From Southern Alberta to Northern Brazil: Indigenous Conservation and the Preservation of Cultural Resources
“Native National Park!” screamed the headlines of the New York Times on 23 June 2013. The article that followed described how the US National Park Service (NPS) and the Oglala Lakota (Sioux) Nation were working to move from a joint management agreement for Badlands National Park in South Dakota to developing a tribal national park. The proposal, underway at various stages since 1976, awaits full Congressional approval; signs at the park borders as of fall 2015, however, do say “Entering Badlands National Park, in Cooperation with Oglala Sioux Tribe.” The initiative sets aside the South Unit of the park, 53,320 hectares, to be operated by the Oglala, creating the first tribal national park in the United States.1
Perhaps it takes a front-page New York Times article to remind us about the relationship between Native peoples and national parks in the United States and elsewhere.2 But the evolving nature of this relationship and how it has been studied is not exactly new, especially as there are works that have explored Native conflicts and solutions with park development across the world.3 Specifically for the United States, there have been several studies that provide historical analysis of removal of Natives from national parks, most of which are very critical of US policy that first used Aboriginals as tourist features in park settings and then removed them from park boundaries altogether.4
These studies logically cannot cover every dimension or geographical area of Native peoples–national park relationships and tend to neglect state and provincial parks (a broader theme that DeWitt addresses in this volume). Oddly, few of the works on the Global South mention the Costa Rican experience with parks and Native people, despite that country’s impressive conservation record. While many of the works deal extensively with Brazil’s more famous national parks that include Indigenous lifeways in the Amazon, none mentions the significance of Sete Cidades and Serra da Capivara national parks in the northern Brazilian state of Piauí, which work to preserve prehistoric cultural resources. By bringing these examples into view alongside examples from Canada and the United States, this chapter deepens our comparative understanding of the relationship between Native peoples and conservation efforts in the preservation of cultural resources.5 As governments continue to understand the need for reconciliation with Native peoples for past and present injustices, we can see how conservation continues to play a vital role in the process. This chapter thus illustrates a changing relationship between the state and nature, especially with focus on historical Indigenous rights that are reflected in acknowledging a Native sense of place and the importance of access to land across the Western hemisphere. “Conservation” and protected areas, as well as environmentalism, can no longer be seen as merely for the purpose of ecological preservation, and this broader understanding has implications beyond Native-park relationships.
With those thoughts in mind, this chapter contributes to the goals of Environmental Activism on the Ground, especially in terms of how Indigenous people have worked as small-scale conservationists to promote the development and management of protected areas in their home regions. Indeed, as the book’s editors have alluded to in their introduction, Indigenous people have made a measurable “splash” on the local environmental scene in many parts of the Americas. And as such, the scope of this chapter, from southern Alberta to northern Brazil, offers a comparative, transnational approach to a wide array of Native natural and cultural conservation initiatives.
The chapter is divided into three parts. The first offers a historiographical background and comparative analysis of conservation units in the Americas that aid in our understanding of Native-park relations. It hopes to show that the case studies discussed in the next two sections are not isolated examples but representative of a broader trend. Part II explores and compares two different zones of ancient Native cultural preservation: Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park, Alberta, and Sete Cidades National Park, Brazil. Both are characterized by badlands, rock formations caused by extensive erosion over time, and ancient petroglyphs. Finally, Part III examines three case studies of Indigenous conservation areas, including Badlands National Park, South Dakota; Death Valley National Park, California; and Indigenous reserves in Costa Rica.
I: Comparisons of Indigenous Conservation across the Americas
The examples of Indigenous and other local resident–national park relationships that are at the heart of this chapter are part of a larger, historic, community-based conservation (CBC) system of park planning that emerged in the 1980s.6 CBC is a much-needed trend in national park development, one nearly absent for most of the worldwide history of conservation. Yet by the end of the twentieth century its time had come. Mexican ecologist Arturo Gómez-Pompa made this clear: “We can no longer earmark an area as a ‘Nature Reserve: Keep Out’ and have it policed, while multitudes of starving peasants in the vicinity are looking for a suitable spot to plant next season’s crops.”7 Park planners across the Global South have come to realize this. James Nations, an ecological anthropologist who has done extensive field work in the Lacandón Rainforest of Chiapas, Mexico, has argued that “national parks and reserves must go beyond the goals of protecting species and preserving habitat. . . . [They] must take into account the needs of local people.”8 The Lacandón, North America’s largest montane rainforest, is an example of a place where that did not immediately occur when UNESCO, with the Mexican government’s blessing, created the Montes Azules Biosphere Reserve in 1978. The local backlash, especially from Indigenous peoples of the region, was swift and fierce. They insisted there be an “Indian Farmers’ Preserve” instead, and urged local residents to seize parts of the “unoccupied jungle.”9
This scenario could have been avoided if UNESCO and Mexico had incorporated a community-based system. In their seminal volume on CBC, Western and Wright defined the strategy as that which includes “the coexistence of people and nature, as distinct from protectionism and the segregation of people from nature.” They explore how CBC can take on many different forms, and is dependent on factors such as culture and funding, but “if nothing else . . . can help buffer areas from ecological impoverishment”—especially as the world’s 8,000 national parks and protected areas that cover 4 percent of the earth’s surface suffer from ecological degradation, habitat fragmentation, edge effects, and species extinction. This concept illustrates well the importance of the Costa Rican Indigenous reserve system described below in which Native lands adjoin national parks and help provide biological connectivity and ecological corridors. As Western and Wright suggest, the end sum is vital: “At stake is nothing less than the fate of the natural world and its resources.”10
There are problems that accompany CBC. Stan Stevens has warned that because too often the initiatives are based on funding sources far from a park “they can fall short of real community-based conservation,” and leaders of sponsoring NGOs or foundations “may have different ideas from Indigenous communities about what community-based conservation is.” But the values of linking Indigenous rights with conservation are worth the efforts. Native peoples’ contributions include an “intimate knowledge of local geography and ecology,” knowing “sacred places and species,” and being “skilled and concerned observers” of changing land uses.11 Indigenous groups gain in the process, too, especially with attaining greater recognition as distinct nations with their own communal lands, and by gaining benefits that involve local economic development and control over tourism.
Comparatively, there are places in the Western Hemisphere that in many ways adhere to CBC, and have for decades, but perhaps without labelling their strategies as such. For example, in Mexico, the government of Lázaro Cárdenas (1934–1940) established national parks more as community parks for access to local populations and ecological restoration than as tourist destinations. Most of those were rather small, but designed to be near where Mexicans would use them for day outings, and to protect watersheds for sustaining local forests and water sources.12 And while these parks do not exactly advance the CBC model, they can be viewed as alternatives to park systems in First World countries, especially as the Mexicans established them for local use, without confiscating large sections of land that had been used for agriculture, grazing, and forestry for generations. More similar in Mexico to the CBC strategy is the country’s system of community forests. Not a part of the national parks, Mexico’s vast network of community forests, managed at local levels by campesino and Indigenous groups, represent conservation based on local input. And while important ecological benefits are accrued in the process, the community forests are primarily for economic uses of the land (logging and forest products), but with a more sustainable focus than that of industrial forestry. They should not be lumped in with how other countries are incorporating parks into CBC but are worthy of comparative mention here.13
Farther south in Honduras. there have been successes to move away from “fortress conservation” to Indigenous CBC models, especially at UNESCO’s Río Plátano Biosphere Reserve in coastal Miskitia. While some human activity is prohibited there for purposes of environmental conservation, local Miskito Indians maintain access to lands within the reserve for subsistence agriculture, especially as they understand and maintain a highly gendered commitment to land tenure and farming. Still, some of UNESCO’s plans for “sustainable systems” are more on paper than in reality, as according to Sharlene Mollett, “paradigms for national development and notions of national progress continuously devalue Indigenous tenure arrangements and land-use systems.”14
In Panama there have been notable successes in Indigenous conservation initiatives via parks. In the 1980s the Kuna Indians on Panama’s Caribbean coastal islands established what anthropologist Jason Clay has called “the world’s first internationally recognized forest park created by an indigenous group.” The park creates revenues for the Kuna from ecotourists eager to learn about the tropical rainforest, and from their sale of “research rights” to scientists who come to the region for tropical research projects. The Kuna control all access to the park and require reports from the scientists before they leave. They require the research teams to hire Kuna assistants to accompany them throughout the forest. As Clay suggests, the Kuna have “established a precedent for other indigenous groups, and even countries, regarding research undertaken on their land.”15
Similarly, in Colombia, in a successful attempt to restore Indigenous lands that mining companies and large-scale ranches had nearly destroyed, in 1984 a group of fifty-six Indian communities banded together to form a cooperative to replant, restore, and protect their forests along with their cultures and human rights. Working with nurseries run by local communities in southern Colombia, the Indians planted thousands of native-species trees. The renewed forests help protect watersheds, provide fruits and nuts for local consumption and sale, and produce sustainable stands for firewood. Thus, the forests are essential to the long-standing welfare of these Native groups.16 The Colombian government enshrined these concepts into law in 1994, creating Zonas de Reserva Campesina (Rural Workers Reserves) recognizing that Indigenous groups are allied in the effort to conserve protected areas and allowing them more rights in them than for squatters who move in. Thus, as a part of the Colombian national park system, these reserves help conceive a newer notion of conservation, one that blends rural Indigenous groups and working peoples within the concept of nature.17
Perhaps these types of community-based initiatives are reflective of what famed Amazonianist anthropologist Darrell Posey has called “the conscience of conservation.” Using the model of Brazil’s national park development, which includes Kayapó Indigenous forest uses in remote parts of the Amazon, he has advocated for a bridge between natural, social, and folk sciences. Posey’s research on Kayapó understandings of the environment shows how even their language reveals nuanced ways to understand different species of plants, their botanical and medicinal uses, and their role in local economies. Likewise, the Indians’ methods of extracting resources from the plants and knowledge of how and when to harvest them and how to conserve them over time are valuable by-products of the ways in which conservation can be a bridge between Brazil’s national park system and its agency for Indigenous affairs, and between environmentalist agendas for forest protection and human rights organizations’ agendas for survival of Indigenous groups. Due to this conservation strategy, the Kayapó and other groups continue surviving on their own well-established understandings of the rainforest and the foods, pharmacopeia, and economic resources it provides.18
II: Preserving Native Cultural Resources
Southern Alberta: “A Magical Landscape”
Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park, also called the Áísínai’ pi National Historic Site of Canada, in the Milk River Valley of southern Alberta represents one of the greatest collections of prehistoric petroglyphs (rock carvings) and pictographs (rock drawings) in the Western Hemisphere. In fact, Áísínai’ pi is Blackfoot for “where the drawings are.” The valley is characterized by an arid landscape spotted with eroded sandstone gullies and coulees, or badlands, and rock formations typical of this part of the Northwestern Plains. At Writing-on-Stone, the coulees are deep, forming large cliff walls and an amazing array of capstone, mushroom-shaped rocks known as hoodoos created by thousands of years of erosion from brutal winds, blowing sand, harsh rain, and continuous cycles of freezing and thawing ice. Geologists estimate that approximately 15,000 to 20,000 years ago the receding and melting glaciers of the last Ice Age sent great quantities of water through this area, helping to shape the valley’s unique formations. In promotional literature, the government of Alberta has declared that these processes “created fantastic shapes and a magical landscape.”19
On the cliffs that form the backdrop of this park are the petroglyphs that tell stories of early peoples in the area, what they hunted, the conflicts that they had with other groups, and the arrival and use of horses (by the eighteenth century), and include depictions of relations with European newcomers as time moved into the nineteenth century. There are an incredible 50,000-odd drawings, extending from the prehistoric period to the 1920s.20 This is the historical region of the Southern Piegan (part of the Blackfoot Nation, or in the United States, the Blackfeet), whose ancient descendants may have been the artists of the petroglyphs and who today maintain a very real presence and management role for Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park. The Cree Nation also considers this a sacred place from its past.
According to Blackfoot beliefs, it was Old Man, or Napi the supernatural trickster, who created the world, and formed the badlands from his travels in the region. He taught the people how to survive in this country, and the land remains today much as he created it then. The cliff walls provided shelter from the Chinook winds (warming winds from the Pacific Ocean that cross the Rockies and descend into interior regions, causing higher temperatures and snow to melt) that characterize southern Alberta—shelter that attracted the Blackfoot and Cree to hunt, gather firewood and food, and make encampments there as early as 3,000 years ago. While the Blackfoot are the First Nation most affiliated with the park, other Native peoples like the Gros Ventre, Blood or Piegan, Assiniboine, Crow, Kootenay, and Shoshone frequented the area and likely contributed to the petroglyphs. Some groups occasionally wintered here, again making use of the natural shelters and abundant wood and game. The dry valleys made for useful travel routes and places where hunting and war parties could conceal themselves from bison and other game and from enemy peoples. Due to the hoodoos and ancient drawings, the area became a sacred space for Aboriginals, a place to revere and fear the spirit world, to seek spiritual guidance by practising rituals and vision quests. To them the hoodoos were actually giant men turned to stone by the Great Spirit as punishment for evil deeds. The area also became an important burial ground for deceased elders of the Blackfoot and other peoples who placed the corpses in crevices and caves abundant in the sandstone formations, allowing “the spirits of the dead easy access to the afterworld.”21
The petroglyphs represent a wide variety of cultural recording. Native artists used charcoal and red ochre to paint the figures, and much of the artwork was biographical, commemorating events like battles and hunts. We learn that the people here hunted bison, deer, bear, elk, and bighorn sheep, and in battles they used bows, shields, spears, hatchets, and, much later, guns. We see evidence of tipis and travois, and the dogs that helped move them. There are also likely depictions of dreams, visions, and spiritual rituals.22
That the government of Alberta established Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park in 1957 helped in a major way to preserve the First Nations’ cultural resources and to end the looting, vandalism, and graffiti that threatened to destroy the artwork in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.23 It also signalled how the park could serve as a place for cultural and environmental education and as a boon to the local economy as it draws tourists visiting Dinosaur Provincial Park just north of Writing-on-Stone and the Canadian Rockies to the west.24 Access to the petroglyphs is limited at Writing-on-Stone; tour guides, usually Native, must lead visitors on guided hikes that require advance ticketing as a way to protect against vandalism and to ensure that visitors get Native perspectives. That the Blackfoot are so integral to the park, serve as its trail guides, and continue to use the area for sacred ceremonies, as do other First Nations, speaks well for Writing-on-Stone being a prime example of Indigenous park conservation and the protection of cultural resources. In many ways all of this represents a decolonizing process, in that the Blackfoot are maintaining their own power to control the narrative of their past, whereas Indigenous voices or presence are virtually absent in many North American national parks. Both the Blackfoot and the Alberta government worked with the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) to declare the park a world heritage site.
Writing-on-Stone is the northernmost site of these ancient Indigenous petroglyphs. It is among many such sites that include similarly preserved Native artwork, including Columbia Hills and Pictograph Cave state parks in Montana; Medicine Lodge State Archaeological Site, Castle Gardens, Legend Rock, and White Mountain Petroglyphs in Wyoming; Nine Mile Canyon (supposedly the “world’s longest art gallery”) and Dry Fork Petroglyphs in Utah; Tumamoc Hill and Deer Valley Petroglyph Preserve in Arizona; Inscription Rock at El Morro and Petroglyph national monuments in New Mexico; and Serranía de Chiribiquete National Natural Park in Colombia.25 One of the southernmost sites is Sete Cidades National Park in Brazil.
Northern Brazil: Sete Cidades National Park
The state of Piauí in northern Brazil is home to some of the world’s most numerous prehistoric Indigenous petroglyphs and pictographs, and according to some archaeologists, the very earliest ones in the Americas. They are divided between Serra da Capivara National Park in southeastern Piauí (the park that is home to what are considered the oldest petroglyphs in the Western Hemisphere) and Sete Cidades National Park in the northern part of the state.
Brazil’s second national park, proclaimed by President Jânio Quadros in 1961, Sete Cidades protects one of the country’s (and perhaps all of South America’s) most extensive array of prehistoric Indigenous petroglyphs and pictographs. Meaning the “seven cities” in Portuguese, Sete Cidades is home to seven different groupings of rock outcrops and formations, all resembling little “cities” that are characterized by Indigenous artwork recording many facets of prehistoric lifeways and spirituality, and which provide clues regarding the wildlife of the region in past times. The national park consists of 6,304 hectares and is located within the Brazilian Northeast’s cerrado ecosystem, a bioregion comprised of a xeric and thorny scrubforest. The cerrado here abuts the caatinga—another ecosystem unique to the Brazilian Northeast that is characterized by dry, deciduous forest and desert-like savanna. The two overlapping ecosystems create a high level of biodiversity and endemism that the park helps to protect. Most of the park, in fact, is kept provisionally closed to visitors as a means to protect the fragile environment. As at Writing-on-Stone, the dry climate of the cerrado has helped preserve the artwork at Sete Cidades over time. Remarkably, the petroglyphs at Sete Cidades resemble very closely those in the North American West.
The biggest difference with Sete Cidades, however, is that there are very few Indigenous peoples in Piauí or the surrounding area who descend from the prehistoric peoples who created this artwork. The region at one time was inhabited or visited by the now extinct Poti and Quirridi peoples, and possibly by ancestors of the Tabajara tribe. Radio-carbon testing has estimated that many of the petroglyphs were created as long as 10,000 years ago, although some could be as recent as from the nineteenth century.26 After centuries of being enslaved and slaughtered by colonists in northeast Brazil and dying from European diseases, only a few communities of Tabajara remain in remote parts of southern Ceará (bordering Piauí to the east). But the national park protects this site that was frequented by ancient peoples. As a sign at the park entrance states (translated from Portuguese), “The mark of prehistoric man should make us remember the constant respect for our ancestors, our heritage, and above all else, nature.”
Likewise, the national park protects an amazing array of badlands formations that date back to their possible creation 190 million years ago. The sandstone outcroppings and formations are from the Devonian strata of the Parnaiba sedimentary basin that formed during the Palaeozoic era. As at Writing-on-Stone, it was wind and pluvial water that created the formations on which the petroglyphs were drawn.27 In the seven different “cities” are drawings of deer, hunting rituals, spiritual deities (especially the sun god), and many examples of human hands (one with six fingers). Some scholars believe the hands could be from the Tabajara people from 6,000 years ago.28
Thus, like its North American counterparts, Sete Cidades combines conservation of cultural and natural resources. It preserves prehistoric images while protecting the flora and fauna of the fragile and threatened cerrado ecosystem. There is little to no interpretative literature available at the park, and there are no Tabajara who work there. Likewise there are very few publications about the park, especially books (and none in English). Thus, the opportunity is ripe for more research, especially that of comparative analysis with similar areas across the Americas. Such analysis would have to include discussion on how and why a Native voice is more absent in these parks, and how the state, while indeed working to conserve Indigenous cultural resources against vandalism or excessive commercialism, has manipulated such archaeological treasures to its advantage (for tourism, economic development, etc.). In such areas with few extant Indigenous communities, it seems easy to relegate Native history to prehistoric times, when a robust opportunity also presents itself at such parks to have more interpretation and presentation on the results of a larger colonization project and Indigenous demographic decline, as well as on the rights of remaining Native peoples.
III: Indigenous–National Park Relations
Western South Dakota: Badlands National Park
As mentioned above, the Southern Unit of Badlands National Park is set to become the first Native national park in the United States. The land in question was originally part of the Pine Ridge Reservation, including Sheep Mountain Table, which the Oglala consider sacred, but which the US government excised from the reservation during the Second World War to be used as the Pine Ridge Aerial Gunnery Range. In 1968, as the gunnery range ceased to be in operation, the government transferred the land to Badlands National Park, which it abuts, but without seeking input from the tribe. Hence, the Oglala (a band of the Lakota Sioux) logically wanted it back. In 1976, the NPS entered into a joint management agreement with the Oglala for the South Unit, with most of the employees being Native who are responsible for the day-to-day operations of the unit. The plan to form a new park expands on that initiative, could employ up to 200 Oglala park managers and workers, and is being viewed by most Oglala as a way to regain their rights. The tribal park will also include a Lakota Heritage and Education Center and an archaeological research centre that would be set aside to catalogue artifacts from the area. According to an NPS document, the heritage centre would be the “primary visitor contact area for the park.” Part of the restructuring includes a name change for the South Unit, tentatively to be called Crazy Horse Tribal National Park (after the famed Oglala leader whom a force of US Cavalry murdered in 1877 in western Nebraska).29
According to the NPS, the new park will work to restore “the health and vibrancy of the prairie,” will expand the bison herd, and will allow visitors “to experience the natural grandeur of the South Unit and the heritage of the Oglala Sioux people.” The Lakota term for “bad lands” (or more literally, “no good soil”) is mako sika, and inside the visitors’ centre at this park is a banner explaining, “For the Lakota, the White River Badlands is a part of home. Its harsh splendor reflects the people’s journey through time, as nomads, as residents, as citizens of two nations.” The Oglala have already started running an 800-head herd of bison on the national park land, with hopes of increasing it to 1200.30 This is in addition to previous grazing rights that the US government restored to them earlier, as Badlands is one of the only national parks to allow livestock grazing and haying operations within park boundaries, although some tribal members wonder if these rights will be taken away with the newer park designation. Likewise, the NPS had already established that certain parts of the unit were off limits to non-Native tourists to respect Oglala ceremonial sites.31
Thus has begun the historic transfer within Badlands National Park. It is new ground for the NPS, admitted park superintendent Eric Brunnemann: “We don’t know what a Tribal National Park is.” Officials from both sides have been working to define it since 2013, but there are various layers of approval, especially that of Congress, which are needed before it can officially be created (as of October 2015 there had not been much administrative change).32 The NPS will work with the Oglala to increase citizen involvement for park management and law enforcement. While the park will be tribal, federal funding will still be assured while the Oglala implement their own entrance fees to be used for park operations. Likewise, for the duration of the transition, current NPS employees will assist in the on-the-job training for managing the park, with Oglala members filling administrative and other posts and assuming all park responsibilities when ready. Finally, policy changes will allow tribal members to hunt in the national park, part of the plan “to preserve cultural and historic resources and values.”33
Southeastern California: Death Valley National Park
The name itself conjures up images of barrenness and evil like other badlands areas of the North American West (think Hell’s Half Acre, Wyoming; Valley of Fire, Nevada; Devil’s Kitchen and Goblin Valley, Utah; El Malpais [Spanish for “the bad country”], New Mexico; Craters of the Moon, Idaho; and the list goes on). Death Valley, mainly in southeastern California but with a triangular corner crossing into Nevada, is centred squarely in the Mojave Desert, where summers are brutally hot (with temperatures regularly in the 40s Centigrade), and where one can visit the lowest point in North America (63 metres below sea level). But it is uniquely beautiful, with rock formations and sweeping desert valleys, and it has been home for generations to the Western Shoshone Indians, who have more recently named themselves the Timbisha Shoshone Band.34
The Timbisha’s relationship with Death Valley can be traced to long before Euro-Americans invaded the region and is imbued with a sacred connectedness to place. Their creation story recalls how the people began at Ubehebe Crater, where Coyote carried them in. Later they crawled out of his basket and dispersed to live around Death Valley, and have now been there “since time immemorial.” Anthropologists relate how the Timbisha descended from prehistoric peoples who spent summers in the park’s Panamint Mountains and wintered on Death Valley’s floor. Such an arrangement led to survival in the harsh terrain, as the different ecological zones produced different types of plants and animals on which the Shoshone depended. Especially important was their harvesting piñon nuts and mesquite pods, and hunting deer, desert bighorn sheep, and rabbits.35 In the modern era, the relationship they have had with the NPS has (to put it mildly) not been good since the park came into existence, first as Death Valley National Monument in 1933.36 When its status changed to Death Valley National Park in 1994, relations between the NPS and the Timbisha began to improve, but only after decades of fighting by the Timbisha for their land.
The Shoshones’ story is quite different from that of the Oglala in South Dakota. The Indigenous population of Death Valley is small and there has been no move for co-management or to create a separate park. Instead, the Shoshones have fought and won to have their own reservation within the park—the only US national park to have that distinction. The road to 1994, when that finally became a reality, however, was pockmarked with racist policy, resentment of local mining companies and ranchers in the region toward Native Americans, and a lack of understanding of American Indian rights.
That scenario started like so many other national park cases of Native dispossession around the United States, with the NPS creating parks devoid of people. It is also a typical story of interagency squabbling and different interpretations of policy, as both the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) and NPS had roles in governing the Western Shoshone. Native land claims, the Dawes Act allotment, policy changes during the 1930s when BIA director John Collier brought more enlightened values to the agency, the termination era (the Western Shoshone did not have official government recognition until 1983), and many policies since affected the Timbisha. Other Native groups living near national parks around the United States were affected by NPS policies, but the difference here is that the Shoshone lived within the park and refused to leave, even when bauxite mining operators put pressure on the government to have them ousted in the 1930s. But after going around and around on the issue for seven decades, Congress finally passed the California Desert Protection Act of 1994. Among other things, the Act changed Death Valley from a national monument to a national park, and in a roundabout way led to the Timbisha Homeland Act, which President Bill Clinton signed into law in 2000. The Timbisha Shoshone finally got their reservation, smaller than originally hoped for at 3,030 hectares, but they viewed the act as a triumph. Apart from this landmark success, as one study reported, it also represented how the NPS “attained a new sensitivity to Native concerns.”37
Southern Costa Rica: Indigenous Reserves
The final case study here is that of the Costa Rican experience. Overall, it is quite different from Native conservation initiatives in other countries, but because it is less known, and because it involves national policies instead of park-by-park ones, it can serve as a fitting comparative to this study on hemispheric Native conservation. Costa Rica is a small nation in Central America (51,100 square kilometres, just smaller than West Virginia) and has a percentage of Native peoples much smaller than countries such as Guatemala or Honduras. This is primarily due to the fact that there was only a small Indigenous population in the region at the time of the European invasion, as Costa Rica was never part of a large Native empire like that of the Maya further to the north or the Inca in the Andes. But like Indigenous peoples everywhere, pre-Columbian Natives here adapted culturally to local tropical environments and thrived, although not in densely populated urban areas.38 Likewise, after their invasion Spaniards quickly took over the areas that were most conducive to European-style agriculture and ranching, such as the Central Valley, which could sustain grain production and grazing, and Guanacaste in the Northwest, which, unlike the tropical rainforest that covers much of Costa Rica, is characterized by dry deciduous forest that was also excellent for grains, cotton, and cattle. Alfred Crosby has referred to such areas as “neo-Europes” in a process for Costa Rica that Carolyn Hall has called “ecological colonialism.”39 But Native peoples did not disappear, and have sustained their cultures and communities over time. At a population of around 36,500, they primarily live in twenty-two Indigenous reserves (representing twenty-two distinct tribes), the vast majority of which are located in the southern end of the country and adjacent to national parks.40
This proximity gives the Indigenous communities a special relationship to the protected areas, and in some ways their reserves are protected like the parks themselves. For example, Costa Rica’s Ley Indígena (Indigenous Law) of 1977 established important legal parameters, including the stipulation that no non-Indians could own land on the reserves. The law is enforced by the National Commission on Indigenous Affairs (CONAI), an autonomous agency that is the government’s link to Costa Rican Indigenous people. CONAI has worked with various tribes to consolidate their lands, and with various Indigenous cooperatives that have formed to protect lifeways, sustainable agriculture, and the local environment on reserves that surround national parks. Some groups have affiliated with international movements for financial support for cultural and environmental conservation.41
The environmental problems that the Costa Rican Indigenous groups face are grave. The Térraba people have been especially concerned with illegal logging that occurs in and around their reserve. Other groups have struggled economically and are now raising local products organically for international markets. The Bribri grow organic cacao on their reserve for a US market and are diversifying into organic nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon, and bananas for European consumers. They and other groups are getting broad international support for the initiatives, which are being tied to environmental protection of the region that includes linking the Indigenous reserves with national parks. Since the mid-1990s, the private organization The Nature Conservancy has worked with a local Indigenous association in southern Costa Rica on its Parks in Peril project, which seeks to connect La Amistad National Park and its surroundings (including Native reserves) into a biological corridor stretching to the Caribbean. As one CONAI official put it, “many of the national parks were created near indigenous communities in the South because of their [the Indians’] good maintenance of the environment. . . . The Indians kept the land well.”42
Finally, on the southern Caribbean coast is Cahuita National Park—a paradise-like setting with pristine beaches, tropical forest, abundant wildlife, and an endangered reef. When the government established the park in the 1970s, it was based on wise environmental foresight to protect a beautiful, fragile area threatened by commercial development.43 But there was no local input, and residents resented the plan. As one study related, at the time there was “little direct experience in responding to the large majority of rural peasant cultures living in and around Costa Rican national parks.” The government confiscated land via eminent domain and relocated people out of the parks—actions that have been costly and disruptive even though the larger results were for national conservation objectives.44
But the end of the story is better than the beginning. Management objectives began to change in the 1980s to include residential use of park resources. Consideration of local lifestyle would have “important implications” for how park managers could achieve “conservation objectives for the park in its sociocultural context.” This was tricky, as for generations many local residents lived off hunting and marketing sea turtles that lay their eggs on Cahuita’s beaches. But as sea turtles were severely endangered, park officials needed to work with local residents, instituting environmental education measures and allowing other areas for resource uses, and opening more tourist-based employment opportunities for local residents. In the end, the plan was to work with residents (in this region, a blended mix of Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples) and cooperate with surrounding landowners, so that park managers could slow down or prevent clearcutting of the forests in and around Cahuita and promote ecological restoration on affected lands.45
Conclusion: Reasons For Hope
The case studies presented here provide good reason to believe that relations between Native peoples and state-enacted protected areas are indeed improving across the Western Hemisphere. As the editors for this volume proclaimed at the end of their Introduction, an important goal of the workshop that we contributors attended, and for the book, was to illustrate how hope and optimism are “a more accurate reflection of the recent history of small-scale, local, and Indigenous environmental activism than a book that measured their failures.” For the United States, in addition to the studies offered here from South Dakota and California, there now is a history of improved relations between Native groups and American parks. Starting in 1931 the Navajo Tribal Council and the NPS formed an agreement to manage Canyon de Chelly National Monument (which protects Anasazi cliff dwellings) in northeastern Arizona as a joint venture, since the park is entirely on Navajo Reservation lands.46 Since 1975, the Havasupai people of Arizona and the NPS reached a landmark decision that created the Havasupai Use Lands within Grand Canyon National Park, an arrangement that provided legal rights to the Indians to carry out traditional land uses, including livestock grazing, within the park—the first such Indigenous land use agreement in any US national park. The Ute Nation established its own Ute Mountain Tribal Park in southwestern Colorado that is run entirely on their terms and with rigidly enforced visitation policies. The Navajo created and manage Monument Valley Tribal Park in northeastern Arizona and southeastern Utah, taking advantage of an important US highway that runs through the region with millions of tourists a year eager to see the unforgettable buttes and rock formations and to frequent the Native gift shops. They also run the park and tourist centre at the Four Corners monument. The Gwich’in people of Alaska have attained recognition of their lands within the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge, and have gained stricter protection of the calving grounds for the Porcupine caribou herd. And in all Alaskan national parks Native peoples are now permitted to hunt, fish, and trap.47 This is especially important for the Tlingit, who regularly collect seabird eggs as part of their cultural lifeway and food production in Glacier Bay National Park. These improved relations are reflected in the Sitka language at the Historical Park and Indigenous Culture Center.48 All of these practices of Native hunting and fishing provoke questions about what happens when there are endangered and threatened species at stake, and at times this has caused significant issues between Indigenous groups and environmental organizations. Yet Native peoples should have the right to hunt and fish according to their traditions, and often they do ensure conservation measures.49
Other success stories abound from around the United States, especially after the NPS released a document entitled “Native American Relationship Management Policy” in 1987. The policy spelled out the NPS’s responsibility for confronting issues between American Indians and the national parks and, for the first time, provided park personnel with a directive to recognize and consult Native Americans with connections to national park lands. The document also called for recognizing the right of Indigenous peoples to use national park lands for harvesting of plants and animals for traditional, subsistence, and religious activities.50 Examples of improved relations since that policy was enacted include Hopi Indians being allowed into Mesa Verde National Park in southwestern Colorado to perform traditional ceremonies to honour their ancestors, the Anasazi, whose cliff dwellings are preserved there. In northern Montana, the Blackfeet Indians no longer have to pay entrance fees at Glacier National Park, have access to places there that they consider sacred, and have the right to gather wild plants by permit.51 In northern California, the Yurok Indians and the NPS have come to agreements on various levels of co-management of some sectors of Redwoods National Park. In Montana, the Kootenay-Salish have worked with the US National Forest Service and the Department of Highways to ensure that elk and wolves have conduits for their annual transmigrations and roaming.52 As John Welch (this volume) has shown, Native conservation and resource management need not be centred solely within national, state, or provincial parks, but indeed, as the case of the White Mountain Apache Tribe in Arizona attests, there can be “sovereignty-driven” heritage conservation.
Likewise, there are examples of the concept of Native conservation being applied in venues outside of national park settings via environmental organizations. The National Wildlife Federation has entered into “conservation partnerships” with a variety of tribes across the country to learn from and work with them on wildlife protection programs. Those include the Cocopah Nation of Arizona and a project to conserve the lower Colorado River ecosystem as an important migratory point for neotropical and other wetlands birds while at the same time working to restore and protect the river for the Tribe’s own economic and cultural resources; a partnership with the Intertribal Bison Cooperative on the Northern Plains to protect Yellowstone bison and develop buffalo herds for return to tribal lands; an initiative to work with the Natives of the Campo Kumeyaay Reservation in southern California who are establishing a wind turbine farm on their lands to generate cleaner electricity for the reservation and to sell to local power companies; a program to work with the Red Lake Chippewa of Minnesota to restore and protect lakes and wetlands on their lands that generates an increase in the walleye fishery so vital to the Chippewa’s culture and economy; and a program with the Northern Cheyenne of Montana and a “coalition of uncommon allies” made up of hunters, anglers, ranchers, environmentalists, and Indians “to protect the environmental and cultural landscape” of the Powder River Basin.53
Canada has made significant steps in recognizing Indigenous rights within national parks, only after first following a US colonialist conservation model by excluding Native peoples from some of the first national parks.54 Beginning in the 1970s, Minister of Indian Affairs Jean Chrétien vowed that newly created Kluane, Auyuittuq, and Nahanni national parks in the Yukon and the Northwest Territories would not interfere with the traditional lifeways and wildlife resources of Canada’s northern Native peoples. Parks Canada officially endorsed the policy in 1979 for parks in the territories, and later in 1994 for elsewhere in the country. The federal agency also provided language about involvement of Aboriginal peoples and integrated co-management into the structure of park operations. With these policies in mind, as Brad Martin relates in A Century of Parks Canada, the Inuvialuit peoples took a very active role in the creation of Ivvavik National Park in Yukon Territory.55And as we see here in this volume (Willow), Native rights for resource management in western Ontario are not only strategies for survival but also serve as a case study of First Nations environmentalism.
This record, however, as historian John Sandlos has described it, is not without problems, especially ones related to co-management objectives, “bureaucratic approaches” rather than Indigenous understandings of conservation, and ones that arise when First Nations people serve only “of an advisory nature.” Such a colonial mentality allows the federal government of Canada to “claim that it has adopted a participatory approach without requiring the surrender of its political authority in the region,” whereas a more appropriate approach would be “to include restoring Native management regimes that existed prior to the advent of state management.”56 There has been more success in combatting such colonialism in British Columbia, perhaps, with the development of Indigenous tribal parks. As Emery Hartley has shown, 2014 marked the thirtieth anniversary of the Meares Island Tribal Park Declaration (renewed in ceremony in 2014) of the Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation and with the support of the NGO Friends of Clayoquot Sound. The declaration originated to oppose industrial logging operations on the island that would have destroyed a Tla-o-qui-aht sacred space and significantly altered the island’s old-growth temperate rainforest environment. It was in 1984 that Chief Moses Martin initiated a blockade against corporate giant MacMillan Bloedel, leading the standoff with the now famous words, “You are welcome to visit our garden, but leave your chainsaws in the boat”—words that inspired what Hartley describes as a significant “paradigm shift” not only for BC but for “other nations, building global networks for the conservation of place and culture.”57
In Latin America there have been similar success stories but with taints of colonialism still apparent. Brazil was the first country to recognize Indigenous lifeways back in 1961 when the government established Xingu National Park in the Amazon. A principal goal of the park was to ensure that resident Xingu Indians had a place to maintain their way of life and culture without fear of encroachment by non-Indigenous peoples or industries vying to extract minerals. Peru’s Huascarán National Park, created in 1975 to protect the nation’s highest peak, provides for Indigenous grazing rights in the lower elevations of the park. Panama’s Darién National Park (another UNESCO biosphere reserve and World Heritage Site), established in 1980, includes and protects inhabited Indigenous lands. So do Peru’s Manu National Park and Biosphere Reserve (home to several Amazonian Indigenous peoples), Ecuador’s Yasuní National Park and Biosphere Reserve, Venezuela’s Canaima National Park (home to the Pemon Indians), and Colombia’s Cahuinarí National Park and Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta National Park and Biosphere Reserve, which were established in the late 1970s and 1980s. At Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, 70 percent of the park is an Indigenous reserve for the Kogi Indians, with exclusive subsistence rights. Such efforts got a significant boost when the International Union for the Conservation of Nature instituted new guidelines in 1984 on how national parks and nature preserves must be more sensitive to Indigenous peoples and their rights and uses to lands within parks.58
But similar to Canada, in Latin America conservation initiatives are often coupled with colonial mentality and state control. In Guatemala, for example, the Los Altos de San Miguel Regional Municipal Park encompasses Mayan communities and protects communal grazing, forestry, and water management. The park is helping to shed concepts of “fortress conservation,” but challenges yet exist in ensuring that the initiatives reinforce local management goals and that livelihood from forest resources continues for the regional Native population. Pressures exist on the system from outside land-grabbing ventures, exploration for biofuels, and international organizations wanting to create ecological preserves—initiatives that often have official state support for national economic development.59 In Peru’s Asháninka Communal Reserve of the Peruvian Amazon, as Emily Caruso has shown, the “comanagement of communal resources” has been more a “state tool for discipline of a marginal space” and for “bringing Indigenous peoples into the bureaucratic fold.” While Native peoples hold the view that they are in control of their land enclosed within Asháninka Reserve, the state actually maintains a large presence; the reserve is “imagined, narrated, and produced as a material place requiring state intervention.”60
All the examples here, including the more specific case studies from Alberta, South Dakota, California, Costa Rica, and Brazil, discuss different levels of Native-park relations, and admittedly there is nothing typical about their comparative experiences.61 Case studies and models do not have to be equal in scope to point out valuable lessons. But each speaks to different qualitative ways to measure success. Each suggests that while significant problems remain, Native-park relations are improving across the Americas, providing hope that conservation can continue to play a vital role in the process of improving relations between state powers and Indigenous peoples. After all, a common theme expressed in all but the Sete Cidades experiences here is the Native quest for control of their own lands. Changes and advances in the structure of conservation in national, provincial, state, and tribal parks, and on other public lands to include Native understandings, voices, ceremonial practices, and management, are welcome as appropriate first steps in that direction. Legal changes, like those in Death Valley National Park for the Timbisha Shoshone, of Crazy Horse National Tribal Park for the Oglala Lakota, and in Costa Rica for a variety of different Indigenous groups, will hopefully follow around the hemisphere. Finally, lessons learned from across the Americas, from southern Alberta to northern Brazil, should be compared and evaluated as the hemisphere and the world continue to shrink in size in terms of communication and transnational connections but not in the growing recognition of Native survival that is so dependent on land and on natural and cultural resources.
I thank research assistant Courtney Kennedy for her help on this chapter; in Brazil, Antonio Carlos Alves da Silva and Edilson Rodrigues for field research at Sete Cidades National Park; workshop participants Anna Willow, Liza Piper, and Jon Clapperton for their useful suggestions on revisions; and the University of Calgary Press’s peer reviewers for compelling thoughts and wise suggestions. Funding for the research of this chapter in Canada and Brazil was gratefully supported by the Louise Welsh Chair in History at the University of Oklahoma.
1 “Native National Park,” New York Times, 23 June 2013, 1. As of September 2016 there has not been much change to the status, as the Lakota people are still waiting complete congressional approval.
2 The terms “Native” and “Indigenous” people will be used interchangeably in this chapter, respecting preferred terms of peoples being discussed. Above the 49th parallel I will use “First Nations,” as that is the standard convention in Canada, whereas in the United States most Native peoples still prefer the term “American Indian.”
3 Stan Stevens, ed., Indigenous Peoples, National Parks, and Protected Areas (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2014); Patrick C. West and Steven R. Brechin, eds., Resident Peoples and National Parks: Social Dilemmas and Strategies in International Conservation (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1991); Stan Stevens, Conservation through Cultural Survival: Indigenous Peoples and Protected Areas (Washington, DC: Island Press, 1997); Jim Igoe, Conservation and Globalization: A Study of National Parks and Indigenous Communities from East Africa to South Dakota (Belmont, CA: Thompson and Wadsworth, 2004); Mark Dowie, Conservation Refugees: The Hundred-Year Conflict between Global Conservation and Native Peoples (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2009); P. G. Veit and C. Benson, When Parks and People Collide, Carnegie Council for Ethics in International Affairs (16 October 2009); Ezra D. Rashkow, “Idealizing Inhabited Wilderness: A Revision to the History of Indigenous Peoples and National Parks,” History Compass 12 (2014): 818–32; Dennis Martinez, “Protected Areas, Indigenous Peoples, and the Western Idea of Nature,” in People, Places, and Parks: Proceedings of the 2005 George Wright Society Conference on Parks, Protected Areas, and Cultural Sites, ed. David Harmon (Hancock, MI: The George Wright Society, 2006); and M. Colchester, “Conservation Policy and Indigenous Peoples,” Environmental Science and Politics 7, no. 3 (2004): 145–53. Specifically for agriculture and conservation, see Bruce Campbell and Silvia López Ortíz, eds., Integrating Agriculture, Conservation, and Ecotourism: Societal Influences (New York: Springer, 2012).
4 Mark Spence, Dispossessing the Wilderness: Indian Removal and the Making of National Parks (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999); Karl Jacoby, Crimes against Nature: Squatters, Poachers, and the Hidden History of American Conservation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001); Robert H. Keller, Jr., and Michael F. Turek, American Indians and National Parks (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1998); Phillip Burnham, Indian Country, God’s Country: Native Americans and the National Parks (Washington, DC: Island Press, 2000).
5 For newer analysis on this topic for the United States, see Jeanette Wolfley, “Reclaiming a Presence in Ancestral Lands: The Return of Native People to the National Parks,” Natural Resources Journal 56 (Winter 2016): 55–80.
6 Standard works are David Western, ed., Natural Connections: Perspectives on Community-Based Conservation (Washington, DC: Island Press, 1994); Gary Meffe et al., eds., Ecosystem Management: Adaption, Community-Based Conservation (Washington, DC: Island Press, 2002); and J. Peter Brosius et al., eds., Communities and Conservation: Histories and Politics of Community-Based Natural Resource Management (Lanham, MD: AltaMira Books, 2005).
7 Quoted in James Nations, “Protected Areas in Tropical Rainforests,” in Lessons of the Rainforest, ed. Suzanne Head and Robert Heinzman (San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1990), 214.
8 Ibid., 213.
9 Craig Urquhart, “In the Jungle, Civilization Approaches,” Toronto Star, 1 October 2009, 15. Much of the opposition was spearheaded by the Zapatista Army for National Liberation, which came onto the scene in 1994 to protest the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA).
10 David Western and R. Michael Wright, “The Background of Community-Based Conservation,” in Western, Natural Connections, 8–9.
11 Stan Stevens, “Lessons and Directions,” in Stevens, Conservation through Cultural Survival, 287, 266–67.
12 See Emily Wakild, Revolutionary Parks: Conservation, Social Justice, and Mexico’s National Parks, 1910–1940 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2011).
13 See David Barton Bray et al., eds., The Community Forests of Mexico: Managing for Sustainable Landscapes (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005). See also Martin Hébert and Michael Gabriel Rosen, “Community Forestry and the Paradoxes of Citizenship in Mexico: The Cases of Oaxaca and Guerrero,” Canadian Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Studies 32, no. 63 (2007): 9–44.
14 Sharlene Mollett, “‘Bargaining with Patriarchy’: Miskito Struggles over Family Land in the Honduran Río Plátano Biosphere Reserve,” in Stevens, Indigenous Peoples, 206, 209, quotation at 212. See also Peter Herlihy, “Indigenous Peoples and Biosphere Conservation in the Mosquitia Rain Forest Corridor, Honduras,” in Stevens, Conservation through Cultural Survival, 99–129.
15 Jason Clay, “Indigenous Peoples: The Miner’s Canary for the Twentieth Century,” in Head and Heinzman, Lessons of the Rainforest, 115. For more on the Kuna, see Stan Stevens, “New Alliances for Conservation,” in Stevens, Conservation through Cultural Survival, 52.
16 Clay, “Indigenous Peoples,” 116.
17 Claudia Leal, “¿Estado Natural? Historia de las áreas protegidas en Colombia,” in progress, paper in author’s possession, 3–4. For more on Colombia, see Stephen Amend and Thora Amend, eds., ¿Espacios sin habitantes? Parques nacionales de América del Sur (Caracas: Editorial Nueva Sociedad, 1992); Astrid Ulloa, La construcción del nativo ecológico: Complejidades, paradojas, y dilemas de la relación entre los movimientos indígenas y el ambientalismo en Colombia (Bogotá: Instituto Colombiano de Antropología e Historia-Colciencias, 2004); and Julia Premauer, “Rights, Conservation, and Governance: Indigenous Peoples-National Parks Collaboration in Makuira, Colombia” (PhD diss., University of Manitoba, 2013). For another perspective on community involvement in parks, see Claudia Leal, “Conservation Memories: Vicissitudes of a Biodiversity Conservation Project in the Rainforests of Colombia, 1992–1998,” Environmental History 20, no. 3 (2015): 368–95.
18 Darrell A. Posey, “Diachronic Ecotones and Anthropogenic Landscapes in Amazonia,” in William Balée, ed., Advances in Historical Ecology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 104–18, quotations at 104.
19 “Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park, Áísínai’ pi National Historic Site” (Edmonton: Government of Alberta, 2009), 3; Neil L. Jennings, In Plain Sight: Exploring the Wonders of Southern Alberta (Surrey, BC: Rocky Mountain Books, 2010), 83–85.
20 From a conversation with Writing-on-Stone park guide Juanita Tallman (Blood, Blackfoot), 18 July 2012.
21 Government of Alberta, “Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park,” 4–13, quotation at 12; Jennings, In Plain Sight, 84, 87–89, 92.
22 Personal observations; Jennings, In Plain Sight, 89, 92–93.
23 Significant evidence of vandalism and destruction is present in the archival material on the park’s creation, especially eliciting calls for its development in the mid-1930s. Mutilation and “willful destruction” from rifle shootings and other vandalism became a central concern. See letters to Parks Department Alberta and to the provincial Ministry of Lands and Mines in files 83.498, 663, box 17, Provincial Archives of Alberta.
24 On Dinosaur Provincial Park, see Sterling Evans, “Badlands and Bones: Towards a Conservation and Social History of Dinosaur Provincial Park, Alberta,” in Place and Replace: Essays on Western Canada, ed. Adele Perry, Esyllt W. Jones, and Leah Morton (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2012), 250–70.
25 For important works on Native American pictographs, see Polly Schaafsma, Indian Rock Art of the Southwest (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986); James D. Keyser and Michael A. Klassen, Plains Indian Rock Art (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001); Richard A. Rogers, Native American Rock Art in the Contemporary Cultural Landscape (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2018); and Paul Goldsmith, Talking Stone: Rock Art of the Casos (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2017). Specifically for Nine Mile Canyon in Utah, important works include Jerry Spangler, Nine Mile Canyon: The Archaeological History of an American Treasure (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2013); Jerry Spangler and Donna Kemp Spangler, Last Chance Byway: The History of Nine Mile Canyon (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2016); and Jerry Spangler and Donna Kemp Spangler, Horned Snakes and Axle Grease: A Roadside Guide to the Archaeology, History, and Rock Art of Nine Mile Canyon (Salt Lake City: Uinta Publishing, 2003).
26 Edilson Rodrigues, guide at Sete Cidades National Park, personal communication, 6 January 2014.
27 Jorge della Favera, “Sete Cidades National Park, Piauí State,” Geological and Paleontological Sites of Brazil-025 (7 December 1999), 1–2, www.sigep.cprm.gov.br/sitio02english.htm (accessed 30 November 2013, site discontinued). See also F. Fortes, Geologia de Sete Cidades (Teresina, PI: Fundação Cultural Monsenhor Chaves, 1996).
28 della Favara, “Sete Cidades,” 5.
29 “Native National Park,” 1; Brandon Ecoffy, “Park Planners Respond to Critics,” Native Sun News, 1 July 2013, 1–3, www.indianz.com/News/2013/012056.asp; United States National Park Service and Oglala Sioux Tribe Parks and Recreational Authority, “South Unit, Badlands National Park: Final General Management Plan and Environmental Impact Statement,” US Department of the Interior, National Park Service (April 2012), v.
30 See also Jim Kent, “Managing Bison in the Badlands South Unit,” Classical 24 (South Dakota Public Broadcasting, 16 May 2014), http://listen.sdpb.org/post/managing-bison-badlands-south-unit.
31 Igoe, Conservation and Globalization, 137.
32 Kent, “Managing Bison in the Badlands South Unit,” 2.
33 United States National Park Service and Oglala Sioux Tribe Parks and Recreation Authority, “South Unit, Badlands National Park,” vi. For Lakota environmentalism, see Bornali Halder, “Ecocide and Genocide: Explorations of Environmental Justice in Lakota Sioux Country,” in Ethnographies of Conservation: Environmentalism and the Distribution of Privilege, ed. David Anderson and Eva Berglund (New York: Bergham Books, 2003), 101–18.
34 For a general history of the Shoshone Nation, see Steven J. Crum, The Road on Which we Came: A History of the Western Shoshone (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1994).
35 Hal K. Rothman and Char Miller, Death Valley National Park: A History (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 2013), 71–72.
36 National monuments are managed by the NPS. Presidential decrees establish national monuments (as per the Antiquities Act of 1906), whereas Congress creates national parks. For more on the differences, see Hal Rothman, America’s National Monuments: The Politics of Preservation (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1994).
37 Ibid., 96. For a different take on California Indians, see Dowie, Conservation Refugees, chap, 1 “Miwok.”
38 See Leonardo Merino, “Zonas de influencia cultural en la Costa Rica indígena y sus relaciones con el medio ambiente,” Ilé: Anuario Ecológico, Cultura y Sociedad 5, no. 5 (2005): 143–53.
39 Alfred Crosby, Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe, 900–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 134; Carolyn Hall, Costa Rica: A Geographical Interpretation in Historical Review (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1985), 83.
40 Sterling Evans, The Green Republic: A Conservation History of Costa Rica (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1999), 210–14, 266–67.
41 Evans, Green Republic, 210–11.
42 “Talamanca’s Sweet Success,” Nature Conservancy 47, no. 1 (1997): 14–15; Mario Alvarado (CONAI) interview, in Evans, Green Republic, 212.
43 See Evans, Green Republic, 79–80.
44 Kurt Kutay, “Cahuita National Park, Costa Rica: A Case Study in Living Cultures and National Park Management,” in West and Brechin, Resident Peoples and National Parks, 117–18.
45 Kutay, “Cahuita National Park,” 126, 124. See also Richard Donovan, “Boscosa: Forest Conservation and Management through Local Institutions (Costa Rica),” in Natural Connections: Perspectives on Community-Based Conservation, ed. David Western (Washington, DC: Island Press, 1994), 215–33.
46 Steven R. Brechin et al., “Resident Peoples and Protected Areas: A Framework for Inquiry,” in West and Brechin, Resident Peoples and National Parks, 28n7.
47 Examples are from Stevens, “New Alliances for Conservation,” 48, 6; Igoe, Conservation and Globalization, 135, 161–62; Brechin et al., “Resident Peoples and Protected Areas,” 28n7. For further discussion on the Havasupai, see John Hough, “The Grand Canyon National Park and the Havasupai People: Cooperation and Conflict,” in West and Brechin, Resident Peoples and National Parks, 215–30.
48 See Thomas F. Thornton, “A Tale of Three Parks: Tlingit Conservation, Representation, and Repatriation in Southeast Alaska’s National Parks,” in Stevens, Indigenous Peoples, 121–24.
49 For more on this topic, and specifically on whaling, see Joshua L. Reid, The Sea is My Country: The Maritime World of the Makahs (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2018).
50 For further information, see Jacilee Wray et al., “Creating Policy for the National Park Service: Addressing Native Americans and Other Traditionally Associated Peoples,” The George Wright Forum 26, no. 3 (2009): 43–50; and Igoe, Conservation and Globalization, 135–36.
51 Igoe, Conservation and Globalization, 136, 137.
52 Sterling Evans, “Conclusion,” in Evans, ed., American Indians in American History, 1870–2001: A Companion Reader (Greenport, CT: Praeger Press, 2001), 196.
53 Garrit Voggesser, “When History Matters: The National Wildlife Federation’s Conservation Partnership with Tribes,” Western Historical Quarterly 40, no. 3 (Autumn 2009): 349–57, quotation at 356.
54 See Theodore Binnema and Melanie Niemi, “‘Let the Line be Drawn Now”: Wilderness, Conservation, and the Exclusion of Aboriginal People from Banff National Park in Canada,” Environmental History 11, no. 4 (2006): 724–50.
55 Stevens, “New Alliances for Conservation,” 48–49; Brad Martin, “Negotiating a Partnership of Interests: Inuvialuit Land Claims and the Establishment of Northern Yukon (Ivvavik) National Park,” in A Century of Parks Canada, 1911–2011, ed. Claire Campbell (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2011).
56 John Sandlos, “National Parks in the Canadian North: Comanagement or Colonialism Revisited?” in Stevens, Indigenous Peoples, 146–47.
57 Emery Hartley, “Tribal Parks: Thirty Years and Counting,” Friends of Clayoquot Sound (Summer 2014), 1–2. For further information on Indigenous peoples and national parks in the bi-national Pacific Northwest, see Jonathan Clapperton, “Stewards of the Earth? Aboriginal Peoples, Environmentalists and Historical Representation,” (PhD diss., University of Saskatchewan, 2012).
58 Stevens, “New Alliances for Conservation,” 48, 53, 54, 47, 43–44.
59 See Brian W. Conz, “Conservation and Maya Autonomy in Guatemala’s Western Highlands: The Case of Totonicapán,” in Stevens, Indigenous Peoples, 241–59.
60 Emily Caruso, “State Governmentality or Indigenous Sovereignty? Protected Area Comanagement in the Ashininka Communal Reserve in Peru,” in Stevens, Indigenous Peoples, 151.
61 For further analysis, see Patrick C. West and Steven R. Brechin, “National Parks, Protected Areas, and Resident Peoples: A Comparative Assessment and Integration,” in West and Brechin, Resident Peoples and National Parks, 364–99.