Finding their roots

The forest around the Mi'kmaw community of Wildcat, deep in the heart of southern Nova Scotia, has long protected Todd Labrador's family.

It was where his great-grandfather Joe Jeremy — the namesake of Jeremys Bay in nearby Kejimkujik National Park — would tell his grandchildren to hide when an agent from Shubenacadie Indian Residential School came to collect them.

"Dad and his sister and other children there, they ran into the woods," Labrador says.

"He was only little; a little boy, five years old, running for his life because somebody is going to take you away from your family. The woods, for him, were security and safety."

The forest was also a place where Todd's father, Charlie Labrador, later chief of Acadia First Nation, learned to become a master canoe builder.

Father and son never built one together, but Todd watched. He later taught himself the craft by studying old photos and speaking with Indigenous elders, becoming one of the few Mi'kmaq canoe builders in Canada.

Every spring, Todd Labrador and his daughter, Melissa, head to spots where the ground is mossy. They use a hammer to pry out strands of spruce root. Each canoe needs more than 200 metres of root, which is laced through the birchbark to secure the vessel's seams.

Labrador's father used to tell him the trees hold hands beneath the forest floor.

"They're supporting each other. Their hands and their roots are intertwined. He said nature is sending us the message that we as human beings need to do the same, regardless of colour of skin, regardless of religion, race," Labrador says.

Once the spruce roots are harvested, any spare twigs must be trimmed off. The roots are then boiled so they're soft enough that the bark can be removed with a knife.

The root must be divided into two fine bands; the goal is to slice it so that the root can lie flat, like a rope.

Labrador uses cedar to form the canoe's frame. Before the ribs are inserted into its birchbark hull, the bark must be secured in place using the now-pliable spruce roots. He uses a drill to make the holes and jokes that if his ancestors had power tools, they'd use them too.

Bending bark without cracking it is a challenge, so Labrador heats it with boiling water to shape the bow.

Melissa Labrador guides the other apprentices, helping them convert the raw materials with measurements and simple calculations.

Nearby, Maynard Marshall watches. A band councillor from Potlotek First Nation in Cape Breton, he started the program with just a little whittling experience.

He had never seen anyone build a Mi'kmaw canoe.

"It's unfortunate. I'm 54 and grew up not knowing anything about my culture."

But he's now learning why the thickness of the birchbark is so important, how to make sure spruce root is woven tightly to form a sturdy seam, and how to be patient during the process.

Like Labrador, he's a grandfather and hopes to bring what he's learned to young people in his own community.

"I want to see them learn all these old ways," he says. "My journey will be when it's my time to make my canoe under my direction. So that's the journey I'm looking forward to."

Muggy days in July are ideal for harvesting summer bark. It peels off in the humidity, leaving an inner layer that protects the tree trunk.

"Good quality linoleum; that's what you want for a canoe," Labrador tells his apprentices from his perch on a ladder as he cuts into a trunk and uses a paddle to coax off a strip of bark as thick as a loonie.

The land in Kejimkujik National Park is a traditional hunting territory — a place where Mi'kmaq people have lived for hundreds of years. It is sprinkled with lakes and rivers people used to paddle and portage, all the way to the Bay of Fundy.

Labrador and his daughter sometimes spot the markings of those who came before them. Birch trees with sections of bark missing. Perhaps a family member from years earlier.

They usually work alone, moving through the same patterns their ancestors once did, sharing stories about their family.

Melissa Labrador, a visual artist, often posts photos online and documents the canoe's progress on social media. In the woods, however, her devices are tucked away and she instead listens to the cicadas and songbirds.

"We're doing living art and offering it to people, here in our own backyard," she says.

Todd Labrador is a quiet environmentalist. He remembers his father's warnings that extreme weather is a sign that Mother Nature needs to heal.

He says his father used to caution him that when dead whales washed ashore, it is a sign that things aren't right. News that more than a dozen North Atlantic right whales have died this year has given him pause.

For Labrador, going back to the woods and building handmade canoes is a way to gently remind people about that fragile connection to the environment.

Lately, the Labradors have noticed changes in the bark: too many layers coming off during the summer months and trees with inconsistent bark.

“We need to really think about what we're doing, what our governments are doing. Polluting, we know it’s wrong. We need to stand up and let our leaders know it is wrong. We want to leave something good for our great-grandchildren."