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appears to be malfunctioning. Seattle falls away in our rear view, a glit-
tering mass of high-rises reflecting the midday sun on this unusually
bright spring day. I turn to the thirtysomething CEO of IMS, Micah
Bowers, with more than a little skepticism. “It’s reading a depth of 600
feet here. That can’t be right.” He smiles. “There are deep ravines like
that all over Puget Sound. Welcome to the Pacific Northwest.”
A top end of 44 knots gobbles up the minutes. While there is
plenty of dockage on the island, Bowers and I decide to go the old-
fashioned route: beaching the 31 on a deserted stretch of shoreline—
the same way Suquamish warriors would beach their war canoes
here in the summer months. I lace up my hiking boots. Lowering
the boat’s folding bow door, I jump down onto wet sand and try
to get my bearings. From what I can tell, the only other sojourners
here are gnarled pieces of driftwood scattered along the shoreline.
It doesn’t matter that you can still make out the city skyline or spy
footpaths through the brush. My gaze wanders to the snow-capped
peak of Mount Rainier in the distance, at once both wondrous and
vaguely threatening, that fills me with an innate understanding of
my microscopic relationship with the cosmos.
Tillicum Village, however, is not a place to come seeking solitude.
My arrival for the matinee lines up with a fresh batch of show-goers
deposited by ferry: excited kids, families and a few tour groups.
Wearing matching shirts for the occasion, one of the largest groups
in attendance are members of the Snohomish tribe. The Snohomish
count themselves part of the Tulalip Tribes of Washington, a
sovereign tribe residing north of Everett on a reservation roughly
the size of Manhattan. Thousands of years ago, Blake Island served
as a no man’s land, with no single group laying claim to its waters.
Today, Tillicum Village and the adjoining state park are the closest
the land has come to reverting to the status quo as a collective space.
A line forms along the broken clamshell-strewn path leading up to
the longhouse. Each person stops at a big pot, and is doled out a mug
of warm clam nectar. On this chilly spring afternoon, the piping hot
broth warms the chest like few things can. After finishing the contents,
we are encouraged to dump the clam shells onto the pathway and give
them a hearty stomp. As far as I can tell, this is a tradition unique to
Tillicum Village, with no bearing on historical etiquette, but it’s a big