Qu-lash-qud sat in his old wooden chair peering out at the cold, dark waters of the Nisqually River. He closed his eyes and fell back in time to the previous century when he was just a boy. He remembered the salmon runs and the ceremonies that would bring the fish back each year. His memories, like dreams, drifted over him, transporting the Nisqually elder to a place long forgotten. So much had changed since then…

It was a late summer day in 1982 when Judge Stephen Grossman of the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission in Washington State visited Qu-lash-qud to hear his testimony on the way things used to be. Over 100 years old, the elder could no longer travel and so the Court, out of reverence and respect, came to him. Adversely impacted by the construction of a series of dams that drastically reduced the salmon and steelhead trout runs, the Nisquallys of western Washington had taken their case to court in an effort to save their fisheries and way of life.

Qu-lash-qud wasn’t quite sure of his exact age, but believed he was born in 1879, before Washington was a state, making him 102 or 103. Judge Grossman listened intently as the elder recalled times past. Growing up in the village of Yell-Whahlse, Qu-lash-qud and his family fished, trapped, and hunted. The rivers teemed with fish then, and food was abundant. They lived in a traditional longhouse where salmon was hung to dry from the rafters.

Qu-lash-qud remembered when he saw a White man for the first time. He spoke of painful memories of a smallpox outbreak that devastated his village and claimed the lives of family and friends. He recalled the effects of the Dawes Act and how traditional Nisqually lands dwindled from 4,700 acres to 835, as the reservation was divided into parcels and allotted to individual families. He was alottee no. 89, a number seared into his mind like a brand on a steer.

After his family was forcibly evacuated from Yell- Whahlse to make room for a new military base, Qu-lashqud went off to St. George’s Industrial School for Indians, a Roman Catholic boarding school, where he learned English, dressed in a bristly wool uniform, attended mass, and received a new name—Willie Frank. He told Judge Grossman how he ran away from school one day, travelling 40 miles on foot back to his family.

Although the boarding school had taken so much, it gave Willie Frank a greater understanding of the White man’s ways, which enabled him to effectively navigate legal labyrinths and advocate for his people. He recounted his service as both chairman and treasurer for the Nisquallys and how he secured an injunction that protected Indian fishers. Although the Treaty of Medicine Creek guaranteed their right to fish at “all usual grounds and stations,” the state of Washington began enacting conservation laws in the 1890s to restrict “out of season” fishing. Frank remembered his first arrest in 1916 and how it proved to be the opening salvo in a fishing war that lasted the remainder of his life.

Arrests and harassment of Indian fishers intensified in the 1950s following the passage of Public Law 280, which gave states greater jurisdiction over federally recognized tribal lands. Frank recalled how Washington State game officials began seizing the Nisquallys’ fishing tackle, gill nets, and even their boats. With their very livelihood threatened, the Nisquallys and their allies held a succession of widely publicized “fish-ins” that brought national attention to their cause. Their activism paid off when the U.S. Department of Justice filed suit against the state of Washington. Frank was witness to what was surely one of the greatest legal decisions in American Indian history, as the U.S. District Court ruled in United States v. Washington that the Treaty of Medicine Creek gave the Nisquallys and the other signatories the right to 50% of the harvestable fish in their traditional fishing grounds.

When Frank finished his testimony, Judge Grossman got up and departed, leaving the elder there with the river and its lifetime of memories. The case dragged on for almost 10 more years, during which time Qu-lash-qud finally made his journey to the spirit world. But his wisdom left an indelible mark on the judge, and the court ruled that the dams and unfettered development had adversely affected the livelihood of the Nisqually people.

The story of Qu-lash-qud and Nisqually fishing rights underscores in stark legal terms the importance of elders and their experiences. But our elders’ wisdom should be recognized as having much wider importance and value. Elders offer us not only a window into the past but a roadmap for how we can live in the present moment and move forward into the future.

In mainstream Western society, with its relentless pursuit of efficiency, development, and modernity, elders are relegated to the periphery. We shuttle them off to nursing homes, dismiss and ignore them, and fail to recognize what their experience can teach us. But at tribal colleges and universities—Native peoples’ institutions of higher education—elders play a fundamentally different role. At TCUs across the land, elders are an essential part of the curricula, the classroom, and college life.

Take, for instance, Cankdeska Cikana Community College, where elders Vern Lambert and Lorraine Greybear teach courses in Dakota culture, history, and language. Due to their deep knowledge and wisdom, they became the first elders certified as Ph.D. and master’s level instructors by the Spirit Lake Nation. As John Peacock illustrates in his article, “The Best Kind of Wisdom,” Lambert and Greybear not only impart facts and figures but also the cardinal Dakota values of humility, perseverance, generosity, faith, honesty, courage, and respect. Through their example, Peacock observes, they serve as models for the younger generation.

The same can be said for Minerva Allen, Aaniiih Nakoda College’s elder-in-residence. In this issue’s Profile, longtime TCU educator Elizabeth McClain illuminates Allen’s central role at ANC and how she is the college’s “wellspring.” A mother, poet, and educator, Allen has devoted her life to serving the Fort Belknap tribal community—and with each passing year her importance just grows. “When I go to sleep at night, my prayer to the Creator is to let me stay a little longer here on earth. I have unfinished business,” she tells us.

Elders like Minerva Allen have a big part to play— and not just in American Indian studies or language courses. At TCUs, their wisdom is being incorporated in all facets of college life, as they offer unique, culturally grounded insights that cannot be found in textbooks or accreditation guidelines. In this issue’s Voices column, William Big Bull of Blackfeet Community College offers us a blueprint for how TCUs can further employ elders to enrich students’ college experience. “It would serve the TCU well to orientate the teacher as to what is required and why these tools are necessary in assisting them in doing their job,” he maintains. For Big Bull, time is of the essence: “It was often told to me by senior mentors that they would like to leave their knowledge behind so others can benefit. But all too often it was too late.”

Fortunately for the Nisquallys, Qu-lash-qud remained with his people for over a century, passing on his wisdom and helping to usher in a brighter future. In his twilight years he would walk along the shores of the river, tapping the trees to remind them he was still there. “Me and the river are the oldest things around here,” he once said, but “the river was here a long time before I came, and it’ll be here a long time after I’m gone.” As this issue of Tribal College Journal reminds us, our elders are gifts. May we embrace and learn from them before they leave us.

Bradley Shreve, Ph.D., is managing editor of Tribal College Journal.

REFERENCES Heffernan, T. (2012). Where the Salmon Run: The Life and Legacy of Billy Frank Jr. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Shreve, B.G. (2009). “From Time Immemorial”: The Fish-in Movement and the Rise of Intertribal Activism. Pacific Historical Review, 78(3), 403–434.