Nerd Fort

llll ) llll The Nerd Fort…

I’m sitting in a second-story smoking room of the Park Town Hotel, beside omahksiitahtaa in Saskatoon, here for a meeting of the Aboriginal Knowledge Learning Centre, ki very much wishing I could just go home. Though I’ve only been here one night, that’s long enough for anyone to have to suffer the sensory deprivation of Saskatchewan. I miss piipiiaakii ki ohkomaakii. I miss nitomopistaan. I miss nitsitaipsstsinaaki at mi’kai’sto iitaissksinima’tstohkio’p. Ki I miss my nerd fort.

What’s a nerd fort? That’s a question I hear on occasion, but it’s always surprising for me to learn it’s not common knowledge. Aren’t there lots of nerds out there? Ki don’t we all keep forts? Certainly I always have. I’ve built underground nerd forts comprised of large room-holes ki narrow, twisting entry-tunnels dug in fields ki forests, topped with boards, ki covered over with thick layers of earth ki foliage. I’ve had nerd forts in attic crawlspaces – carpeted, shielded with firecracker tripwires, ki equipped with libraries full of comic books ki novels by Mark Twain ki Fred Gibson. Now that I’m a bit older (but perhaps no more mature), I keep my nerd fort under the basement stairway of nookoowa. I’ll admit, it’s not fully developed as of yet… ours is a rental house at present (although we may buy it), ki I’m not sure I want to put my full energy into creating the ultimate nerd fort if I’m just going to have to relinquish this space in the future. Time will tell. For the present, at least, it’s like this:

Some folks have offices. Some have workshops, hobby rooms, or dens. I have a nerd fort. The foremost rule in the architectural design of a nerd fort, from my experience, is that it cannot be set in an ordinary room. Otherwise it’s just that… a room. My room, perhaps, but a “room” all the same. No. A nerd fort must take advantage of unlikely habitation spaces. Cramped little nooks that no normal person would consider using for anything other than storage, or specially built hideaways like tree-houses, caves, or underground bunkers. A few examples of idealized nerd forts in the popular media include Fox Moulder’s X-Files office in the storage basement of the FBI building, the greens-keeper shed that Bill Murray inhabited in Caddyshack, Superman’s crystal island where he could communicate with the spirits of his ancestors, ki of course the Bat Cave.

I chose a little hollow under my basement stairway. This was an ideal site because I could route an extension cord in there to power my computer (which is now a key component of most master nerd forts). Another important benefit to this selection was its low ceiling. Your average adult person cannot maneuver safely within this space without bending down. This uncomfortable position functions to assure that the nerd fort will receive few visitors, which is important because the activities that occur in there are often geeky ki embarrassing, best kept relatively private. To this same effect, my nerd fort is equipped with a robotic chimpanzee head at the entryway, which can be set to alarm mode, so that I will be alerted of any approaching visitor by the sound of monkey screams.

Just as a nerd fort cannot be fashioned from a mere “room”, nor should it have anything resembling normal walls. In fact, the best nerd forts are those which are rendered invisible to the outside world, because they merely appear to be a pile of some miscellaneous garbage. Cardboard boxes are a good way to create this effect, ki that is what I’ve chosen to form the one wall that is exposed to my basement (although I’ve not entirely completed the camouflage yet). Another advantage of cardboard boxes is that they can hold lots of stuff. I have boxes of dried medicinal plant materials, boxes of books, boxes of martial arts gear from when I was just like Bruce Lee. I even have boxes full of other more important boxes, if that makes any sense. Never underestimate the power of the cardboard box… it was always, itself, the original nerd fort, after all.

Another important element of the nerd fort that, like the cardboard box, hearkens back to the brilliance of childhood, are toys ki other collectibles. Some perceive such things as being unnecessary or even unhealthy for the fully functioning adult. But this view is mistaken. The practice of collecting is the means by which we learn to understand different taxonomic orders ki make sense of our world. In other words, collecting is an exercise in cognitive training. Everyone collects something… it could be sports statistics, movie trivia, specialized academic vocabulary items, political knowledge, whatever. Given, there are collectors who develop pathologies ki fail to grow. I’m thinking particularly of the ones who keep massive toy collections, attempting to maintain each object they acquire in a pristine, packaged condition for their supposed economic value. Or the museum tradition, whose curators even go so far as to wear linen gloves so as to assure that the oils naturally exuded from their fingertips do not somehow effect the rapid decay of, say, an old piece of furniture. Such extreme but all too common collection practices reflect a mistaken view as well. The true worth of toys or antiques is not economic, nor some kind of intangible heritage value. Rather, it is their ability to compel us toward the use of imagination. Ki the significance of a collection is in the cognitive transformation that results, not the accumulation of material product. The master nerd realizes all of this, has the ability to let go, to advance into more complex exercises, but yet also respects the process he or she has been through, ki will as a result keep a shrine of sorts as a reminder of the importance of that experiential history.

The nerd shrine does not have to be gaudy. Just a few items will do. My shrine, for instance, includes a sizeable chunk of dinosaur bone, an ammonite fossil, a few interlinked segments of coyote backbone, a hacky-sack, two jars of dried berries, ki four action figures – Obi Wan Kenobi ki a robotic spider from Star Wars, Data from The Goonies, ki Indiana Jones. Why these particular choices? Well… the fossils ki bones speak to one of our earliest childhood cognitive exercises, our first attempt at collection. As we develop, we progress from learning the names or titles of our kin (mom, dad, sister, neighbor, stranger), to the animals (dog, cat, fish, leather-backed sea turtle), to the dinosaurs. By that point, we understand – in an intuitive way - a little bit about what taxonomies do, giving us vocabulary attached to values (i.e. brontosaurs are nice, tyrannosaurs are mean), ki we are ready to blaze our own trail down other collections ki cognitive exercises of our choosing in a learning process that lasts the remainder of our days. Plus, you’ve got to admit, having a big chunk of dinosaur bone is cool. The berries ki hacky-sack, positioned at alternate sides of my shrine, comprise a polemic. For me, the hacky-sack is a symbol of life wasted. Anyone who has so few creative projects underway that he can bother to train his body to adeptly handle the bouncing of this sack is most surely living without purpose. Berries, on the other hand, represent a commitment to engage one’s ecological community. Like many natural foods, they are in season only briefly, ki it takes a sustained effort to gather as many as would be needed to include them in one’s diet year-round. The ecological community member must therefore be willing to relinquish attachment to unnecessary frivolities like hacky-sack play, in favor of a thorough engagement with life. Then there are the action figures… Obi Wan, a serious Jedi incapable of being swayed by the dark side of the force. The robotic spider, a character completely unknown, alien, a reminder that there is far more out there than we have encountered through our limited introductions or perspectives. Data, the inventor, the gadget man, the one who thinks creatively ahead ki is always, somehow, prepared. Ki Indiana Jones, a brilliant academic who knows many historical ki cultural worlds, yet refuses to stay bound to his desk ki chalkboard. When combined, for me, these few members of the nerd shrine concentrate a wide spectrum of values ki meanings. Plus, you’ve got to admit, its fun to have toys.

Outside of its architectural structure, its camouflage ki shrine, the nerd fort has only two further requisites. First, it must be a hub of intelligence analysis. A command center, in essence. Ki to this ends, there should be some form of archives at hand, as well as a means for communications. Depending on the particular projects ki intellectual slants of the resident nerd, these archives ki communications tools may take various forms. In my nerd fort, they include a small library of authors who cast widely among an array of topics, ki a computer with high-speed internet access. A second ki equally important requisite to the complete nerd fort is a defense system. Now, it’s true, many master nerds are significant weapons in themselves, bearing expertise in various styles of kung fu. Yet, it’s always good to have a back-up system. In my particular nerd fort, there is a crossbow ki a boyga. Most are familiar with the former, so it is the boyga that is truly my last line of defense, the one weapon that will always catch the enemy off-guard. In fact, the boyga has been kept so secreted that I hesitate to share its details here. But, since to my knowledge there are few other boygas in captivity, I suppose it’s safe.

To understand what a boyga is, one must appreciate that it can only be defined by itself. It is not subsumed under any wider ki more familiar classification. In fact, it’s far easier to describe what a boyga DOES than what a boyga IS. A boyga consumes ki destroys. It does so without discrimination. If a boyga is loose in your environment, you will know it, because things will be found broken. Not just material objects, like clocks, or video cassette recorders, or bathroom sinks, but other more intangible things as well. Relationships, memories, all of that which brings us psychological comfort ki joy will begin to fall unexplainably apart. If you suspect there is a boyga in your home, school or workspace, the sure sign of its presence will be random piles of discarded peanut shells. Boygas subsist on a diet of other peoples’ happiness, ki also their peanuts. It is with this knowledge alone that a boyga can be caught. No matter how hard you look, you will not find a boyga unless you set out a pile of peanuts as a lure. Then, when the boyga inevitably approaches to eat them, you must pounce upon it at once, seize its arms, ki as quickly as possible secure it in a manner that would make escape very difficult, if not impossible. I have my boyga blindfolded ki bound tightly with ropes around both its neck ki abdomen to one of the posts of my nerd fort, with knots positioned smartly out of its reach. In this manner, a boyga can be secured in captivity for years at a time, to be released only in the event that the nerd fort itself is on the brink of destruction at the hands of an enemy force.

So there you have it. The science of nerd forts. Architecture, camouflage, shrine, central intelligence, ki defense. There is one feature of the nerd fort I have not yet described, an aspect that isn’t really of necessity, but which is a commonplace element you will no doubt come to experience if you happen to build a nerd fort for yourself. One finds that, while nerd forts aren’t for everyone, many are fascinated by them ki will take it upon themselves to contribute to their décor. These contributions should be understood as offerings to the nerd fort, signs of respect for the highly misunderstood master nerd. In my case, for example, there have been offerings made of Futurama fan art. While I don’t watch the show myself, I’m happy to accept these contributions… especially the painting of a scantily-clad cyclops woman. Also, the lighting in my nerd fort is provided by two donated lamps: one a black, fishnet-stocking leg in high heels, reminiscent of The Christmas Story; the other a classic plasma ball. Without these offerings, the only light in my nerd fort would be that which radiates from my computer monitor. Ki this brings me to a final observation. Nerd forts do not exist in a vacuum. While they may be geniusly constructed ki inhabited by the nerd, without the social support of a nerd-loving community, they would not exist. So if you are a nerd, ki you happen to have a nerd fort, don’t forget to acknowledge those around you whose reciprocal respect for your vision makes nerd-dom possible.

Naatowoksisskomm

lllll ) lllllllllllllllll Naatowoksisskomm…

Almost a complete moon cycle passes since my last journal entry. I’m stuck indoors, ki there seems little worth writing about. All of it just a blur of preparatory work for the upcoming academic semester. The heat has been brutal. But matonni, just before the winds blew a cool storm system in from saatoohtsi, I noticed that omiksi mai’stoiksi were starting to flock together… there were, as they say, “murders” of them on my way to the office. Was it a signal for the impending storm, or an indicator of a change in seasons? One thing is clear, my count of ki’sommiksi for niipo is off. At the transition from sstoyii, matsiyikkapisaiki’somm ki aapistsisskitsaato’s were one ki the same. Where I thought matsiyikkapisaiki’somm was going to be, as the last ki’somm of sstoyii, I am tentatively thinking it was saommitsiki’somm, because of how deceptive it was, for both myself ki the aapsspinniiksi who lost so many eggs to the flash blizzards. Annohk, I thought the present ki’somm would be pakkii’pistsi otsitai’tssp, but it’s really not. Actually, this could be okonokistsi otsitsi’tssp, because although they started to ripen in the last moon cycle, most really came into readiness at the beginning of the present cycle. The pakkii’pistsi are not there yet… but they’re on the way. So, nitaanistaitsihtaa that annohk we are in okonokistsi otsitsi’tssp, ki I don’t really know how the last cycle should be referenced. I need to do some research.

Since my last journal entry, I have only two exciting experiences to report. One occurred while practicing naatowopii, immersed in aohkii as usual. I was focusing my awareness on Cygnus, or the Northern Cross – a constellation that is not presently recognized in niitsitapisskska’takssin, but which I believe may be related to omiksi ksikkomaahkaayiiksi who carried Pawaksskii across mo’toyaohkii. I had called to those naatoyiika’kato’siiksi, as well as others (sspommitapiiksi, ksaahkommitapiiksi, soyiitapiiksi), inviting them all to my session, announcing that I was in pursuit of istawa’pii ki kamota’pii, ki that afterward I would try to draw a representation of whatever they showed me. At that point, I began to feel that there were pitsiiksiinaiksi coiling around my ankles – a rattler on my right ki a garter on my left. My legs were immersed in the searing-hot aohkii, ki omiksi pitsiiksiinaiksi indicated that I had a choice to make, to receive something from one or the other. It seemed to me that the more agitated each of the pitsiiksiinaiksi grew, being under the steaming aohkii, the hotter each of my ankles became. I figured my selection would be made when one of the two gave up, running out of breath or becoming too hot… I would ask for a gift from whichever one remained. But after an extensive wait, neither of them quit. Both were able to bear it. I noticed, however, that my right ankle was hotter than my left. So I decided to select the cooler pitsiiksiinaa, the garter. It then told me that one of its protections was that it could hide underwater for long periods of time, waiting out any dangers above. It told me that I could make an anklet of its skin to wear on my left leg for that protection of avoiding trouble until whatever is pursuing me gives up. It also gave me a song. I got out of the aohkii right away ki recorded that song so I wouldn’t lose it. Then I went back into the aohkii ki again tried to concentrate my attention on omiksi ka’kato’siiksi. At that point, some imagery emerged from the darkness of my closed eyes… a ka’kato’si, radiating light in four directions, embedded in a matrix of what looked like a hexagonally-woven electric field. I saw this imagery briefly, ki then a sudden burst of energy - stylized, blue lightning in shapes reminiscent of those on our paintings of ksiistsikommiipi’ssi shooting from all directions toward ma ka’kato’si. These simultaneous flashes of lightning resounded in noistomi. It felt like I’d just been shot in the head with a massive bolt of electricity, accompanied by a sonic boom.. This was enough for me. I got back out of the aohkii, ki determined to respond by drawing these final visuals.

The other somewhat exciting experience that occurred since my last entry was a trip that ki’naksaapo’p ki niisto took to naatowoksisskomm, where we did a presentation on the challenges of trans-science communications between western ki indigenous systems. Our talk was well received, but hasn’t as yet produced any immediate invitations to attend other sessions, nor serious expressions of interest in trying to realize improved communications. We’ll have to see what ripple effects come down the road. However, the presentation itself was not at all the highlight of our trip. Rather, on the journey there, we drove through omiistsi miistakiistsi from the south, ki along this route encountered ma naatayo… the first I’ve ever seen outside of captivity. Ki’naksaapo’p pulled over on the side of the road, ki I was able to get close enough to take a few photographs before it fled to the woods. I followed it into the trees, missing a few great shots of it leaping silently through some small clearings, but then lost it completely. From there, we went to the Banff Centre, dropped our luggage off in our rooms, ki ate dinner. Then we went further west to Paint Potts ki gathered two pails full of a’saan. This was the first time ki’naksaapo’p had been to gather a’saan, ki he was quite overwhelmed with the site, ki the way the ochre welled-up from inside the earth, forming springs ki cauldrons. We determined to bring our students back there in the future, reintroducing this practice to our community. When we got home, after the presentation, each of us set to work cooking the pail we’d collected. Mine took almost eight hours to bake through, producing about four bread-pans full of maohki’saan.

The Lost Ruins Of Ninaistako

llll ) lllllllllllllllllllllllll The Lost Ruins Of Ninaistako…

Akainaa lives on the hilltop above One Spot ki Dipping Vat Coulees. From his kitchen window, we look out over most of kainaissksaahoyi, eating our boiled eggs with bacon, ki sipping on strong niita’paisiksikimi. The dawn light is just settling upon omiistsi miistakiistsi, ki from our vantage point we can see hundreds of miles of their expanse. Ninaistako seems just a stone’s throw away. High up the valley of its southern flank there is said to be a small compound, the ruins of a misplaced pueblo constructed a few hundred years ago by people from far to the south. They came here to escape Spanish conquest. Akainaa remembers hearing the story from his grandfather, of the strange intruders who rode ponokaomitaiksi, elk-dogs, the first horses any niitsitapii had ever seen, ki of how their small settlement was easily routed both by exposure to the unexpectedly harsh winters ki by the raids of those more familiar with this land, who wanted ponokaomitaiksi for themselves.

It’s hard to say how many generations may have passed since these ruins were last visited. No one alive today has seen them, ki many would dismiss the story outright, having never heard it from their own grandparents. This history may have been forgotten altogether were it not for the technology of satellite imagery, which I first encountered almost twenty years ago in Army intelligence, now available to any household with an internet connection. The ruins were one of the first things akainaa searched for when Google Earth came online. Scanning high up in the valley south of ninaistako, an image came forth of a clearing in the forest, surrounding a pool of spring water. In the northeast quadrant of this clearing, lines suggestive of man-made structures were clearly visible. One of our elders, Makoyiipokaa, noticed something more. “It’s omahkitapii,” he told us, “Bigfoot. That water is his mouth. That dark spot is his eyes. You go up there, you be sure to leave an offering.” Planning for an expedition began.

We finish our eggs ki bacon, akainaa ki niisto, ki load up in my little truck for the drive across the border ki up to the base camp east of ninaistako. Each of us would carry the minimal gear necessary for our overnight hike. In my pack there is a sleeping bag, self-inflating mat, small tarp, parachute line, two canteens, a mess kit, freeze-dried food ki Power Bars, a little fishing kit, waterproof matches, a flashlight, change of clothes, light parka, machete, ki my camera. It didn’t seem like much, but as we sling our packs over our shoulders at base camp ki begin the ascent toward ninaistako ki the long ridge beyond, I realize the extra weight will take some getting used to. It’s been years since I’ve undertaken a hike like this.

The first half of our day is invigorating. The mountain foliage is so vivid, gorged with life, ki there is a spectacular view from our alpine heights. Just below us is the wooded rise where Charcoal hid-out from the mounted police, ki far off in the distance the porcupine hills that he would ride to on horseback during overnight flights that our best riders today would be hard-pressed to duplicate. We can see akainaa’s winter camp in the timber limits, ki the reservoirs for both the Waterton ki St. Mary’s Rivers, Duck Lake, ki all of kainaissksaahkoyi.

A cool breeze whisks away our sweat when we stop to rest, which we do frequently, having all day to trek the twenty or so miles up the valley to our site. Each break allows us an opportunity for reflection, noting the grandeur of the land we inhabit, our gratitude for having gained employment that allows us opportunities to stay connected to such places, ki regret that so few of our friends ki relatives take similar advantage of the unique opportunities available to us. Already, we are planning future expeditions for our students, tossing around curriculum ideas about stories ki practices we might be able to share with them in week-long sojourns along this route. Akainaa diligently photographs of some of the plants that could be introduced as part of an ethnobotanic component of these sessions. At one point, just on the north side of ninaistako, we walk up on a small number bighorn sheep. They are young bucks, feeding, ki don’t seem to mind our presence among them. Other than this, the only wildlife we encounter are small birds, ki the occasional marmot basking in the rocks.

There are lessons all around us… stories of ninaistako itself, from the ancient time when naapii ki the animals gathered on its peak to escape the floods, to its history as iitaitsiiyiiso’p, a site for vision questing. Indeed, as we round the north side of the mountain, we pass dozens of colourful offerings tied in the trees, ki numerous stone beds where people have fasted ki slept in search of spiritual guidance. Away on the south face of ninaistako, we know, is the cave-home of ksiistsikomiipi’kssi, the thunderbird who once stole a human woman ki hid her in boughs of katoyiss. Ki it was to this location that aapai’stoo, the white raven, from his home on Crowsnest Mountain, sent two mai’stoiksi to battle ksiistsikomm in an event that would define the seasons of kitawahsinnoon ki bring about the first transfer of ninnaimsskaahkoyinnimaan.

Rarely do we have a defined trail to follow. These miistakiistsi, as beautiful as they may be, are unforgiving. Navigating through them, one is at all times either balancing over boulders, trudging along shifting slopes of shale scree, or pushing through stabbing forests of deadwood undergrowth. By the time we near our destination, the miles of precarious footwork have taken their toll. My legs are fairly played-out, ki I continue to stagger forward by momentum alone… like a toddler learning to take its first steps, or a boxer near to collapse. The willpower is there to continue, but the muscles are barely keeping me upright. I figure akainaa is feeling similarly fatigued, because he stumbles more ki more often as we push along. Still, he seems to be doing better than me.

When finally we reach the tree-line above our destination, we split-up to enter the forest in search of the clearing. After a couple of false identifications of smaller clearnings, is akainaa who finds the one we’ve sought, an alpine lakebed, dried with exception of a small spring pool. The clearing is full of grey ki white shale, but no rock walls, no ruins remain where they appeared to be on the satellite imagery. For a moment, we wonder whether it is the right clearing at all. Maybe we needed to search further in. We decide to ditch our packs at this likely location, ki split-up once more, trekking out in opposite directions to confirm that there are no similar clearings in the vicinity. Akainaa heads further up the valley, knowing from our Google map that there is a creek not too far away, ki that if he reaches it he’s gone too far. I move down toward the valley floor, following the dry route of the run-off that would drain away from the lakebed to feed the headwaters of a niitahtaa. Both of us go as far as our respective water sources, finding nothing that would suggest our identification of the clearing was off-base. Reuniting at the lakebed, we compare what we are seeing with the images we’d downloaded from Google Earth. The shape ki dimensions of the clearing are a match in every respect, but for the absence of the walls. Had they been toppled to create the shale rubble that remained? Had it been simply a glitch in the imagery, an odd pixilation causing us to see structure where there was none?

We didn’t have any more time to worry about it. Naato’si had already descended from visibility in the west, ki we would not have light available much longer. We set up our camp on a grassy bank beside the spring, where there is a mud-flat wide enough that we could make a sizeable fire without concern for the integrity of the surrounding forests. We gather wood ki water, start our fire, ki cook a pot of mixed bison chilli ki beef stew. By nightfall, we lay our sleeping-bags out on the grass. I use my inflatable mat, ki akainaa the green boughs of katoyiss. All around our camp are game trails leading to the spring… deer, ponokaiksi, kiaayoiksi. We drink a couple pots of tea ki mark our territory in a circle around the camp. Akainaa sets out dry branches on the trails leading to our sleeping area, so that we will be alerted in the night by anything coming our way. In our final hour by the firelight, akainaa beats time with a stick ki sings some of the old-time songs he knows, commenting between each round about how few young people bother to learn to sing these days. Knowing only the naatoyinihkssiistsi for nitomopistaan, I regret that I don’t have anything to contribute.

Neither of us sleeps well. We’re warm enough, to be sure. But the tea we’d drunk in the evening keeps us hopping in ki out of bed all night, ki the nearly-full face of ko’komiki’somm casts our clearing in a dim, wakeful light. I’m first out of the sack at dawn, but find myself in considerable pain. The stress on my lower back after my legs had played out the day before caused my muscles to seize-up overnight. It takes a while before I’m able to stand up straight ki begin moving around, gathering more wood to feed the morning fire. The way my back feels, I would like to make the decision then ki there to stay put another night in that clearing, let my muscles settle down, ki trek out when I feel better again. But the plan had been just to overnight it, ki I know that if I don’t report in by evening, piipiiaakii will likely have search ki rescue coming up the valley for us by next morning. No rest for the crippled. We’ll have to march out right away.

It isn’t long before akainaa crawls out of the sack, grinning from ear to ear when he sees how stiff I am, seventeen years his junior. We cook up a can of corned-beef for breakfast, ki wash it down with instant coffee. All the while, I’m hoping my back will loosen up before we finish eating, but it doesn’t. Just before hitting the trail, we decide to take one last scan around the surrounding forest, to see if we can find any signs of the ruins we’ve come so far in search of. We figure the best place to look will be in the highlands just east of the clearing. It’s an area that would be relatively safe from flooding, as well as clear from rock falls coming off the surrounding miistakiistsi. Sure enough, we only just breach the treeline when we come upon a wall of rock about four feet high, grown over with moss, grass, ki katoyiistsi. Akainaa pulls back some moss ki earth to expose a wall made partially with bedrock, raised higher by tightly fitted stones. This wall runs about ten yards eastward, then takes a ninety-degree turn to the south, where it seems to form a chamber of roughly ten by fifteen meters that’s clear of trees. From this position, similar walls can be seen in the immediate area.

We may have found what we came looking for after all. Unfortunately, I’m in too much pain to really enjoy it, ki maintain instead a concern that we’ll need to start walking soon in order to make it back out of the valley before nightfall. We take a number of pictures of the chamber we’ve found, ki of the one rock wall akainaa exposed, then set off downhill, following the dry gully that I’d walked the previous evening. Where this gully meets with the narrow niitahtaa that courses down the valley, we encounter an odd stone cairn, about three feet high ki eight meters long, constructed with round cobbles rather than the jagged mountain rock that’s so much more prolific in the area. This will be another site we’ll have to return to in a future visit. Perhaps, we speculate, it holds the remains of those who lived in the ruined settlement.

Our plan for the day is to follow game trails alongside anni niitahtaa as it moves down the valley, ki to either cut up the south slope under ninaistako to base camp, or just continue following the valley out to the highway, where we can catch a ride back to our vehicle. We’re tired of stumbling along rocky slopes, ki believe the riverside route might be more forgiving. We’re wrong.

From morning to mid-day, we push ki shove ki crawl our way through the dense deadwood underbrush. Each time we think we’ve found a good trail, it leads us only to more obstacles. At one point, we come to a cliff that stretches from one side of the valley to the other. Our only option is to find a smaller drop from which to lower first our packs ki then ourselves down with ropes. It’s a brutal journey, punctuated by the beauty of waterfalls ki alpine meadows that simply can’t be enjoyed any other way.

What began as an intellectual mission only a day before quickly transforms today into a kind of passage through the re-discovery of our own bodies, both their strengths ki limitations. Ki we begin to discuss how this encounter with koistominnoonistsi comprises another form of “learning from place” that our students desperately need exposure to. Had akainaa ki niisto not carried with us each a background of prior experience in successfully negotiating various outdoor ordeals, it is likely we would underestimate our true abilities. In other words, we would not have the confidence to know that, despite whatever barriers we might encounter, we could walk out of there.

We’d both seen it before. In fact, just a couple years ago I’d brought three students out to climb ninaistako, young men, two of whom were in far better physical shape than myself. All three gave up at various points of the ascent, leaving only myself to place the offering we’d brought on top of the mountain. These students quit not out of respect for ninaistako itself, as aitapissko, a place with a strong spiritual presence… which I might have appreciated. Rather, they seemed to succumb to a mixture of fatigue ki its associated fear. Now, it’s true that there are real dangers in climbing miistakiistsi, in hiking ki camping the backcountry, in negotiating along or across certain waters, etc. A wrong move in any of these contexts might bring swift ki traumatic injury, or worse. Ki some would argue, for instance, that my students, in turning back, perceived their personal limitations ki wisely elected to quit prematurely rather than subject themselves to potential bodily harm. But on the other hand, there are situations we all encounter in life, often at unexpected or inopportune moments, where our survivability is tested. It is at these moments when a habit of retreat or avoidance can prove every bit as deadly. Ironically, the only way to ensure that one will be meet a life or death challenge with composure ki confidence is to occasionally hazard this darkness in training.

Akainaa ki niisto both agree that our students would benefit from the cultivation self-assured knowledge that comes through time spent in the isolation of our local backcountry. Here, a day or two of walking can carry one far beyond the range of cell phone towers, into a region so vast ki unpopulated that the possibility of swift rescue is very slim indeed. Here, the sublime beauty of nature can – as quick as a heartbeat – be morphed psychologically into a nightmarish landscape of predators ki impossible obstacles. In the past, our young men were all ritually compelled to face this darkness through the practice of aitsiiyiiso’p, a minimal four-night isolation of fasting ki thirsting in places far removed from other human beings… sites known, rather, to be frequented by both wildlife ki ghosts. Ki it was through their experiences in these places that they would acquire the gifts that might help them successfully negotiate the kinds of life ki death trials that can befall any of us in the perceived safety of our everyday lives. Moreover, the self-assured confidence gained through passage of these ritualized ordeals is beneficial for the whole of our community in a variety of mundane ways. We always need the leadership of those for whom phrases like “I can’t” or “we have to be realistic” are less familiar. While the compulsive exercise of aitsiiyiiso’p itself might not be popularly received in the context of our formal education system – it being retained today in the community as a “personal choice”, i.e. matter of religious preference – we could conceivably put it out there as an option, ki otherwise skirt nearer the experience by hosting week-long sojourns into the backcountry with a minimal number of students in various seasons.

Conversing about these ideas as we fight our way down the valley, akainaa ki niisto eventually reach the upper lake, ki there find a trail maintained by Glacier Park that makes our hike for the remainder of the day considerably less treacherous. Still, my back muscles are seizing. My feet are damp with sweat, swollen, ki aching. My eyes sting from sweat. For some hours as we move along the upper lake, then the lower lake, then along the trail beyond, we’re in what akainaa aptly calls “survival mode”. All we know is that we have to keep moving, despite what our bodies desire. Each time we sit down for a breather, there’s a real danger that we’ll pass-out on the trailside ki not wake up again until late in the evening. It’s a lucky thing that we’re both in decent shape, ki well-accustomed to pushing through such exhaustion. It’s hard to imagine anyone else we work with being able to withstand such an ordeal. Ki if we had gone out in a party of three or four, instead of just the two of us, it’s unlikely we would have been able to make it in ki out in two days.

It had been a mistake not to plan for a longer excursion. We could have used an extra day at the site of the ruins. Ki there were other things we’d hoped to accomplish along the route, in terms of collecting plant photographs ki samples for our ethnobotany curriculum, as well as roots ki other items useful to ceremony. We do take some photographs… but there is a lot more we could achieve if we had just a day or two more to work with. All the same, the expedition has not in any sense been a failure. We’ve located the ruins that were the primary objective of this exercise. Moreover, though, we’re able to renew a knowledge about ourselves that neither of us has visited for awhile. We realize that the hardships of simple movement through rugged territory brings about its own lessons ki rewards, extremely beneficial for personal ki community development. Ki as we hike along the final stretch, a dirt road that winds out of the forest ki through a cattle pasture, we’re already envisioning our return… the possibility of spending more time at the ruins, ki of testing a curriculum of hunting, fishing, gathering, construction of survival shelters, ki other traditional practices. This, we figure, we must ensure to accomplish before the fall weather sets in.

It’s a tremendous relief when we finally catch site of the highway, ki its slow but steady tourist traffic running between Babb ki Waterton. Akainaa catches a signal with his cell phone ki calls opiitaam, Tamara, to come pick us up at roadside. We lay there, in the shadows of trees, dozing off ki gazing at passing cars, until she arrives. Then, after picking up my little truck again, the three of us travel down to St. Mary’s for dinner. The food is good, but I don’t enjoy it. Something about the log cabin we’re sitting in makes me feel claustrophobic. I think it’s the stale air. Already, I miss being outside ki exposed. Driving home, I put all my windows down to invite the wind.

Of Memory Repression

llll ( lllllllllll Of Memory Repression…

A strange thing happened while we were visiting niksisst in the Valley Willamma. We were sitting out on her front deck one evening, sipping siksikimi with brandy, just chatting. Somehow we began discussing sta’aoiksi, a topic that is not at all unusual in conversation with niksisst, who has encountered many in her lifetime. Most recently, she had been hearing the pitter-patter of ferret feet on her wood floors, visitations from her friend pookaa who passed-on during misamsootaa. In fact, the first evening we arrived at ookoowa, I heard them too, ki knew exactly what the sound was, but decided to keep it to myself so as not to remind niksisst of her loss.

In any case, we’re talking about sta’aoiksi, ki piipiiaakii pitches me a lead by saying, “Ryan had an experience recently….” I smiled, trying to recall what she might be referring to, hoping that she’d continue in my stead. She did, but merely with another clue meant to trigger my memory. Aaniiwa, “It almost caused us to drive off the road.” Yes, I thought, there was something like this that happened recently. Only I couldn’t quite remember what it was. There was an awkward silence, as the aakiiksi waited for me to tell the story. When it became clear that I wasn’t going to speak, that I’d perhaps somehow forgotten, piipiiaakii pushed onward. “We were driving down University Boulevard at night, just over by our house. All the sudden Ryan jerked the wheel to one side. He said he’d seen a man run angrily from the sidewalk toward the driver-side window, then disappear.”

It was true. I remembered. There had been a night when we’d driven down University Boulevard, although for what purpose I haven’t a clue. And there had been a man who ran at my window. Once he disappeared, I recall having considered to myself that the man might be the sta’ao of someone who had died on that ridge in the famous battle between niitsitapikoaiksi ki sinaikoaiksi in 1870. Although his exact appearance was vague to me then ki now, I sensed that he was akaitapiwa. The whole incident happened very quickly, we moved on down the road, ki apparently I brushed it off.

Now, one would think that something like this – seeing a sta’ao - would leave a lasting impression. But that’s what I find so odd. Why had I forgotten about the incident? Why is it that I still can’t recall what we were doing, where we were going down University Boulevard that evening. It wasn’t very long ago, just a matter of weeks. In a way, this whole thing reminds me of experiences typical of many paapao’kaanistsi. I wake up, often not remembering what I’ve just dreamed. I go on with my morning ki something might trigger me to recall certain aspects. Yet there are always other aspects of the same paapao’kaanistsi I can never retrieve. Although I do use some memory techniques to capture what I can, there’s an extent to which I’ve become accustomed to this amnesia with my sleep life. Sometimes even the most interesting paapao’kaanistsi can lose clarity or evaporate completely upon waking. But I’ve never had this happen to me in just such a way when I was conscious. What does this mean? Ki the fact that I could gain recall again, but only once someone else relayed the experience back to me. Would this suggest that our paapao’kaanistsi are similarly retained, but that we just can’t access them because there’s nobody else, no witnesses, to offer us the keys?

Willamma Niitahtaa

llll ) llllll Willamma Niitahtaa…

Tsitapoohpinnaan saatoohtsi. Piipiiaakii, ohkomaakii, ki niisto. Traveling the familiar mohsokoyi in a rental car. Past the white blooming beargrass of miistakiistsi. Along the west shores of kootainai omahksikimi. Down through hills ki valleys, following the silver niitahtaa where we once saw a bald eagle catch an enormous trout. Past earthy, desert whirlwinds to the gorge of the Columbia, ever more green as we approach its spillway. Ki finally, up the Valley Willamma to niksisst ookoowa, her modest little place beneath the Chemawa water-tower.

It has become ritualistic, my visits here, returning in sequence to certain sites of youth’s memory. Surveying transformations that found shape in my absence. Absorbing all of the familiar ki comforting textures of sound ki smell. The air is thicker here than I remember, the wooded hillsides dim beneath a mask of blue haze. All is much damper. The sidewalks feel almost spongy beneath my bare feet.

In the dawn, I drive past the home that my parents lost in their recent separation. It bears new paint, mocha. The rocks ki ferns that line the drive are still in their old order, as is the lawn I used to tread. Last summer, my return to this place was painful, throat-tightening, grieving. Now this sensation is gone altogether. Whatever part of me was connected there is no longer.

I move on, across the trestle, over the ancient lakebed toward omahksiistsisa, the elderly pacific madrone that captivated so much of my attention. Around its base are the fields I walked, in the shade of old-growth forests now so thinned. This is where I used to speak to ayinnimaa, pleading for guidance, following her call ki flight to locate my own understandings, my own spirituality. Here I’m reminded of how all things change. Omahksiistsisa is dead, standing but shrivelled as a corpse. The ayinnimaa I’d known is gone, succeeded by her off-spring, who greet me soundly. I follow this child of ayinnimaa to the old fir tree, to the same tunnel through the forest that I was shown last year, emerging in a meadow beside the single okonoki bush, its berries just ripened. This brief journey is a mirror of my life path, a reflection of where it has taken me today. It’s magical. Ki when I taste of the berries, I’m assured once more that the presence of omahksiistsisa ki ayinnimaa remain with me, as shadows who have merged into a new form on my trail. Their present shape, I’m soon to appreciate, has been realized in paahtsiiksistsikomm.

The connection, the linkage, the union of omahksiistsisa ki ayinnimaa in the body of paahtsiiksistsikomm becomes conscious for me the following morning, as I sit in a clump of short but pungent mint, beside an oxbow of the Willamma niitahtaa. Bullfrogs groan their throatys songs all around me, orange-colored deer retreat quietly into the brush. The fish I used to catch here splash on the surface of otherwise still waters, one after another. But I am not the only one who watches them. Above, circling in wide arches that encompass both the slough ki mi niitahtaa, are paahtsiiksistsikommiksi. I count at least three, perhaps four of them, gliding silently on the wind. My presence does not bother them. They dive repeatedly into the waters before me, each time coming up with talons empty. Why are they missing their mark, such stealthy birds? What are they trying to tell me?

There is something happening between nottaka ki paahtsiiksistsikomm. This was apparent from nimaanipaapao’kaan, the aggrieved young man leaving me to become allied to this powerful bird, its brilliant white paint across its forehead. Ki its identification as paahtsiiksistsikomm was something clarified in my recent visit to omahkaatoyiikimi, as it soared back ki forth past my position on the shore. But annohk, on the banks of the Willamma, further possibilities begin to dance in my thoughts, drawing an association to a much earlier paapao’kaan, from the first years of my marriage to piipiiaakii… when I encountered ayinnimaa sitting on a low, bowed branch of omahksiistsisa. She was silver, metallic, looking over her shoulder, her back to me. She spread her tailfeathers in a fan ki told me, not with words but with telepathic clarity, that I should pluck one ki give it to nitana. When I took the tailfeather out, it transformed in my hand, becoming again the familiar orange ki red-striped feather she’d given me years before, in my youth, ki which I still carried. After waking from this paapao’kaan, I had sought interpretation from mi’ksskimm, who read it as a gift offered by ksiistsikommiipi’kssii, the transference of misamipaitapiiyssin to ohkomaakii, that she might live similarly long as that ancient tree. Ki so I gave her my feather, ki she carries it still today. Mi’ksskimm may have been right about the gift being offered, but perhaps not so much the benefactor. Even the name paahtsiiksistsikomm speaks to this, the one who is mistaken for thunder.

It’s a mystery why some things are not better understood until years later or, in this case, nearly a decade. But unlike so many past coalescence experiences of this sort, the sudden recognition of nipaapao’kaan having foretold a mergence of omahksiistsisa ki ayinnimaa in the form of paahtsiiksistsikomm did not at all bring clarification to my understanding. Rather, it left me even more scattered, full of unresolved questions. Ki foremost of these, what was it that - like paahtsiiksistsikomm with the fish - I was failing to catch?

Normally, I might be bothered by such loose ends, dangling out of reach. But this occasion feels different. There’s potential here, promise. Renewal. Throughout the remainder of my visit in the Valley Willamma, ki at all of the places where I sought remembrance – from the cascading waterfalls deep in the rainforests, to the tide pool shores of the Pacific, along the stream overhung with exposed roots where my grandfathers’ remains were laid to rest, ki at every stage of our return route to kitawahsinnoon – paahtsiiksistsikomm was there. For me, these encounters indicate that I have successfully passed through an era of spiritual growth, ki have now emerged from the dark mouth of this tunnel, into the meadow. Okonokiistsi growing from the earth beside me. Paahtsiiksistsikomm soaring above. That I do not know what this really means or where the journey will take me next is only natural, but I’ve developed the patience ki awareness now to thoroughly enjoy whatever may be in store.

Ai'tamaaksikkohpi'wa Naapioyis

llll ) llllllllllllllllll Ai'tamaaksikkohpi'wa Naapioyis…

I just returned home from meetings aapatohsoohtsi when nitohtsipaapao’kaa a request for niisto ki ki’naksaapo’p to travel saatoohtsi, to aid a family living high above a glacier-fed niitahtaa. It is an aakii who asks us to journey there, following a winding, wooded route we are assumed to already know. As we meander through the miistakiistsi, I observe our vehicle from above, as if I'm gliding somewhere in the skies. When I find myself in noistomi again, we have arrived at a house precariously nested into the steep slopes of a canyon. We enter, accompanied by a host that I cannot remember clearly. Ki as I look out bay windows, omi naapioyis begins to roll laterally, detaching ki finding renewed anchor on the cliffside. Again ki again it turns, tearing one corner loose from the rock, pivoting, ki crashing back to land, threatening to spill eventually into the clear ribbon of aohkii streaming far below. Somehow, I feel that this is as much nookoowa as it is that of the family we’ve been called to visit. Annimayi iksista’pii.

Nitsipookaki feeling scattered, confused. The events of nipaapao’kaan seemed at once familiar ki distant, purposeful yet random. Perhaps, I thought, it was speaking to the inattentiveness of my daily life of late. After the profound clarities experienced during aapistsisskitsaato’s, the light of the present ki’somm seems far more dim, broken by cloud-cover, beaming to the surface of nottaka only in disparate patches....

A few sleeps earlier, nitsitaapatoohpinnaan omi omahkoyis, where we had planned a meeting with asinaikoaiksi to explore a dialog on shared ki contested aitapisskoistsi. In the morning hours, we visited mi’kkakato’si at the Royal Albert Museum. It had once resided on a hilltop adjacent to that of the Viking ribstone. When the evangelical movement reached kitawahsinnoon, it was Reverend McDougal who thought he might take advantage of our relationship to mi’kkakato’si by stealing it into his church, ki thereby attracting potential converts. The ploy didn’t work. Soon mi’kkakato’si began to move around in the naapiikoan world, eventually landing at the Royal Albert, where it now greets visitors to the First Nations exhibit.

About a dozen of us assembled in the museum that morning, sitting in two rows of chairs set up in front of the meteorite. We asked a kippitaisinaakii to greet mi’kkakato’si on our behalf, ki then called upon the elders, one by one, to testify as to their knowledge of our shared relationship to it. Nitawa’tstoohp most of what was shared. I was too distracted by the unfortunate context. Iiksiiyiko, visiting aitapissko in a museum. Tourists milling about. Announcements blaring over the intercom, “Come visit our newest exhibit. Find out if you’ve got what it takes to be a dragonologist.” How can one expect to dialog in this kind of context? Museums, classrooms, interpretive centres… to me, none of these even approximate a learning environment. All assume a passive audience to knowledge. It wasn’t until Vince Steinhaur picked up his drum, kneeled beside mi’kkakato’si, ki sang one of its songs, that I finally felt as though we had connected. Afterward, Vince would tell me, at the beginning of his song the meteorite was pleading with him, “Get me out of here. Take me home.” But in the second half of the song, its message changed. Aaniiwa, “Don’t worry about me. I’m a rock. I will remain a rock long after this building ki this strange way of life are gone.” Nitomai’tsihp what Vince heard mi ikskanaotonni was so important. Iiksskonata’pii, the gift that mi’kkakato’si extended to us. Patience.

When we left the museum, it was to drive a short distance west of the city, to a place now called Lac Ste. Anne. Omahkaatoyiikimi. There, we assembled at a place that shared qualities with mi’kkakato’si, both in that there is said to be a twin meteorite beneath the waters there, ki in that the site itself was also co-opted by the oblates in an attempt to lure niitsitapi converts into their church. Annohk ksiistsikoyi, every summer, it is host to a massive gathering of the devout, who travel there on pilgrimage to enter the aohkii for purification ki healing. Our group walked down to the lake’s edge ki sat together to share stories of the place. As a non-Christian savage, it was my first time there. I sat quietly, listening. Just off-shore, a massive school of minnows rolled like a cloud. I’d never seen anything like it, ki wondered if this was not the camouflaged body of a soyiitapi coming to greet us. Above, passing closely on occasion, flew paahtsiiksistsikomm, her paint just like that of the curious ayinnimaa nitsipapainoaa. Was it exactly the same? Although developed around nearly the entire perimeter, I could imagine the lake’s appearance in the past. Quiet, wooded, its shallow waters often clear ki still. Each time I looked directly into it, the aohkii seemed to rise, beaconing. Others must have felt this too, because when it was decided that we should depart nearly all of us removed our shoes ki socks, hiked-up our pant-legs, ki walked out into the lake. It was strangely warm, ki so shallow that I was able to go quite a distance from shore ki still not immerse above my knees. Each of us carried pisstaahkaan, ki used this as an offering, extending aatsimoyihkaan to omahkaatoyiikimi, soyiitapiiksi, ki all akaitapii who had travelled there in the past, ki whose shadows return still today.

That night in my hotel room, nitaatowopii. An interesting, sprocket-designed crop circle had emerged in a field near Barbury Castle, in England. Ordinarily, I have no use for contemplating such things. The crop circle phenomenon has nothing to do with kippaitapiiyssinnoon, ki the messages – if that is what they are – do not come from kitawahsinnoon. They are not meant for me. Yet this particular circle was interesting, ki one of the groups that I discuss spiritual practices with was asked to consider it. The sprocket design, emanating sunwise from a central circle, was clearly coded to reflect the mathematical sequence of Pi, carried out to ten digits. We’ve seen formations ki images that apply similar sprocketed configurations, but never has it been so clear that information in these circles may be coded. Early speculation suggested that the Barbury circle might offer a key for reading other designs. My curiosity was teased.

I began the session by extending an awarness of noistomi outward onto its reflection in nottaka, ki then morphing the latter into the form of mai’stoo. Ki annimayi I flew, singing, aamitoohts… crossing miistakiistsi, ami’tsssokimi, then over land ki out to the islands of Britain, looking for a circle near a castle. When I eventually found it, I landed in its center, shuffling my feathers briefly, then cocking an ear to listen for its voice. My immediate sense was that, no matter the physical mechanics of its emergence, the design had been inspired by something that was very deeply a part of that place. I tried to connect with its spirit… nothing… nothing. Then suddenly a barrage of clarity. Intrinsic to the design are at least three widely-recognized features – the circle itself, the mathematics of Pi, ki a coiled serpent. All three index a quality we refer to as the infinite or immeasurable. It is the relationship between surface meaning ki the depths of what lies inside. The message at Barbury was indeed a key for a greater reading of other phenomena, but not in the sense of an abstract language, a set of symbols that human beings have created to represent the measurable. Rather, what this design intended was to bring us toward an appreciation for that which cannot be coded, that which must be engaged as a living being, in all its complexity.

This realization, for me, was enough. Despite the sensation that there was more to hear, I was ready to return home. Still in the form of mai’stoo, I spread my wings ki tried to lift. But I couldn’t move. Not vertically anyway. I didn’t feel as though there was anything wrong with my body. There was something else disabling me. I started to get concerned. Why couldn’t I leave? This had never been part of my experiences before. The only thing I could think to do was to move around in whatever manner I still could, to walk. I followed the lines, expecting the order of Pi to play out, hoping that when I’d reached the end I could gain lift ki return to noistomi. But as I walked - in the fashion of mai'stoo, hopping along - it seemed as though the sequence of the design had changed. Instead of ten sprocket jumps, there were only four. Ki from what I could discern of their distance, they might be read as 3.191. I had no idea whether this number was of any significance. At the moment, I couldn’t care. All I wanted to do was leave, ki finally I was able to do so, although my flight felt sluggish, heavy.

A few nights later, I shared this experience with one of the members of my naatowopii discussion group, a man who has been practicing for more than forty years. He too made efforts to visit Barbury, ki came away with a similar impression, that the design is meant to “imprint us with a sort of music, as a way of helping us get started on the non-language, or hyper-linguistic journey.”

The night after my session, nitsokso’kaa. Ki the next morning, nitattaamsskapoo, stopping on the way at Penhold where a rancher I know was slaughtering three iinii. Free of charge, he let me take their hides ki heads, which piipiiaakii ki sipioo intend to tan. So, with a rear hold full of bloody cargo, I drove home to sikoohkotoki.

I did not stay long at nookoowa before again heading aapatohsoohts. In fact, just a single night. My next destination was Siksika, where I was to meet with a planning committee from FNAHEC, to help design a distance curriculum that could be brokered to local universities, introducing naapiikoaiksi to the First Nations public they will undoubtedly encounter during their stay in kitawahsinnoon. Omi kanoohsin was scheduled for two days at soyopaawahko. Miiksi asinaikoaiksi who had been at omahkoyis were there, ki together we worked toward our common ends. Most of the significant planning was conducted on the first day, when we arrived at the consensual agreement that what we needed first ki foremost was a curriculum that would immerse naapiikoan learners in a niitsitapi cosmological world. We would focus on akaitapiitsinikssiistsi, each of our communities selecting four or five of our most fundamental stories to share in a journey that would link key socio-spiritual values to the environment ki major land features. In the long run, we hope, the students of this course will no longer be able to travel anywhere in our territory without at least partially identifying with the land as we do.

After the meeting, I drove to omahksaahkohtopii, accompanied by aahsi’takiyaakii. Although we’ve not identified it, aahsi’takiyaakii ki niisto are conscious of some shared purpose in our lives. Beyond the fact that we are both involved in First Nations adult education, ki so naturally encounter one another at various work-related functions, there seems to be a deeper familiarity between us, one that compelled us to make quick alliance when we first met, a few winters past. It is not in the manner of romance, by any means. We’re both happily married. It’s something else. There was an immediate recognition, perhaps residual from the parallel paths of nottakaannaaniksi. Or maybe it’s that we are meant to manifest some future turn of events that we cannot possibly portend at present. In either case, there’s something to our peculiar relationship, ki so whenever there’s opportunity, we make an effort to visit, curious as to when the meaning of this sensation will reveal itself. On this occasion, we drove to omahksaahkohtopii, walked its circle, hiked down into the coulees below in search of iinisskimm. We talked a lot… I relating a few akaitapiitsinikssiistsi ki some of my work with naatowopii, aahsi’takiyaakii telling of her remembrance of experiences prior to choosing her parents ki entering oistomi. We passed a few hours in this manner, but the mystery between us remained hidden.

Returning to sikoohkotoki ki nookoowa, I felt extremely road weary, ki sadly disconnected from the seasonal happenings unfolding around kainaissksaahkoyi. I decided to take a much needed walk in omi kaawahkoistsi of naapisisahtaa. It was hot outside. The onions were already going to seed, ki ma’siksi were not far behind. It looks like it will be a good season for okonokiistsi, ki all the other miiniistsi as well. Miiksi kitsisomahkokataiksi were enjoying themselves nibbling on the fresh greens. I had meant to find somewhere to sit ki engage with my surroundings for a bit. But instead, I just walked.

That evening, immersed once more in aohkii, steaming at an almost unbearable heat, I extended my attention to nottaka, ki again adopted the form of mai’stoo. I wanted to revisit the Barbury circle, to learn if there was anything more I could hear from it, ki to face the frightening experience of whatever had disallowed my departure from there during my earlier visit. As mai’stoo, I sang my way there, landing again in the central circle, pecking the ground four times, introducing myself, then standing quietly. There was, almost immediately, an exchange through visuals, cloudy to the memory afterward. It was an inquiry. Why was I there? I tried to create images, to convey something of my purpose… that I was training, that I was attempting to develop my practice such that I would be prepared to help others when inevitably called upon. Everything went quiet. The presence seemed to withdraw. I stood there, feeling foreign. Then a rush of clarity, again in images. Aohkii. Unhindered, it comes together in the form of a sphere, like a raindrop. At it’s surface, strongly bound, one molecule to the next. But within, fluid. The many millions of constituents comprising one drop, all indistinguishable. Their cycle, like our own, like the crop design, begins in such a body… then courses, streaming along, connecting with others indivisibly along a shifting path. Each that comes in contact with the next binds in the same manner, with surface strength ki inner fluidity. Moving on, then pooling, pooling, pooling. First into larger collectives, then smaller as the surface continually dissipates, evaporating into nothing. Re-gathering at the center. Something in this cycle speaks to my life, my relationships with others.

I fly away, singing the songs of mai'stoo. Unlike the prior visit, it is no trouble at all to lift ki sway with the wind. As I cross the ocean, ki soar above the Americas, I begin to sense my entanglements with those below. All of the places I have stayed. All of the people I’ve known. Boston. New York. I don’t want to go home yet. Instead, I make my way over miistakiistsi again, ki waft down the Columbia River Gorge, then into the Valley Willamma. There’s someone I need to see, my brother. I sing to find ookoowa in the densely populated hills of West Salem. I land on the wooden deck of his back yard, pecking four times on its surface, ki hopping up to look inside the sliding-glass door. I can see into the living room. My sister-in-law sits on their couch, with both children beside her. My brother lays on the floor, watching television, distant. She loves him, this man who cannot commit. She’s waiting for him to love her back, but her hopes ebb considerably. My brother moves ki I begin pecking at the window, cawing four times. He notices me there, ki I look up at him with one eye cocked. Concentrating, I attempt to speak into his thoughts, to tell him to quit being blind, that nothing else matters so much as his little family, that all he has striven for is surface, that he must try to appreciate what is inside, in the love of his wife, the trust of his children. I speak this, without words, admonishingly, then fly.

Down the Willamma, up the Columbia, to the headwaters here in kitawahsinnoon. I’m hurrying back to noistomi. But wait. Something is familiar. Below, in the high canyons of miistakiistsi, a house nested on the cliffside. It is the same from nipaapao’kaan. Still teetering. Still rolling horizontally across the rock surface. As I circle it in curiosity, it changes my song. This house has its own dangerous music, which I give voice to, stuck in a repetitive, nonsense pattern. It occurs to me that mi naapioyis has some correlation with the lives of my relatives downriver, that it is a reference to them. It speaks to their threatened persistence, precariously clinging to canyon walls, ready at any moment to tumble. I’ve not been able to help them. There is something here I don’t understand.

Misamsootaa

llll ) lll Misamsootaa…

Back in sync, so far as miksi ki’sommiksi go. As ma kipitaakii waned into invisibility, annimayi misamsootaa iitsito’too. Annohk we are in the midst of its classic weather, piipiiaakii ki niisto at home in refuge. But the longer it’s sustained, the more strongly I feel the call to get outside ki experience all that’s going on, all I’m missing. This is the season that tends always to throw me off track. So much unfolding at once, I can’t seem to keep up. The rain deters us from continuing our early harvests. Keeping mostly indoors, I occupy myself with nita’po’takssin, a prolonged X-Files marathon (all twenty-four episodes of season three), ki continued practice in naatowopii. It’s the latter, of course, that’s most interesting.

One evening, early in saommitsiki’somm, nitaipi’kssaapi. It was one of my earlier experimentations with attempting naatowopii while immersed in aohkii, ki nottaka travelled downstream to omi sspopiikimi. There, my awareness was drawn to a certain dense clump of bullberry bushes, in the floodplain behind the main ksisskstakioyis. Ki nitainihp a peculiar ikitstakssin. It was different than any I’d ever seen before, constructed in a manner similar to what’s commonly called a “big offering”… but shrunk down in size. Its body was of red willow, draped with the spotted kerchief I’d been using to cover my eyes at the time. It had braids of sipatsimo for hair. Ki instead of the seven large black-tipped feathers radiating from its head, there were six delicate ki’naksaapo’pistsi. Behind omi ikitstakssin, in the brush, I sensed another presence. Something watching nottaka, making itself known, yet remaining hidden, invisible. My initial suspicion was that perhaps it was pokaitapii, ki when I later conferred with mi’ksskimmiisoka’simm about the experience, that was his intuition as well. It probably had something to do with the planting of naawahko’tsisi. Niiksi pokaitapii were showing me what kind of offering they wanted. So I determined to build it.

The red willows were easy enough to gather. I already had the kerchief ki sipatsimo. What I needed were mistsi ki’naksaapo’pistsi. At that point, I just happened to bump into piitaikihtsipiimi, who thoughtfully asked if I needed anything for nitomopistaan. I told him that I was looking for six ki’naksaapo’pistsi to make the ikitstakssin I’d seen, ki by that very afternoon he brought me not only what I’d requested, but also a piitaominn to use as a fan. I brought all of these materials home, ki there they sat… through the remainder of saommitsiki’somm, through aapistsisskitsaato’si, ki annohk into misamsootaa. My naawahko’tsisi seeds had already been put in the ground, ki hadn’t been growing very successfully. I thought it was time to quit procrastinating, to make amends with the pokaitapii ki give them what they’d asked for.

It took all of an evening to construct nitsikitstakssin. The following ikskanaotonni, nitsipanaipookaki ki brought it to the bullberry bushes, just as I’d seen. It had rained overnight, ki was still darkly overcast. All at sspopiikimi was quiet. Deep inside the brush, surrounded by great polypore mushrooms, I found a clear spot where a deer had slept, below a large mamia’tsikimioyiiyis. It looked right. I planted the post end of nitsikitstakssin there, took a picture (because it looked so nice), then spoke to the pokaitapii ki relinquished it to them. As I walked away, into the poplar forest ki back toward the truck, my sense was that the whole place pulsed with energy. It was not gratitude, this energy, but something more like recognition. They had communicated to nottaka, I had finally responded, ki they were letting me know that my gesture had been received, that the dialog might now continue.

A few sleeps after this experience, I prepared for travel to akaitapisskoistsi in the south. Aamsskaapiipiikanikoaiksi have been negotiating a reimbursement for the theft of their unceded waters. Rather than asking for money, which would likely take decades to negotiate, they’re hoping to hurry things along by requesting land titles currently held by the federal government. They hired an archaeological team from Arizona to help them prepare data for their legal case, ki are now beginning to survey areas they might want to recover. I was lucky enough to have been invited – along with ki’naksaapo’p, mi’ksskimmiisoka’simm, naamaahkohkommi, ki iniipotaa – to travel as an interlocutor with a group going to survey katoyiistsi ki sites along the headwaters of Sun River.

Before we left, I made this journey the subject of my evening naatowopii session. I posed the question, what might we encounter? Then I tried something new. I drew my attention first to noistomi, then cast it similarly toward nottaka, which I perceived as a kind of mirror image before me. Holding in this manner to both moistomistsi, I allowed my sense of connection to expand via aohkii throughout kitawahsinnon. Approaching the exercise in this way, I began to receive visuals. The first was of three niitoyiistsi, lined up beside each other. I could see that all were painted, but could not completely distinguish their designs. What I was able to perceive, however, was that the two outer niitoyiistsi had black-covered tops, while the one in the middle was a brilliant white. Then the visual shifted, ki I found myself looking down a grave. It seemed to be dug into the ground, ki rough wooden planks had been positioned as lining around the walls. There were at least two bodies in the grave, both dressed in buckskin. I couldn't discern their gender, nor if there were more than two of them. But it felt as though something wrong had occurred, perhaps a massacre, or a murder. These people were killed by an enemy who were now burying them. Then the visual shifted a third ki final time, ki I felt myself to be standing on the rim-rock of a deep canyon. There was something significant to be found there, seemingly just out of view behind some boulders by the cliff edge. I tried to move in that direction, to see what was there for me, but I couldn’t. I knew somehow that this was all I was going to be shown, ki so I contracted my awareness back to nottaka ki noistomi, abruptly ending the session.

Two sleeps passed before we began the actual survey. We started out from a hotel in Cut Bank ki drove east toward katoyiistsi. Along the way, iniipotaa directed us to stop at a site where he knew of a stone effigy. It was located on a flat, halfway down a ridge that overlooked a wide grassy valley. The effigy was comprised of a sizeable circle of stones, with lines radiating out to five small cairns at points around its perimeter. The place had been severely weathered ki disturbed. It was difficult to make out what all had been intended in its design. Nearby, in a saddle of the ridge, there was a large glacial erratic, likely an iinisskimm. Ki there were other momma’piistsi nearby… some quite wide. What most fascinated me, however, was an old grave overlooking the main effigy, obviously placed there for that reason. It appeared to have been a typical, early reserve-era death-house, a wooden crypt of sorts placed above ground. A forced compromise between Christian burials, ki the scaffold offerings of kippaitapiiyssinnoon. There were a few remaining remnants of wooden planks ki some human bones still scattered about. It was impossible to figure out, from what was left, how many people might have been set to rest there. My feeling was that there could have been more than one body in the death-house, as there often was, ki that probably some of the momma’piistsi were left with the dead as well. Certainly this place seemed related to what I had seen while practicing naatowopii. Ki given the sense I’d felt then, I speculated that this might have been the remains of a camp that had suffered a devastating bout of smallpox... that the momma’piistsi had been left with their dead, ki that subsequently the U.S. Army or some other government faction had continued to place deceased smallpox victims there.

Our next stop was piinaapohkatoyiss. Before we got there, I privately told mi’ksskimmiisoka’simm what I’d seen during naatowopii. When he heard about the three niitoyiistsi, anniiwa that katoyiistsi had been known as such in the past. Aamiitohkatoyiss was naato’sioyis, tatsikiohkatoyis belonged to iipisowahs, ki piinaapohkatoyiss to kipitaakii. Watching as we drove toward them, there was dark shale above the tree-line on all three, but at times the clouds parted to cast iipisowahsi ookoowa in light. When we finally parked at the eastern base of piinaapohkatoyiss, our group split into factions ki went exploring. We had heard a recent story about a cave called the Devil’s Chimney. A couple of naapiikoaiksi had descended into it, ki there found a mask decorated with abalone shells. They’d tried to take the mask back home with them to Canada, but it had been seized ki now was in a museum somewhere… probably with the Montana Historical Society. In any case, mi’ksskimmiisoka’simm ki niisto wanted to see if we could find this so-called Devil’s Chimney. From our position on the east face, we spotted an odd tower of rock sticking out of piinaapohkatoyiss like a horn about a third of the way up, ki to the north. It seemed as likely a place as any to find a cave, so we set off in that direction, with one of the archaeologists joining to take note of our observations.

In order to get to the rock tower, we had to ascend a ways, then hike up ki down a few coulees. We were surprised at how much running water we found coming down the hillside. From a distance, katoyiistsi seem to be nothing more than dry buttes. Up close though, there are significant streams of spring water coursing through ki feeding narrow forests of poplar ki birch. I saw none of the katoyiss miistsiiksi which these places are known for, but rather great hillsides of ancient pine, weathered ki stunted by the extreme conditions. When we eventually reached the rock outcropping, there were no chimney caves to be found. What we did see, however, beside the tower, was a massive stone slab that rested upon another boulder so as to create a kind of lean-to shelter. We ourselves used it to get out of the rain. Ki on its ceiling there was carved, quite deeply, the crescent of ko’komiki’somm.

From miistsi katoyiistsi, we travelled the Choteau, had dinner, ki slept in another hotel. That night, nitsipaapao’kaa. It was not entirely clear. I know that parts of mi paapao'kaan involved flying. But the most vivid aspect was a young man who seemed angry with me, confrontational. The reason he was upset, he said, was because I was always so negative. All I ever did was find fault in people. He felt betrayed. Aaniiwa he was not going to bother with me anymore, he’d found someone else who was more pleasant to be around. Just then, a magnificent dark-grey hawk flew down toward us. It was immense, easily the size of ourselves. There was a white stripe extending across its forehead ki back along its temples. It might have been a goshawk, but in spirit form, more brilliant than any bird I’d ever seen in waking life. The young man indicated that this was his new ally, the one who would replace me ki was obviously so much more worthy. When I woke up from anni paapao’kaan, I was struck by how true the young man’s criticism was. It was depressing to be challenged with such accuracy, but represented an opportunity as well.

The next ikskanaotonni, nitsipanaipookakiihpinnaan ki drove out to the headwaters of Sun River, accompanied by piitaikihtsipiimi ki a group of forestry personnel. We went first to a cliff just below a massive concrete dam. I’d been there once before, last summer. On that cliff, ki also on a slab of stone just a short walk downriver, there are a number of pictographs ki wide areas painted ki hand-printed with maohki’saan. Among the pictographs is something significant, that we’ve not been able to interpret yet… a horizontal line above a circle, all painted with iihkitsiki’saan. There are also various human figures, ki one small image of a mountain sheep.

After surveying this area, we descended further downriver to a grassy flat beside the cliffs, where the forestry service had put up a few log cabins. The flat itself had a number of momma’piistsi still evident. Ki along the cliff behind ki downriver from the cabins there was a shallow cave with more paintings… one that looked like a large bird, one of iiniiwa, another humanoid, ki an image of two circles (perhaps naato’si ki ko’komiki’somm) beside a constellation of kakato’siiksi or hailstones. I didn't know what to make of all this, other than to say that these places were important for some reason, ki that we would have to continue to visit them if we wanted to learn more. This vague explanation, echoed by all of us as interlocutors, may not have been fully appreciated by the archaeologists accompanying us. On the drive out of the canyon, they divided themselves up so that at least one of them was travelling in each vehicle, ki proceeded to ask us a series of questions. What did we think of what we’d seen that day? Did we know of any stories related to those places? Why do we believe people would have camped there in the past? What animals or plants would they have used there? All of these questions seemed to arise from a perspective that assumed the most important aspect of the Sun River headwaters to be of a historical nature. In my car, accompanied by piitaikihtsipiimi ki naamaahkohkommi, we began trying to shift the discussion more toward presence. We told our archaeologist that the spirits at those places are the same today as they had been in the past, that we can still engage with them in the same way niitsitapi always have. At one point, after we hit the prairie, an awakaasii buck gauged our distance ki made straight for us. When we slowed, it slowed. When we sped, it sped. Finally, it stood on the road right in front of our truck, bringing us almost to a dead stop, before bounding off downriver. Piitaikihtsipiimi told the archaeologist that right there we’d had an experience, that she probably hadn’t even recognized it. Awakaasiiksi don’t chase ki jump in front of people like that. This buck had done it for a reason, perhaps to keep us from encountering danger up ahead, or maybe for some other purpose that we’d never know. What mattered is that he was communicating with us, ki we’d sing his song to let him know that we were grateful for this exchange.

That afternoon, our survey team parted ways ki returned, each to our respective homes. I was thrilled at how our encounters, particularly on the first day, had validated what I’d seen through naatowopii. The only visual left dangling was that of the canyon. The following evening, nitattsipi’kssaapii. I had left naawahko’tsisi offerings at each of the places we’d visited, ki annohk I wanted to explore further what we'd been shown on our journey. Expanding my awareness of connection to kitawahssinnoon once again, I was taken back to the image of the mountain sheep. Above this painting was a small mountain. I had climbed half-way up it the previous year, ki found veins of flint deposited within its rock. Annohk I was again feeling that something high above the painted cliff was of significance, that perhaps there was a place up there for itsiiyissin. Just then, I remembered that I’d once heard a story about an important mountain sheep robe that had been gifted to someone who fasted in that area. Ki the strength of this memory brought my session to a close. I know now that, when I return to that place in the future, I will do so with the intention of ascending that mountain again, this time climbing higher than before. Somewhere up there, I suspect I’ll learn more about the third visual I’d experienced, ki through this act keep the dialog going.

All of these recent experiences – from the energy I felt after building ki delivering ikitstakssin for pokaitapii, to confirming at least some of what I’d been seeing through naatowopii – reminded of how crucial it is that we reciprocate with those who are willing to communicate with us. It’s all too easy to dismiss attempts by non-humans to engage us in relationships, or to neglect trying to approach them from our side as well. It’s far less demanding to just continue going about our own narrow affairs as if nothing further mattered. Not unlike the archaeologists, we’re strongly compelled to turn a blind eye ki deaf ear toward others, for the simple reason that carrying-out any real ki prolonged exchanges with them would seriously threaten our current way of life. At this point, we’re all complicit-in ki reliant-upon mainstream consumerism. This system is founded on the premise that everything has been placed here magically for our sole benefit, ki that – if properly managed – these “natural resources” are fairly limitless. In short, everything is considered to be ours for the taking, gifts of nurturance from our benevolent father god ki mother earth. We alone are thought to be the sacred children, those with real spirit ki true creative genius. Oh, how dangerous ki naive this myth is.