Finally, a homeland for Samish Indians

By Florangela Davila
Seattle Times staff reporter

STEVE RINGMAN / THE SEATTLE TIMES Peggy Morgan and Dee Branson, members of the Samish tribe, walk on their land near Anacortes. The tribe announced the transaction last week that created their 80-acre homeland. The tribe fought for federal recognition for 27 years.

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This is the tribe, after all, once dismissed by federal authorities as being extinct.

Now here it is, 1,100 members strong, dispersed throughout coastal Washington and Canada but about to be anchored by a swath of rural property abutting Campbell Lake on Fidalgo Island.

In a newsletter mailed last week, the tribe announced how the acreage, purchased over the past three years, has been put into trust by the federal government.

The land transaction officially creates a Samish homeland, a prize for a people who fought 27 years to be federally recognized.

"It makes us feel that we knew who we were, even though the government said we didn't exist," said Dee Branson, the tribe's treasurer. With plans to build 26 housing units on the site, "we're building as fast as we can and as we're building, it kind of says, 'See. See. See.' " Branson laughs.

She's sitting in the only thing that, for now, reads Samish in these parts: the tribal offices on Commercial Avenue. She's in a conference room where a newly acquired house pole lies covered by a blanket, and the 1996 document announcing the tribe's federal recognition is framed on the wall.

Getting that recognition took persistence and patience. The Samish tribe's quest, federal Judge Thomas Zilly once wrote, has been "protracted and tortured," "made more difficult by excessive delays and governmental misconduct."

Treaty signed in 1855

In 1855, when Samish territory stretched throughout the San Juan Islands, the Samish and 14 other tribes signed the Point Elliott Treaty, which meant ceding their lands in exchange for cash, access to traditional hunting and fishing grounds, and reservations.

A Samish reservation, though, was never officially conferred.
 
Then came the struggle for recognition. In the century after the treaty, the Samish considered themselves the signatory's descendants and believed they were a federally recognized tribe.

But in 1969 a clerk at the Bureau of Indian Affairs, typing up a government list of tribes, inadvertently left it out.

As a result, federal officials cut off its services. The Samish lost their fishing rights. Legal battles ensued and courts ruled the Samish were not a distinct, separate, cohesive cultural or political group.

"We've always known who we were," says Branson, whose mother was among a core group of Samish who fought for recognition. "We were a group of Indians who practiced our culture. It made us so angry. We had to pursue this and find a way."

Their fight included, at one point, suggesting the Samish be recognized as endangered. In 1987, they petitioned the Department of Interior for protection under the Endangered Species Act, and lost.

"Anyone out there who has worked in Indian Country knows nothing really comes easily," says Rick Landers, the tribe's general manager.

Winning back recognition

After regaining recognition in 1996 — but still fighting for fishing rights — the Samish pursued what any landless tribe would want: property. They hired Landers to acquire land on Fidalgo.

"We consider ourselves to be saltwater people," Branson says.

The tribe purchased some $800,000 worth of property near Campbell Lake, just off State Highway 20. Tribes typically ask the BIA to take land into trust so the property will be exempt from state and county taxes, as well as land-use laws.

But Skagit County appealed the fee-to-trust transaction, worried about the tribe's construction plans.

"We felt there was potential for overdevelopment of the property," says County Assessor Gary Rowe.

In the end, fearing additional delays, and with readily available federal funding for housing construction, the Samish and county signed an agreement saying only 26 units of housing would be built. The Samish also waived some of their sovereignty over the property, agreeing to consult with the county regarding any future plans.

The housing is expected to be completed in about two years.

"One of these days, when you look at a Rand McNally map, we'll be on there," says Landers, the general manager.

Woman's story is typical

After two generations, Branson is envisioning the day she can finally move back.

Her story is typical Samish.

"My grandparents went out into the world, settling in Seattle. My mother, aunt and uncle all had children. We lived close together. We had that sense of community. But we always came back here for the annual meeting," she says.

For as long as Branson can remember, her family always joined other Samish in Skagit County for the tribe's annual meeting, which tribal members know always takes place the third weekend in June. But because they never had their own place, the meeting location switched year after year: a nearby city hall; a church. One year, tribal leaders recall, they pitched tents in a local park.

The Internet helped connect the tribal members, some as far away as Idaho and Montana. But Branson wanted to be close to the ancestral lands. Sensing a historic turn of events after the tribe regained recognition, she moved from Sequim to Anacortes with her husband, Stan.

So did her cousin Peggy Morgan.

"When we were recognized, I felt like, 'Oh my gosh. I'm a person now,' " says Morgan, the tribal-office receptionist who has since taken to learning how to weave, cook frybread and speak the Samish language.

"Skelotses" (ske-lots-us) is the Samish word for homeland, which is what the Campbell Lake property is now called. It's a 10-minute drive from downtown Anacortes to the homeland, where the roads will surely be named after something significant to the tribe. Camas, perhaps. Blackfish. Fir.

"We should have a road called Nettle Lane," says Morgan, as she and her cousin drive a van past construction workers and pink and orange wooden stakes marking the lots.

The houses will be assigned by lottery. Branson assumes her name will be drawn.

"I've been waiting a long time," she says, standing in the woods, savoring the aroma of wet dirt and cedar boughs.

Branson has her chosen lot: view of the trees over the lake; enough space between her front door and the neighbor's.

They can bury me here, Morgan sighs.

"If they dig up my grave years and years from now, at least they'll know an Indian lay here," she says. "For me, this is home."

Florangela Davila: 206-464-2916 or fdavila@seattletimes.com