not come as a surprise to most archaeologists or Indigenous people: 15,000 years of land use with technology dominated by stone tools guarantees an abundance of such evidence.

Yet discussions in mainstream and social media have been full of accusations that Indigenous land defenders “planted” the artifacts, that they may not have actually originated in that place. Why have these artifacts stirred up this kind of debate and what does it mean about how we see ourselves and our history?

The answer to this lies in the four-century old idea of terra nullius, a key tenet of the Doctrine of Discovery, the philosophy endorsed by the Catholic Church that kicked off the age of exploration and led to the colonization of the global south.

Terra nullius, known as the “empty lands doctrine”, essentially said that lands not occupied by Christians were to be considered open and free for the taking, and that colonization of such lands (and religious conversion of their Indigenous occupants) was fulfilling god’s will.

Far from being history, terra nullius remains foundational to Canada’s national historical narrative. We see tend to see ourselves as pioneers, taming an empty wilderness, earning our place on this land by improving it, making it more productive, more profitable, in a way that past Indigenous owners did (or could) not.

Our origin story doesn’t have room for 500 generations of Indigenous people. It doesn’t acknowledge the depth, intensity and continuity of Indigenous relationship with this land. And it can’t grasp that more than 15 millennia of use has virtually carpeted the continent with archaeological sites, the marks of the all the ancestors. Admitting Indigenous precedence here is admitting that we took what wasn’t ours, and that to this day we live on stolen land. So we don’t.

So those artifacts in Unist’ot’en territory? Two beautifully made stone tools, knapped and used by an ancestor more than two thousand years ago? Those are the incontrovertible marks of the Indigenous past. So too are the names of the places they were found: in Unist’ot’en, at the confluence of Wedzin Kwah (Morice River) and Talbits Kwah (Gosnell Creek).

Those artifacts, and those names, represent an undeniable underlying title to this land that we have yet to come to terms with as a nation. The archaeology of Indigenous peoples will be seen as an inconvenience, even a ruse, until Canada makes peace with its past.

A couple of stone tools appearing where a pipeline was planned represent, in microcosm, the challenge of reconciling our occupation on unceded land. We can build on it, we can buy and sell it, we can profit from its resources, but we can’t wipe it clean and make it ours. We cannot erase the past.

Evidence of Skilled Carpenters in the Archaeological Record

Archaeologists are often only left with the non-perishable remains from past groups to learn details about their former lifeways. This typically involves stone artifacts and occasional charred bone fragments from long ago meals. While stones and bones comprise the bulk of artifacts discovered by archaeologists in the interior of BC, in reality these items only represent a tiny fraction of the materials utilized in the past. 

Soil conditions typically do not favour the preservation of organic materials in archaeological sites. After hundreds or even thousands of years buried in the ground, items constructed of plant or animal materials have long decomposed. There are circumstances where the conditions are ideal to preserve organic items, such as within glacial ice (as discussed in the previous Dig It column), but these situations are location-specific and incredibly rare.

It’s easy to focus on what is in front of us as archaeologists and forget about the diverse and complex array of items used in the past that were manufactured from wood and other organic materials that we rarely encounter. Luckily, certain artifacts that do survive in archaeological sites can provide clues about the types of perishable items manufactured and used. I recently experienced this while analyzing artifacts collected from an archaeological site excavated during the summer. While all of the recovered artifacts were manufactured from stone, the vast woodworking technology of the past was illuminated through the presence of certain types of artifacts.

Woodworking on a large scale was inferred through the presence of stone adze fragments and stone wedges. Adzes were used to cut down trees while stone wedges were used to split wood for various purposes. Finding these items within an archaeological site suggests that trees were felled and processed in the general area, perhaps for use as structural timbers for the abandoned pit houses located nearby.

Other wood processing tools were also present within the archaeological site, including a distinctive, slightly curved, stone scraping tool. This specially designed tool was used to strip the leaves, small branches, and bark from the stems of shrubs to form wooden shafts. These wooden shafts were important components of various tools such as digging sticks, spears, and arrows.

Oral history from Indigenous elders, community knowledge-holders, and ethnographic documents completes the picture by providing invaluable details about which types of plants were preferred for making wooden shafts. Saskatoon, yew, rocky mountain juniper, ocean spray, and hawthorn are a few of the local species selected because of both the natural straightness of the branches and strength of the wood. Many of these plants were observed growing within or near to the archaeological site under examination and most are ubiquitous throughout the southern interior.

These are just a few examples of specific woodworking tools found in archaeological sites and many more woodwork tools existed in the past. It’s not surprising that a variety of tools were designed for this purpose. Essentially every aspect of daily life had a component constructed from wood, ranging from timbers for housing, hunting and fishing technology, transportation, plant harvesting equipment, basketry, and so on. The use of wood was endless and past groups tailored a specific and expansive set of tools to work with this medium.

Although the wooden items of the past have often long decomposed, an archaeological site comprised entirely of stone artifacts can still provide information about past woodworking and help to fill in the details about daily life in the southern interior thousands of years ago.

Melt can reveal traces in ice patches

It is generally well accepted that climate change is real, that it is caused by humans, and that there are some big changes ahead for us. One well documented effect of climate change is that glaciers almost everywhere are shrinking. While the environmental effects of reduced glacial ice in alpine glaciers in Southern BC are not considered a good thing, it presents a unique opportunity to gain valuable insight about the past. As these “ice patches” that have been present on the landscape for thousands of years melt away, archaeologists in other parts of the country, including the Alberta Rockies and in the Yukon, conduct surveys of areas of recent glacial melt to look for archaeological traces. Incredibly well-preserved artifacts, including entire dart and arrow shafts with attached fletching and stone projectile points hafted with sinew, along with a variety of other organic artifacts including cordage, basketry, clothing, bone, wood, and sinew that rarely survive in other environments have been recovered. These kinds of artifacts are incredibly rare in other archaeological sites in BC, which makes the few that have been recovered a valuable resource.

The most well known “Ice Patch Archaeology” discovery in BC is that of Kwäday Dän Ts'ìnchi (Long Ago Person Found) first observed by bighorn sheep hunters in the far northwest of BC near the Yukon border, in the traditional territory of the Champagne and Aishihik First Nations. The remains of a young man and his travelling / hunting gear that were radiocarbon dated to between 300-550 years old were studied in detail, with the permission of the Champagne and Aishihik First Nations, revealing an incredible wealth of knowledge about past lifeways that archaeologists rarely get the opportunity to study.

The recent opportunities that climate change has presented to archaeologists has also challenged some long-held assumptions about land use by past peoples. Many archaeologists did not conduct surveys in high elevation areas because they assumed that past people would not have spent much time in the alpine, and that any archaeological sites present in these locations would be nearly impossible to find and would likely consist of small scatters of stone artifacts. This has partly led to a long-held assumption that past peoples have left little to no archaeological footprint in high elevation areas. Ice Patch Archaeology has both begun to open a window to a previously poorly understood part of past lifeways and seasonal hunting and gathering practices and challenge our assumptions about where some of the most valuable pieces of information about the past can be found on the landscape.

The work is challenging, as many of these areas are extremely remote, and in rugged, high elevation terrain. Based on the results of other Ice Patch Archaeology projects being carried out in other parts of western North America, the cost of completing these surveys is fairly high, and the archaeological finds are few and far between. Unfortunately, this has meant that many melting glaciers in BC remain uninvestigated for archaeological remains.

Delving into our deep love for dogs, Part 2

This is the second part of a two-part series on the history of our relationship with canines. To read part one, click here.

In the last Dig It column, we explored the earliest domestication of dogs in Europe and Asia and learned that wolves began lingering around the periphery of human encampments hundreds of thousands of years ago and were fully domesticated between 13,000 and 36,000 years ago.

In this column, I wanted to explore the introduction of dogs, or canis familiaris, to North America specifically.

Unlike their continental counterparts, dogs did not independently evolve from wolves present in North America, but instead arrived already domesticated with humans as early as 17,000 years ago, but most likely closer to 10,000 years ago.

While dog remains have been excavated within most, if not all, culture areas across the Americas, they do not appear as frequently in archeological sites as some may think, given their millennia-long association with humans.

Archeological data and records of oral traditions about dogs do exist, but recent genetic research into the history of domestic dogs in North America seems to offer the most plentiful insights.

A Peruvian hairless dog. - Wikimedia Creative Commons

Many of us would look at dog breeds such as catahoulas or Mexican/Peruvian hairless and assume they pre-date Columbus’ arrival and perhaps are even indigenous.

But multiple genetic studies conducted in the last decade have shown this assumption to be incorrect.

Most recently, a zooarcheologist from the University of Durham in England took part in a large multi-disciplinary study and reviewed the complete genomes from seven ancient dogs from Siberia and North America, 71 ancient mDNA samples (which show the mother’s lineage only) and more than 5,000 modern dogs.

The results indicate dogs were brought to North America in four waves: from Asia 9,900 years ago, into the Arctic by Thule people 1,000 years ago, along with European colonizers 500 years ago and in the early 1900s, when Huskies were brought into Alaska from Siberia.

This large genetic study further indicates the latter two canine-immigration waves essentially wiped out the dogs from former migrations, and that the dogs living with us today are the descendants of dogs brought here within the last 500 years.

Results of other studies generally concur with this notion, although not completely (see The Carolina Dog).

A geneticist from the Royal Institute of Technology in Sweden examined the mDNA in 2,000 modern dogs and found there was a large-scale replacement of existing dogs in North America with the arrival of European colonizers, but there are still traces of ancient DNA in modern dogs.

The closest detectable lineage between modern and ancient dogs in the Americas is, unfortunately, a venereal tumour. This contagious cancer is rarely seen in dogs today, but is present and can be genetically traced to a mutation in a dog that lived approximately 8,000 years ago.

So, what happened to the dogs that were here when Europeans arrived 500 years ago that caused this widespread replacement?

It is well documented that human colonizers introduced diseases for which the native populations had no natural immunity.

Their dogs were no different, bringing distemper, rabies and other diseases across the seas.

First Nations’ oral histories and European journals also indicate Europeans looked down on the existing indigenous dogs, doing their best to inhibit cross-breeding or outright killing them.

Before and after the arrival of European colonizers, dogs had — and continue to have — many roles in the lives of their humans: hunting partners, draft/pack/sled animals, protectors, used for religious and ceremonial purposes, used for hair (like the use of wool from sheep) and, of course, for the deep and fulfilling companionship that most of us associate with our furry friends today.

Kim Christenson is a Kamloops archeologist.

Delving into our deep love for dogs Part 1

Dogs — who doesn’t love them?

A 2017 summary of pet statistics released by the Canadian Animal Health Institute indicates that 41 per cent of Canadian households have dogs and more than seven-million dogs live in our homes and share our lives.

Until recently, we had two dogs (de facto children, really) living in our home. Thirteen years ago, I adopted one of those dogs, then a one-year-old, from the city pound.

He brought me untold amounts of joy and peace and, eventually, profound sorrow when we had to make that awful decision to say our final goodbyes as cancer and old age got the best of him.

The feelings of sadness and grief that come with the loss of a pet are seemingly universal.

It got me thinking about humans and our relationships with animals, specifically dogs.

Part of processing my loss involved researching the history of dogs and humans, an area about which I admittedly didn’t know much.

But I wasn’t at all surprised to learn there are countless articles written by archeologists who have researched the domestication of dogs and the thousands of years of history that intertwine dogs’ lives so closely with our own.

Researchers appear to agree that modern dogs are the descendants of wolves.

However, because they are archeologists, they generally don’t agree on how, where or when that happened.

Earlier theories suggesting humans captured wolf pups to raise seem to have given way to the more accepted theory that less aggressive/fearful wolves self-selected to live on the periphery of human encampments, scavenging scraps and eventually joining forces with hunting groups whose co-operation allowed for more successful hunts for both species.

Humans might be giving themselves too much credit for the domestication of dogs; evolutionary anthropologist Brian Hare suggests instead that dogs domesticated themselves in one of “the more extraordinary events in human history.”

The earliest evidence of overlapping activities between humans and wolves comes from archeological sites in England (400,000 years ago), China (300,000 years ago) and France (125,000 years ago), where wolf remains are interspersed with human remains, although their association is unknown and may have been coincidental.

Additional archeological sites in Belgium, Russia and Siberia have produced dog-like remains in association with the remnants of human activities that date between 13,000 and 36,000 years ago, although it is unclear if these were dogs or dog-like wolves.

Currently, the oldest known undisputed dog comes from an archeological site in Germany, where a dog was found purposefully buried with the remains of a man and woman more than 14,000 years ago.

Recent studies have conducted genetic analysis comparing canid remains from archeological sites to modern dogs.

In 2016, after tests were conducted on mitochondrial DNA (mDNA) from modern dogs, as well as the remains of 59 ancient dogs, a hypothesis was put forward that dogs were domesticated separately in Europe and East Asia between 17,000 and 24,000 years ago.

It is thought that either the two lineages blended or, more likely, that Asian dogs from the east replaced the western European breeds within a few thousand years and eventually became the variety of breeds we share our couches with today.

A 2017 study that looked at timing and genetics, however, suggests dogs were actually domesticated just once, several millennia earlier.

While a geographic region is not proposed in this study, a complicated calibration of the rate of genomic mutation suggests dogs diverged from wolves between 39,600 and 41,500 years ago.

The study also noted the difference in European and Asian species we see subsequently occurred as a genetic split approximately 20,000 years later.

One of the problems with conducting archeological research is, of course, the finite, and often yet-undiscovered, data that we have to create and test hypotheses.

For example, the 2017 study suggesting dogs came from a single line was only able to look at the well-preserved remains of two dogs that died between 4,700 and 7,000 years ago and compared the genetic mutations between those two dogs and modern dog to come up with the calibrated genetic mutation rate.

Researchers are limited by what is available to them — and often by current scientific methods.

As new finds arise and new methods are devised, we are constantly learning more about our past world and how it relates to our present. Hence, I suspect this discussion isn’t nearly over yet.

In part two of this series, we will learn about canine history, specifically in North America.

Kim Christenson is a Kamloops archeologist.

There’s no place like a (pit)home

November is Pellc7ell7ú7llcwten in Secwépemcúl’ecw. It means “entering the winter home”, the time of year when the food stores were put up, firewood was gathered, and families settled into pithomes for the long winter months.

The wood & earth pithome (c7ístkten̓, in Secwepemctsin) is one of the hallmarks of precontact life on the Interior Plateau. It’s an Indigenous architectural tradition that began millennia ago. Today, only traces remain of these round, half-buried dwellings so perfectly suited to our cold interior winters.

When the first white men arrived in Secwépemcúl’ecw in the early 19th century, pithomes were the dominant type of residential structure. Villages of these houses dotted the major river valleys, ranging from a handful of pithomes belonging to closely related families to hundreds of dwellings making up bigger centers.

At Tranquille mouth, Brocklehurst, Sun Rivers, Monte Creek and Heffley Creek and elsewhere, pithome villages were occupied for thousands of winters. Picture the smoke rising from a crowd of conical roofs, the snow packed down on the winding trails connecting neighbours and kin.

Archaeologists have traced the Interior pithome architectural tradition back nearly 5,000 years. The earliest recorded pithomes on the Interior Plateau are near Monte Creek, on the South Thompson River east of Kamloops.

Occupation of pithomes here is the first good evidence archaeologists have of people settling into a pattern of sedentary winter living, where pithome villages became the anchor for a strategic kind of hunting-fishing-gathering that continued to exploit seasonally available resources all over the territory.

Pithome sizes varied over time, as social and economic patterns shifted, but the basics remained unchanged. Most pithomes were circular, though a few square and oval ones are known.

Inside, pithomes were often divided into four room areas that corresponded to the four cardinal directions. Sleeping platforms lined the walls and storage pits were dug into floors, and one or more hearth was found near the center.

Pithomes could be single-family dwellings measuring a few meters across, or be large enough to house large extended families. Some very large pithomes, measuring twenty meters or more across, are known to have been used as gathering places, like community centers or feast halls.

Constructing a pithome was labourious, and began with hand excavation of a large, bowl-shaped pit (earth was loosened with waist-high digging sticks and removed by the basketload). A group of adults and children working together could dig a big one in a day.

Over the pit, heavy timbers installed in the center supported a superstructure of rigid poles. Additional thinner poles were lashed on to form the roof, which was then covered with strips of bark, then packed with earth.

The strong frame and thick earth insulation was so effective that homes could maintain comfortable temperatures from only very small fires and body heat. This feature made the homes all the more well suited to sparsely forested places like Kamloops, where fuelwood could be a limited resources.

The primary construction material for pithomes was the aptly named lodgepole pine, which were harvested from nearby uplands by the dozen. Smaller timbers and insulation needed replacement every few years, and occasionally the whole thing was burnt, cleansed, and rebuilt.

By about 1858, log cabins modeled on fur traders’ dwellings had become main housing in Kamloops area. Some were built over old housepit depressions, which were repurposed as root cellars.

Other pithomes decayed in place, leaving characteristic rimmed, bowl-shaped depressions. Many were dug up and looted for artifacts, ploughed over, or filled in. Today, there are only handful of sites that contain more than a few depressions, as most have been destroyed (often illegally) to make way for urban development.

These ancient pithomes are protected archaeological sites, silently holding age-old stories of home.

Getting the Band Back Together Again: Education and Archaeology on the Tk’emlúps Reserve

Education is considered one of the critical pathways to empowerment for many, including First Nation communities who suffered trauma as a result of residential schools. In 1988, the Secwepemc Cultural Education Society (SCES) entered into a unique partnership with Simon Fraser University (SFU) designed to make university education accessible to aboriginal students. Classes in sociology, anthropology, Secwepemc language, as well as archaeology were taught at the new SFU-SCES campus located on the Tk’emlúps Reserve in Kamloops. In addition to these academic courses, archaeological field schools were also offered in Kamloops with a focus on providing indigenous students training with the skills and techniques necessary to become qualified field archaeologists. Many of the students that graduated from the SFU-Kamloops Archaeology field schools went on to become accomplished and respected archaeologists working to manage and protect cultural heritage resources for First Nation communities. These students represent the first generation of Indigenous Archaeologists and many remain important sources of knowledge and expertise for their communities. Following the formal end of the SFU-SCES partnership in 2004 and the departure of SFU from Kamloops in 2010, a real lack of education opportunities for First Nations in archaeology in particular became apparent. Training of new field assistants became the responsibility of consulting archaeologists who would offer the occasional week long certificate course geared towards teaching the basics of field survey and recording.

Recognizing the need to not only train new archaeological assistants, but to also inspire a new generation of First Nation archaeologists Tk’emlúps te Secwepemc Natural Resources Department entered into a partnership with Camosun College in Nanaimo to run a pilot project offering their Archaeological Field Assistant Training Program here on the Tk’emlúps Reserve. This two-week long intensive program provided students with essential background education regarding heritage legislation, the local archaeological record, and the variety of methods that archaeologists employ while doing archaeological inventories.

Week one was spent in the classroom reviewing the necessary background information as well as training students in some of the core techniques used in the field such as orienteering with map and compass, using handheld GPS units, recognizing artifacts and culturally modified trees, and stratigraphy (i.e., layers of soil or sediments). Week two saw the exposed students to the rigors of field work where they participated in a permitted Archaeological Impact Assessment of a discrete development. This portion of the program involved initial pedestrian survey and assessment of archaeological potential of the development followed by shovel testing of these areas in search of buried archaeological sites. Following the discovery of three separate archaeological sites, students returned to the classroom to discuss the findings and to develop recommendations for the protection and management of these newly discovered sites. This curriculum allowed the students to gain firsthand experience in the steps that go into an archaeological assessment and the general process of doing field archaeology. The methods and techniques learned from the program have provided students with the necessary skills and knowledge to be employed by their respective communities as archaeological field technicians engaged in the survey, identification, and recording of archaeological sites.

Acknowledgements: Many thanks to Nicole Kilburn (Camosun College), program developer, who graciously allowed TteS to hold this course remotely and the rest of the Camosun staff who made this happen. Student funding was provided by ASETS and course materials were generously donated by Golder Associates, Interfor, Tolko, and Wood PLC.

The archaeology of salmon fishing

As the salmon race up the Fraser and Thompson rivers and back to their natal streams, fishers take to the waters all over BC’s interior to secure their catch. They’re part of a tradition practiced here since time out of mind.

And as Indigenous people have learned over thousands of years, what you catch depends on where, and how, you catch it.

In the past as now, fishing gear was tailored to specific environments and objectives. The kinds of artifacts and features left behind in the archaeological record can help us reconstruct how people exploited particular places, and how their practices change over time.

For example, fishing weirs constructed of woven wooden fences or layered stones were built across shallow river beds where fish could be counted on to appear in great numbers.

The effort required to build and maintain these trapping systems suggests that large groups shared both the intense labour and the larger harvest of fish.

These weir and trap sites can still be identified by geometric alignments of stones and stakes visible as the river levels drop.

In other kinds of settings, different kinds of equipment was used.

In deep, swift moving water, a dipnet technique was (and still is) common. A dipnet consists of a long, strong pole fitted with a bag-shaped net on the end. In precontact times, the nets were made of plant fibers (split rose root and Indian hemp were common here), and fastened with sinew.

While a rare find due to decomposition of organic materials over time, archaeologists have found examples of these handles and netting where they’ve been preserved under water or mud. We also might find bone needles used to make and mend nets.

In calmer back eddies and pools, where fish move more slowly and are visible, a long wooden spear could be used to impale the prey. Special fishing spears called leisters are associated with this practice.

These are spearheads are fitted with twin barbed points set in a v-shape spreading from the end of the spear. A smaller bone or stone spear tip in the middle stabs the fish, while the barbed flanges hold it fast.

Because these are composite tools made of many small parts lashed together with organic fibres that decay, often archaeologists only find a few pieces and must work to reconstruct the technology, often looking to modern gear as examples.

On interior lakes through which the spawning fish pass, other methods were practiced. Near the shore, night fishing from canoes was effective. Here, small fires built on platforms lured the fish close to boats, where they were netted or speared.

In deeper waters, set nets were used much like today’s purse seiners, but on a smaller scale. Archaeological evidence for this type of fisheries includes carved or perforated stones used as net weights, and occasionally wooden net floats, or even fragments of the nets themselves.

On shore nearby all these fishing settings, archaeologists often find the corroborating evidence of artifacts and features related to fish processing: salmon bones, rocks distinctively cracked by the fires built for smoking fish or extracting their oils, small thin fish knives for filleting, or even open-work basketry used to transport the haul.

These varied fishing technologies developed here over millennia, as people observed the various ways that salmon move through different habitats at different times of year.

Many of these methods are the basis of today’s modern fishing gear, both recreational and commercial, showing us how ancient traditional knowledge lives on through the ages.