Jardins de Métis/Reford Gardens, the primary site of our research, is located at the junction of the Wolastokuk, ancestral territory of the Wolastoqiyik Wahsipekuk Nation, and the Gespe’gewa’gi, seventh district of Mi’kma’ki, ancestral territory of the Mi’gmaq Nation. While researching how the gardens are imagining new methods to slow, counter, and work with water-based erosion, we affirm our collective responsibility to this land and to the ongoing history, rights, and presence of these Nations.

The shoreline is time. The shoreline is flux. The shoreline weaves together the stories of the rivers with those of the land. The shoreline encompasses everything around and in between: the air, the rivers, the soil, and all of their inhabitants—plants, insects, animals (humans included). The shoreline is where the water speaks and the land listens.

Erosion is a space of dialogue, an ever-changing web of relations and entanglements. Erosion is movement between worlds. Erosion is a process that constantly reshapes landscapes, teaching us that land is both vulnerable and resilient. We learn to see the environment as a storyteller, and to document these stories as data.

What does it mean to try to settle permanently on land vulnerable to its ever-changing flows of tides, rivers, rain, and wind?

How can we address erosion while cultivating new ways of inhabiting the shoreline?

Wolastoqey
Jardins de Métis/Reford Gardens, ihtoli keq kiluwahtuweq, ote etoli mawtek Wolastokuk, mecimiw ‘kitahkomikumuwa Wolastoqiyik Wahsipekuk, naka Gespe’gewa’gi, olowikoney wikultitit Mi’kma’ki, mecimiw ‘kitahkomikumuwa Mi’gmaq. Qeni kiluwahtuweq tan kihkanol eli penakacessik, kulopehtuweq, naka witoluhkatomeq samaqan kisehtaq poneqamkiye, ntitomuhtipon mawiw yut tepinomeq ktahkomiq naka mecimiw eyik eleyikpon, weckuhuhsaminomok, naka psiw kilun yut eyultiyeq.

Nisewey yut kesikotok ‘ciw nihi kesikotok luhkewakon: sip, sonuciw, ktahkomiq. Wikultiyeq tama acessik, nomihtunen op ehtek soqasuwakon epasiw nisonul piluweyal eliwihtasikil, kiluwahtuwek keq epasiw ehtek.

Sonuciw nit tan qoniw. Sonuciw nit nutecowok. Sonuciw laskonomonol atkuhkakonol ‘ciw sipiyil wiciw nihtol ktahkomiqok. Sonuciw witte psiw keq ehtek amoniw naka epasiw: ewon, sipiyil, tupqan, naka psiw keq ehtek—kihkasikil, cucuhcok, weyossisok (pomawsuwinuwok tena). Sonuciw nit samaqan ehtek elewestuwik naka ktahkomiq tpostom.

Poneqamkiyak nit eyik lewestuwakon, sasokiw acessik mawi-wikulticik naka eli ‘tomeyawotultitit. Poneqamkiyak sasokiw ‘tacehtun elahpukok ktahkomiq, ktokehkimkun eli ktahkomiq komasi acessik naka sikawsuwik. Nonomonen weci nomihtuweq psiw keq amoniw atkuhkakon, naka weci wikhomeq atkuhkakonol tahalu cuwi nonasik.

Keq nit li-minuwiw weci qeci askomiw wikultiyeq ktahkomiqok mecomi acessik atpekil, sipiyil, komiwon naka wocawson?

Tan op ‘kisi lehtunen poneqamkiyak qeni lihtuweq piluweyal weci kisi wikultiyeq sonuciw?

Mi’gmaq
Jardins de Métis/Redford Gardens, ta’n amskwesewey etek ta’n ninen il-kwiluwasultiek, na etek ta’n na we’kwa’q ta’n na Wolastokuk, kniskamijuey maqmikew ta’n na Wolastoqayik Wahsipekuk Nation, aqq ta’n Kespe’kewa’ki, lluiknekewey etek ta’n Mi’kma’ki, kniskamijuey maqmikew ta’n na Mi’kma’ki Nation. Ke’sk il-kwiluwasimk ta’n na atuomkl na nemitu’titl pile’l tel-lukwutimkl ukjit pawiaq, counter, aqq lukwaqn elt samqwan-wejiaq menapuwek, ninen kejituek ninen mesnmek maliaptmek ta’n ula maqmikew aqq na ta’n pemiaq sa’qewey, tetpaqa’qewe’l, aqq eymin ta’n ula Nation-el.

Ula na Ta’puewey te’sipunqwek ta’n na si’st-te’sipunqwek kisitasik: sipu, qasqe’k, maqmikew. Kelo’tk ta’n sa’se’wa’sik etek, ninen maqmikewey nemituekip lukwaqn ta’n asumkwaqn mekwaye’k ta’n tapu’kl pilewe’l wisunn, kwilmk ta’n etek mekwaye’k.

Ula qasqe’k Nike’ ajiaq. Ta’n qasqe’k na wnaqijuik. Ta’n qasqe’k toqijoqa’sik ta’n na a’tukwaqnn ukjit ta’n sipu’l elt ta’n na maqmikewiktuk. Ta’n qasqe’k kito’qik msit kito’qiw aqq ta’n mekwaye’k: ta’n pju’sn, ta’n sipu’l, ta’n tupkwan, aqq msit ta’n na wikultijik—wasuekl, jujijk, waisisk (mimajuinu’k ma’wt). Ta’n qasqe’k na ta’n na samqwan kelusik aqq ta’n maqmikew jiksitk.

Pelkoqa’sik ula na etek na ewikasik, ta’n kaqisk sa’se’wa’sik eltaqtek ta’n tela’matultimkl aqq aptipiluksimkl. Pelkoqa’sik na ta’n tel-lukwek ta’n kaqisk ilika’toq maqmikewitasikl, ekina’muksi’k na ta’n maqmikew na kitk pepke’jk aqq melkiknaq. Ninen ekinu’tmasultiek ukjit nmitunen ta’n weji-mimajultimk ta’n na nuji-a’tukwet, aqq ukjit wi’kmn ula a’tukwaqnn ukjit ewikasikl.

Koqoey net teluek ukjit ktnu’kwalsin na kisa’muwen iapjiw Ula maqmikew pepke’jk ta’n na kaqisk-sa’se’wa’sik telijuwikl ta’n suekawk, sipu’l, kispesan, aqq pju’sn?

Tal-kisi-wksku’tisnen pelkoqa’sik ke’sk nikwenimkl pile’l telo’ltimkl ta’n wikimk ta’n qasqe’k?

Robyn Adams

Each time I visit a shoreline, whether the day’s sunlight is short, or the moon’s brilliance long, the waves remain the heartbeat of water. The sand, rocks, intertidal plants, shift and spiral into the past, present, and future. I grew up with the teachings that water carries us forward, but I have only recently begun to digest that the movement is not restricted to a linear timeline and action. To help me understand water’s teachings from multiple perspectives I think of the concept of “spiral time,” introduced to me through Indigenous scholars. Spending time at the shoreline of the Saint Lawrence and Mitis Rivers has helped me understand how things are in constant flux—moving forward, but at the same time both linear and in a cyclical rhythm. The tide follows a pattern throughout the day, months, and year but each wave occupies space differently. Erosion, sedimentation, deposits—are all part of water ecology. In Spiraling Time, Where the Mitis River meets the St. Lawrence, I use film photography to slow down my process and think about different moments of the shoreline. Taking multiple exposures while manually winding the film forward in increments captures completely different worlds of the same shoreline in one image. Specifically with the rapid shifts in erosion at this shoreline, the banks of the river are falling into the water more and more each year, continuously changing the landscape. This process of making helps me relate to people and land in a slower, more intentional, tactile way to enter into a sense of embodiment with land.

Marie Pontais

In this era of widespread erosion of traditional and land-based knowledge, there is a growing inability to name and understand the intrinsic dynamic nature of surrounding species and elements. I feel that we need to be learning how to read the landscape from a deeply relational perspective: to be looking around, to be spending time with, to be affected by.

This is what we have begun to explore in this research. Toponymy, such as the Mitis River’s name and history, holds deep land-based knowledge and reconnects us with layers of meaning carried by Indigenous place naming/making. Naming is also an act of making visible and holding space, whether for the voices of peoples and their relationships to the river, or for the intertidal zone and its living, biodiverse entanglements. Witnessing the beach replenishment project unfold along the coast of Sainte-Flavie this summer, I could not help but question how could erasure of an entire part of an ecosystem ever seem like the best course of action? And therefore, who or what are we failing to name here?

RA

A big part of this research was defined through building community connections. Early in the summer, we met quite a few families that have lived in Métis-sur-mer for generations. We met some artists passing through for events at the Jardin, some active members through programming and engaging in events. And we got to know staff members, and summer interns. It was really great to be invited to visit some locals’ homes, and we did interviews with experts and community members. Learning about things that all these different people were interested in, and how they responded to our call looking at shoreline erosion really started to mould the work. At the CCA, there were many different researchers hosting presentations, workshops, and accessing the archive. Getting to spend lunches together was very enriching for me. Just as we were looking at the root systems of plant species like Leymus arenarius (lyme grass) and engaging with shoreline and intertidal biodiversity, throughout the summer our community as researchers grew and strengthened.

MP

During our time at Métis, we had the chance to meet and learn from many people, weaving ideas and perspectives while navigating how everything might come together—a process both complex and revealing. One idea—shared by Rosetta S. Elkin at the beginning of our stay—remained with me: maybe this residency was about “figuring out how to let the work change us, instead of focusing on how to change things through the work.” It helped shift the way I approached our process and encouraged me to step into it with curiosity and honesty, letting go of the need to try and help bring concrete solutions in only a few months.

This meant paying close attention to the landscape and its rhythms, but also to how the water moves through the land today. Without a hydrographic study, it seemed like a good idea to focus on observing infiltration, understanding how water is held, flows, and interacts with the soils of our specific site. This led me to explore the role of some of the plants present: trembling aspens (populus tremuloides), willows (salix), wild roses (rosa rugosa), or lyme grass (leymus mollis)—along with their different root systems, from deep taproots to fibrous and rhizomatic structures, and their relationships with clay, sand, and water (both fresh and salty). Inspired by places like the Jardin de Bord de Mer and Jardin du Littoral, I wanted to look at how alternative methodologies were working with ecosystems rather than against them, fostering both resilience and care in the landscape.

Julia Pingeton

To begin to try to work with and through these alternative methodologies and land-based practices required us to be creative in our approach to inventory and analysis of the life at the point.

I found this large piece of driftwood while walking the shoreline at dusk. It rendered visible the root systems of the poplar trees and their rhizomatic growth—a process we don’t often see from aboveground. Seemingly individual trees are all one connected organism—with an entangled root system that strengthens each individual tree and the collective at once. The name for the Mitis River comes from mitisipu—a Mi’qmaq word for poplar. Other species from this family, like trembling aspens and cottonwoods, stood along the shores of the river alongside the poplars. These species help stabilize riverbanks and they are quick to establish in disturbed environments. Sedimentary accumulations that these root systems can support reflect the accumulations of meaning and emotion that come to be in a landscape through time and the ways invisible connections tether these meanings together.

Wild roses are an aggressive species, sometimes classified as invasive where I am from as well as the Gaspé peninsula—though they smell delicious, and many people have a fondness for them. One of the landowners we spoke with in the region praised them when we talked about the loss of beach he’d seen on his property over the years—saying that areas the roses had established survived flood and erosion more than any other area on the beach. Their root systems create dense webbed nets, holding soils in place. Learning how to understand the plants in our landscape requires a nuanced view—often introduced plants that serve a particular function like erosion control can spread quickly and cause problems in their ecosystems. This nuance creates an opening to understand the land as a dynamic entity that exists with multiple realities and needs at once, with species that are non-native to an area coming at a cost.

MP

Erosion—and erosion-control practices—present us with deeply intricate and layered realities. Amidst this complexity, the concept of vulnerability quickly emerged as a key focus for our reflections. Noticeably, the research calls for an understanding of how to tend to vulnerable inhabitants affected by erosion. But as we paid closer attention to the “entangled ways of life” that compose the shoreline, it became clear that the main concern should perhaps first be the vulnerability of the land itself.¹ Where does this vulnerability stem from? What are its unique dynamics? How have people historically lived with it? And now, how might we learn to adapt to it rather than resist it?

I felt that these questions pointed us to the need for both understanding and action. I began exploring the context of erosion at Métis—tracing the origins of the clay riverbanks, trying to step back into more of a landscape-time—to understand the movement of soils, the formations of the rivers, and much like our Université du Québec à Rimouski (UQÀR) archeology colleagues, the succession of human traces imprinted on the land. It became a process of understanding and mapping what makes Métis unique, while also drawing from the broader, shared patterns of similar landscapes—seeking ways to address clay riverbank erosion in alignment with natural processes.

JP

One of the landscape conditions that creates a particular situation at Métis is the steep riverbanks formed during the last glacial retreat, enabling erosion from both tidal action and rainstorms—below and above at once. One day after a particularly intense rainstorm, we went to the shore to see what happened to the clay banks when inundated with water. This tree slide had likely happened earlier in the season, but it felt uncanny—a whole piece of the forest floor completely disconnected from its surroundings and still trying to grow. What do connections in the environment mean, how do they tether us or not? How can we strengthen the interdependence of all things that has historically built strong and resilient communities—for both human and more-than-human life?

JP

Understanding ourselves as interdependent, part of a collective, with responsibility and accountability for our actions—is one way of understanding these entanglements. Over the course of an afternoon, we observed the installation of gravel, from the pile in this photograph, to the Saint Lawrence River as part of a beach replenishment project. Enormous trucks came to dump aggregate matter mined inland at this pit, located about 1 kilometre from the shoreline. Other trucks then came to load up on gravel and dump it on the beach. The convergence of a naturalized strip of land next to the large gravel pile felt like a seam—a rip—a way to try to disconnect the ways in which we are connected.

There are ways of moving through the fears that a changing climate might arise in us that acknowledge the changes we’re living through and create defenses against them—like piles of gravel on a shore, trying to build against the fundamental connectedness of ourselves and our environments. There must be ways of moving through these fears that accept honestly these terms and recognize that we may not have a way of “going back” to something in terms of restoration or remediation. We can only move forward in the new reality we are encountered with.

RA

Throughout this research, the reality of displacement has been at the forefront of many conversations—displacement of territory from water-based erosion, displacement of plant species from rising water temperatures, and forced displacement of Indigenous communities and knowledge because of Settler occupation.

When we first arrived to Métis-sur-mer we stayed in the lighthouse right by where this footage was taken. Walking around the tilted sedimentary rock at low tide and watching the seals in the distance swimming and laying on the rocks was magical. While spending time along these rocks, my embodiment in this space started time stretching and, in the awareness, and presence of spiraling time I started to think about the shoreline, and perspectives through displaced plants, water, and intentionally spent time learning more about the local First Nations histories in the area. Different archives and museums in the area, including at the Jardins de Métis, house cultural items like birch bark canoes, snowshoes, weavings and smoked hide clothing items likely made during the late 1800’s to mid 1900’s. Sitting with items connected me to bits of the history, gave me more questions, and helped me feel a bit of the spirit they held. This kind of knowledge is critical for shoreline adaptation.

Inhabiting this landscape warps my perspective of the past, present, and future. The sedimentary arched rocks remind me that something that seems permanent to me, is in long-time very fluid and holds an ephemeral quality. In this footage, the water mimics a mirror reflecting the cosmologies of the sky, folding into itself.

Seeing the rocks, which look ancient and permanent, are also loose threads in the shoreline’s makeup, flattening long and short-time together. When thinking about the shoreline’s future, there is a need for a reconnection to traditional ecological knowledge, honouring the traditions of our ancestors, through a resurgence of Indigenous land-based knowledge.

These booklets—Relations, Practices, Earth—are shaped by moments at the shoreline that unveiled something meaningful—inviting us, as researchers, to weave them into our understanding of the shore and its inhabitants. Each of the booklets contains a section corresponding to one of the three physical phases of erosion—detachments, movements, and sedimentations. These processes are cyclical and our way of presenting them does not represent the only way they can flow—there is no start or end to erosive processes, nor to our learning.