The Desecration at Yaquina Bay: The Erased History of Oregon’s Coastal Burial Canoes
The Desecration at Yaquina Bay: The Erased History of Oregon’s Coastal Burial Canoes |
![]() |
| Another archival photograph where we must look past modern development to locate the ancestral tidelands, the sacred village cemetery, and where elevated burial canoes once rested. |
Like so many who grew up in Oregon, I spent years visiting the historic Newport Bayfront—walking the boardwalks and taking in the sights—without ever having any idea of the history buried directly beneath it. Going through the historical materials provided for the Run to the Rogue, I was pairing visuals with the text when a single sentence from the Siletz Tribal Language Project suddenly made the devastating reality clear:
At first glance, I assumed sending canoes out to sea was a traditional cultural practice—perhaps confusing it with Scandinavian or Viking customs rather than Pacific Northwest traditions. But as I reread it closely to pair it with an image, the devastating truth hit me: our ancestors never set their loved ones adrift. The canoes were elevated on permanent scaffolds overlooking the water, only to be forcibly unmoored and cast into the sea by soldiers. That realization stopped me in my tracks. Working through those visuals made me realize this couldn't just be a brief stop along a map; it demanded its own standalone post and dedicated exploration. Looking into a colonizer’s photograph and searching for clues forced me to confront where our Yaquina ancestors' cemetery of raised burial canoes actually stood—and where the army blockhouse was constructed directly on top of it. It lays bare the brutal reality that soldiers didn't just clear a plot of land; they took down those canoes and deliberately cast them out to sea in a calculated act of desecrating our ancestors' burial grounds. Picturing entire communities—not just chiefs, but elders, weavers, and fishermen—having their sacred resting places cut down and set adrift on the tide was infuriating to process. It echoed the painful desecration suffered by my direct ancestor, Chief Comcomly, whose elevated burial canoe in Astoria was vandalized, his resting place raided, and his skull sent to England. While researching my Grand Ronde lineage, I captured a photo of the Dayton Blockhouse—originally built at Fort Yamhill in 1856 under Lt. Philip Sheridan. This structure reflects the exact style of military blockhouse erected at Yaquina Bay during that same period, built directly on top of the sacred village cemetery. The history of Yaquina Bay demands its own space and reflection—not just as a popular tourist destination, but as sacred ground that was forcibly rewritten. The Dayton Blockhouse (Fort Yamhill). Photograph by author. Built in 1856 under Lt. Philip Sheridan, this structure reflects the exact military blockhouse style erected at Yaquina Bay during the same period. Driving along the Newport Bayfront today, it is easy to see only the bustling boardwalks, fish markets, and tourist shops. But when we look past the colonial development and learn to read these spaces through an ancestral lens, the landscape reveals its true history. Honoring the Yaquina people means refusing to let their resting places be forgotten beneath layers of asphalt and bulkheads. By speaking their truth, naming the desecration, and remembering where those canoes once stood overlooking the tide, we ensure that their presence along Yaquina Bay is never erased. Nautical Survey Chart of Yaquina River and Approaches. Tracing the channels, tidelands, and natural shoreline of Yaquina Bay—the ancestral home where Yaquina villages and elevated canoe burials once overlooked the water prior to military occupation and commercial development. Sources & Citations
|


Comments
Post a Comment