For decades, Theresa Harlan was warned that her family’s beloved cabin in Point Reyes National Seashore would be torn down, erased like all other traces of Coastal Miwok heritage in this fog-veiled, wind-sculpted landscape.
But now she has the park’s promise that it will stay, a small but symbolic gesture in the growing movement to correct historic wrongs and give Native Americans a voice about the fate of lands and waters that were once theirs.
“There is a shift,” said Harlan, 63. “We are treated as stakeholders.”
Long after being removed, sometimes violently, tribes are negotiating collaborative or cooperative roles in 80 national parks, including Point Reyes. This month, federal officials will release details about Native partnership in the proposed Chumash Heritage National Marine Sanctuary off the Central California coast, the first tribal-nominated marine sanctuary designation in the nation.
In another four national parks — Canyon de Chelly National Monument in Arizona, Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve in Alaska, Grand Portage National Monument in Minnesota, and Big Cypress National Preserve in Florida — tribes have larger and more formal co-management roles.
At Point Reyes, the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria are partnering with park management to help resolve the contentious debate over the future of the tule elk reserve there. A tribal representative participates in every meeting to discuss elk management strategies — including whether to remove a two-mile-long fence to give the animals access to more forage and water. Ranchers say such a move would threaten their livelihood. After the public comment period closes on Monday, the tribe will work with the park on next steps.
“The tribe has a lot of wisdom, a lot of experience and also an interest in helping co-steward this land,” said Craig Kenkel, superintendent of the national seashore. “They have been connected with this land far longer than the National Park Service, the ranchers and other people who got here due to colonialism.”
State and county parks are also strengthening the role of tribes in land management, following Gov. Gavin Newsom’s historic formal apology in 2019 for genocide and oppression.
“Momentum is growing,” said law professor Monte Mills, director of the Native American Law Center at the University of Washington School of Law in Seattle.
“It’s a matter of legal justice, given the history of dispossession and removal that resulted in the exclusion of tribal folks,” he said. Tribal input could also improve the government’s care of the land, he added.
The grand vision behind the creation of America’s parks was to protect virginal wilderness. But in truth, many of the landscapes had been domesticated for millennia by tribal peoples.
Tribal evictions started in 1850 when California passed a law to remove tribes, separate children from their families, and strip survivors of their cultures and languages. In his 1851 State of the State Address, California Gov. Peter Burnett declared that “a war of extermination will continue to be waged between the two races until the Indian race becomes extinct.”
Now a Native American — Deb Haaland, a Pueblo — is leading the U.S. Department of the Interior. Chuck Sams, a Cayuse and Walla Walla tribal member, is the first Native American director of the National Park Service.
In a historic step, the Department of Interior and U.S. Department of Agriculture signed an order committing to tribal “co-stewardship” in 2021. A “co-stewardship” policy at national parks was announced last September.
Despite these efforts, it’s not clear how much influence the tribes will truly exert.
“Co-stewardship isn’t just the agency saying, ‘Hey, tribe, can you give us your side of the story?’ Or: ‘Go do this tree-thinning project.’ It’s about shared responsibility for decision-making,” said Mills. “The direction is positive, but it remains to be seen how much really gets in place.”
In many of the parks, the specifics are not yet public and remain shrouded in secrecy due to “government-to-government” confidentiality agreements with the tribes, which are sovereign nations. While parks are owned and administered by taxpayers, meetings with tribes are not public.
But general plans are emerging.
At Point Reyes, in addition to elk management, a 2021 written agreement offers the tribes preferential access to land and facilities and special permits for collecting plants, among other rights. The goal, said Kenkel, was to “work as equals in the planning and co-stewardship of the Seashore.”
At Mt. Tamalpais State Park, tribes could help manage invasive plants, wildfire risk and species monitoring, according to a new report by One Tam, a coalition of four government agencies and the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy. Tribes deserve hunting rights and free access to entrance and parking, it says.
At Sonoma State Historical Park, tribes will be engaged so that exhibits and signage will reflect a more nuanced and accurate view of Native history, said Noah Stewart, a historian with the California State Parks’ Bay Area District in Petaluma.
“We’ve got to tell the real story — the right story,” he said. “It’s very long overdue.”
At Pinnacles National Park, the Amah Mutsun Tribal Band is reintroducing indigenous plant management techniques. In Marin’s Tomales Bay State Park, Coast Miwok will help conduct mechanical thinning and prescribed burns. Yuroks are repairing the California Coastal Trail in the state’s far north. In the proposed Chumash Heritage National Marine Sanctuary, tribes will collect water samples for scientific monitoring.
And under the towering granite cliffs of Yosemite National Park, members of the Southern Sierra Miwuk have a 30-year agreement to restore the historic Wahhoga Village. An all-native crew is building a new ceremonial roundhouse, designed by native engineers. This spring, the tribe’s last surviving cabin was moved to its original location.
“It feels wonderful. It was our elders’ vision,” said Vernett Calhoun, 77, chair of the Wahhoga Committee.
There are challenges to the partnership, she said. “We have to meet their standards. There’s regulation after regulation. But we’re also able to stand our ground — and build it traditionally,” said Calhoun. “It’s not easy, and we don’t always agree. We just have to keep at it.”
Protection and restoration are still a distant dream for Harlan, whose 1880s-era cabin, now abandoned, suffers from broken windows, graffiti and other acts of vandalism. The once-tidy yard is now a jungle, invaded by weeds and warped by tree roots. She seeks to make it a history center and ecological garden.
But she now feels respected, no longer quickly dismissed.
The Park Service’s Kenkel hiked a mile for a three-hour meeting with the family at the remote site, then listened to ancestral history. He promised that the cabin would not be bulldozed, arranged cleanup of a huge trash pile and promised follow-up meetings.
“I finally feel that we are understood,” Harlan said. “When I call now, he picks up.”