The sun was completely over the horizon, almost dusk, when we saw this little remote glade in the Nisqually Delta Wildlife Refuge. We decided to do a very late afternoon paddle on McAlister Creek. This creek has also been called Medicine Creek or Treaty Creek because it was the site of early Native American treaties in 1864 in the Nisqually Delta. In December, Isaac Stevens, governor and superintendent of Indian affairs met with delegates of the Nisqually, Puyallup, Steilacoom, Squawskin, S'Homamish, Stehchass, T'Peeksin, Squi-aitl, and Sa-heh-wamish tribes occupying the lands lying round the head of Puget Sound and the adjacent inlets. In the Treaty, the tribes and bands of Indians relinquished significant portions of their land, and received $32,500 in return, over a succession of years. The creek George and I were canoeing was once their land.
The creek has the richest, softest shoreline, with abundant birds. This little creek tumbled down out of the forest to empty into the waters that feed Puget Sound.
We beached our canoe here, to explore the shoreline - the tide had completely drained out of this little inlet. The mudflats were filled with burrowed clams that had little mounded dwellings with a hole on top.
The tide was very low, pulling the water out of the estuaries. When we paddled here, there was only about a foot of water to paddle through. With the tides so low, we could only go so far before we had to turn around. It was a delightful paddle. 
We met these kayakers, who told us about their day out on the delta. They are part of a kayaking club, and were the most cheerful, friendly sports enthusiasts. I thought how fortunate all of us are, to be able to put a canoe on the water, in a matter of minutes, all over Puget Sound, and a delightful experience awaits.Donna Frisk writes poignantly of the 'Legacy of Medicine Creek: On the Nisqually Delta':
A leaden sky loopsdown into marsh ponds,
a massive Möbius strip
of gray. Late spring greens,
irradiated by purple light
of an impending storm, tighten their grip.
Tiger lilies and fireweed
fall to their knees
under the weight
of wind. On the water
a rat-a-tat-tat
as round shapes overlap each other, like Kandinsky’s Circles in a Circle.
Too far to dash a
half-mile back,
I pull up my hood,
and sit out the squall
under a weeping willow’s
abundant arms.
Chief Leschi refused to sign the treaty--
reservation lands were not on the Nisqually River,
were forested, rocky, with no place to graze horses,
no place to fish for salmon. He was framed for murder. Hanged.
I hunker,
along with bushtits
and great blue heron,
restless for serenity
to calm the festered clouds.
An army helicopter thwump thwump thwumps it’s way north to Fort Lewis.
