Battling a hungry beetle, this Mohawk community hopes to keep its trees — and traditions — alive

Angello Johnson’s shoulders burn, and his arms feel like they could fall off with each swing of the axe. 

Instead of piercing through the wood, he uses the butt of the axe to unravel long, thin strips called splints. 

A well-seasoned basketmaker in Akwesasne, Johnson often spends hours by the cherrywood fire outside his family home pounding logs of black ash — a tree treasured for fibres that naturally separate into flexible layers ideal for crafting.

“There’s other materials out there that can be woven into baskets, but black ash is the heart and soul of basketmaking here in Akwesasne,” Johnson says.

Working with this material is a tradition he wants to share with his daughters, Willow and Taya. 

“I really want them to have that experience before it’s just a story that we used to tell,” he says. 

They aren’t old enough to chop trees or pound black ash into splints. But seeing them hold the splints he harvested — watching, learning, weaving — gives him hope the tradition will live on.

“But, with the emerald ash borer here chewing on the trees as we speak, the clock is ticking,” Johnson says.

The beetle that’s killing the forest

In 2016, the emerald ash borer, an invasive species from Asia, began desecrating the southern forests of Akwesasne, a Kanien’kehá:ka (Mohawk) community that straddles the Canada-U.S. border near Cornwall, Ont. Nearly a decade later, the tiny green bugs have spread through entire forests, leaving 99 per cent of ash trees exposed to them dead. 

Emerald ash borers will die in extreme cold and Canadian winters previously provided a form of defense against the species’ northward spread. But warming temperatures due to climate change have exacerbated the beetle’s destructive impact. Its likelihood of surviving as larva has increased, and its feeding period has lengthened.

The devastation extends beyond the woods in Akwesasne. Since first detected in Michigan in 2002, the wood-boring beetles have infected black ash trees in 35 American states and five Canadian provinces. 

In the summer, beetles lay their eggs on the bark of trees; when they hatch, larvae bore into the tree, then chew their way out after maturing. The infestation eventually kills the tree. As it dies, the tree’s growth rings become paper-thin, making the wood unsuitable for basketmaking, and once infected, the tree has only about two years to live, raising questions about the future of the long-standing Kanien’kehá:ka tradition.

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From tree to tradition, basketweaving passed down across generations

Some of Johnson’s fondest memories of black ash are the moments with his father, Eric Sunday, and his great-uncle, Clyde Cree, working together to harvest and pound wood for baskets.

The three would hop in the truck and drive around Akwesasne forests until they found the right tree. Cree, with a practiced eye, could spot a mature, ready-to-harvest ash tree without even leaving the vehicle. 

“Great-uncle Clyde Cree, he’s passed on now,” Johnson says. “I was so fortunate to soak up as much knowledge as I could from him so that way I could pass it on.”

Black ash basketmaking has been a part of Kanien’kehá:ka culture for as long as anyone can remember, with splint fragments found in the northeast United States dating back 3,000 years.

“It’s the whole art of it. The art of connecting with Mother Earth, your family, your Elders, it’s a traditional thing,” Johnson says.

“In the ’60s and ’70s, each family had at least two or three people in their family that were dedicated basketmakers,” Sunday says. “These trees are so important to our people.”

As a child, Sunday remembers watching his mom basketweaving in a circle with other female basketmakers, all speaking Kanien’kéha. 

“When they had the circle of basketmakers, you could not talk English. You must talk Mohawk,” Sunday says. “That’s gone. We gotta bring that back.”

“For every tree that dies is a chip away from our culture, a tradition that will soon be lost,” Sunday says.

Today, as Sunday pounds the black ash splints outside alongside his son, Johnson, they continue this tradition by speaking Kanien’kéha to each other.  

“We’re not the best at it, but we throw it back and forth,” Sunday says. 

Protecting Akwesasne’s black ash

When he first heard about the emerald ash borer, Johnson says, “I was just a basketmaker.” Now, he also works as a land resource technician to preserve the black ash trees and protect his craft.

For the forestry department of the Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe, an arm of the community’s government based in New York state, Johnson supervises a field crew of four full-time employees and two seasonal workers, all dedicated to harvesting black ash and stockpiling splints. 

“The most we can do now is tree injections on the trees we want to save, seed collecting and really trying to find those remote pockets that haven’t been touched yet,” Johnson says. 

Injecting trees with insecticide can protect healthy black ash from the beetle for up to four years. While effective when properly administered, the chemicals for the injections are expensive. It’s also a time-consuming process that requires a certified technician like Johnson.

The team also harvests black ash seeds, which are then shipped to Colorado and preserved in “big underground seed banks,” Johnson says. But the trees only produce healthy seeds once every five to seven years, and with their numbers steadily declining, it’s essential to seize these limited opportunities to harvest as many seeds as possible.

The Saint Regis tribe hopes to replant the black ash, restoring the forests to their original density, when the insect is no longer a threat.

These preservation efforts aim to “stretch out our time with this resource as long as possible,” Johnson says.

‘Link in the chain’: preserving basketweaving is about knowledge as well as trees

Preserving black ash isn’t just about protecting the tree. It’s also about passing down the knowledge of basketmaking tied to it. 

Johnson started his basketmaking business 12 years ago. Good Mind Design also passes on Traditional Knowledge through workshops.

“I really fell in love with the whole teaching aspect, just bringing out that creativity in somebody and then seeing them light up with joy,” Johnson says. 

At a recent workshop with 20 participants, Johnson started the class with a question.

“How many of you have made a basket before?” he asked.

Only three women raised their hands.

Some shared childhood memories of their grandmothers weaving baskets, but said they never learned themselves. 

“I’m trying to get as many people up to speed with basketmaking as possible,” Johnson says. “That way, hopefully, they can remember and teach their children or grandchildren once the trees come back.”

“Knowing that I now have the knowledge that I can pass on is such a gift, and I’m just so honoured to be part of that link in the chain,” Johnson says. 

“It’s very satisfying to know that what I learned myself and then passed on to my son is sticking,” Sunday says, smiling at Johnson. “My job is done. It’s his turn.”

Though Sunday began as a log pounder and mentor to Johnson, their roles have reversed: he is now learning the art of basketweaving from his son. He’s proud his granddaughters are already developing a connection to the craft through Johnson’s teachings. It gives him hope for the Kanien’kehá:ka and the resurgence of their traditions.

“Our people are resilient like the tree. We’ll come back,” Sunday says. 

“We’ll make it. We’ll survive.”