Tsa Kiaakaanistsitsspommihtaahpoaawa Maahkohtoomaaistaistsihpi Kippaitapiiwahsinnoon?

llll ) llllllllllllllllllllllllll Tsa Kiaakaanistsitsspommihtaahpoaawa Maahkohtoomaaistaistsihpi Kippaitapiiwahsinnoon?

My thoughts of late have been entirely consumed with the classes I’m teaching this semester. One course in particular, kainaissksaahko, is becoming a great pleasure. It’s an annual round of harvesting the gifts of kitawahsinnoon ki visiting aitapisskoistsi, with weekly thought assignments that we all post responses to on a blog we’re calling our Project Journal. Even niisto ki naahsa ki’naksaapo’p (who is co-instructing) have to do these assignments. I have a feeling that much of my private journal for the next year could be combined with my efforts for this course. Thus my final entry for annohk naato’si, like the contribution prior, is drawn from it:

Tsa kiaakaanistsitsspommihtaahpoaawa maahkohtoomaanistaistsihpi kippaitapiiwahsinnoon?

My first thought, when Ki’naksaapo’p recorded this question for us, was that before I set out to respond to it, I’d better at least learn how to say it myself, and then give some consideration to what it’s asking. So that’s what I did. And like any important question, its simplicity was deceptive. For me, it evoked a number of things.

There are ways in which I can honestly say I live everyday in response to the spirit of this question, that I carry a strong sense of duty with my claim to both Kainaa citizenry and manhood, and that I act on those responsibilities by investing my efforts in long-term projects of benefit to my family and community, risks that I hope will help ensure the persistence of kippaitapiiwahsinnoon. In this respect, I believe that I am continually living-up to my obligations in the following ways:

First, I try to ensure that my daughter has a good life – that she can rely on the strength and stability of her parents’ marriage, that she feels loved, that she has a quiet and secure home, moral support, non-authoritarian guidance, and a healthy degree of creative control over the decisions that will effect her future. I feel bad for some children in our community who are used like pawns in the negotiation of on-again off-again relationships between parents who are still just children themselves, and for those who have to live in homes where they are demoralized or subjected to violence. I’m critical of those fathers (young or old) who do not work hard to give their wives and children a good home and stability. I’m also critical of those mothers (young or old) who do not challenge their men to be real husbands and fathers.

The truth is, I don’t believe a person can be of much help to either wider family or community if he or she is unwilling to hold their own. By keeping our home life stable, Piipiiaakii and I have been able create a place that others can turn to when they’re going through transitions in their own lives. For instance, there was a summer where we took in one of our nieces and one of our nephews, whose mom and dad weren’t really interested in being parents at the time. And during that same period, we also had one of Piipiiaakii’s cousins with her two children staying with us for most of the term of her pregnancy. We take all of the children as our own. That summer, our little family at home was expanded from three to eight.

I don’t think a year has gone by that we haven’t had someone come stay with us for an extended period. It’s tough and expensive for young people to get out on their own these days. It’s not like in the past, where young newlyweds were provided their own lodge right off the hop. If our parents hadn’t helped Piipiiaakii and I out with room and board in the first couple years of our marriage, it would have been pretty rough. We try to play that forward by making sure that, if one of our younger siblings or cousins comes to stay with us, financial burdens like rent and food are lifted, and they don’t have to worry about the intrusions of whatever chaos they might be escaping. On the other hand though, while we’re happy to host our relatives, we’re not about play the role of enabler. Our home isn’t the kind of place anyone can come to avoid their obligations, or sit around in self-pity. If they’re adults, we expect them to use the opportunity to build-up some savings with work or invest in some skills through education, so that they can make the transition into whatever’s next for them.

So that’s one way I feel as though I’m doing something to feed the persistence of kippaitapiiwahsinnoon. But I’ll be the first to admit that, in terms of family relationships, that’s really not enough. I’ve heard so many times the memories of older people who’ve lived in our community for awhile, before Western forms of political organization and social services were adopted. They tell me that, back then, kimmapiiyipitssin was really lived. If a couple needed their own home, they didn’t have to wait to get a mortgage or for the Band to select them. They set to work themselves, called some of their family in, and got the thing built. Everybody just pitched-in. The same with work. Just a few decades ago, a lot of men worked together, more or less in business partnerships, to farm or ranch, what have you. That’s not too much the case today.

I’ve been told that this approach to life drastically changed in the 1960s, when the current form of government was adopted, and when welfare came about. Not that kimmapiiyipitssin was eliminated completely, mind you. There’s a lot of ways that we still help one another out. Heck, if it wasn’t for my relationships and the people I depend on, I certainly wouldn’t be where I’m at. Unfortunately though, when we work in partnerships today, a lot of times people say its nepotism, as if that’s a bad word.

There are a lot of things I’d like to do in my lifetime to support the persistence of kippaitapiiyssinnoon, and one of those is to build some good partnerships and relationships, where a number of us can pool our resources and commit to collaborative projects. The kind of endeavors that our children could take over when we get too old. The kind of partnered investments that would support us in our older years, as well as future generations. In other words, I think what I’m saying is that I’d like to be involved in renewing ohkowaipisstssin as more than just a label for kinship or a position to place our camp at aako’kaatssin.

This brings me to another aspect of the way I feel that I’m living the fulfillment of the spirit of our assignment question. My strongest personal and working relationships, those which I feel carry the potential to renew ohkowaipisstssin, have been those forged in the context of service to our community. Namely, through the pursuit of repatriations, and in the context of pommakssin.

When I was twenty-three years old, I decided to take on a project. I wanted to learn the significance of certain symbols and drawings, the ones we see in beadwork, on tipi designs, in the winter counts, on rock art. I wanted to be able to understand more about what these meant. I figured one of the first things I’d have to do is find as many examples of these symbols as possible. And at the time, the logical place to look seemed to be in museum collections. This was a mistaken perception, of course, but one that turned out to be beneficial, because as I began surveying the museums, gathering inventories, and learning where things were, my project grew into a resource for everyone. Before long, I was recruited into repatriations. I had the opportunity to travel and work with Ki’naksaapo’p, Ponokaiksiksinaam, Mi’ksskimm, Ninnaisipistoo, Mi’ksskimmiisoka’simm, Stamiksisiksinaam and others, many of whom have become both my relatives and my greatest teachers. And through this journey, I’ve had a hand in helping to bring home four ksisskstaki amopistaanistsi, a ninnaimsskaahkoyinnimaan, part of the leader’s bundle for the kakoyiiksi, a motoki headdress, and the leader’s bundle for the sinopaiksi at aamsskaapipiikani. Each time our efforts to bring something home is successful, I get this overwhelming feeling of having done something really important with my life. The first time this happened, when we brought ksisskstaki amopistaan out of Harvard’s Peabody Museum, my exact sentiment (said to myself) was, “I could die today, and I would have no regrets. My life has served a purpose.” And I felt that strongly because, for five or six month prior to that, every aspect of my being was consumed in assuring its release. I was in communication with the museum daily, and I felt very much guided by that bundle itself.

Having said that, it’s important to note that I would not have been involved in any of those repatriations if I waited for someone else to pay my way. I’ve spent thousands of dollars out of my own pocket to do this, and I’m by no means rich. This was a sacrifice. Which is not to say that I think anybody owes me anything. What I’m saying is that I have paid for the opportunity to serve our community, and I’m sure I’ll continue to do so for the rest of my life. Nothing good comes without investment.

A very important lesson for me, in this regard, was something that happened about ten years ago. I won’t go into intimate details, because it’s already past now. What I will say is that there was a dispute between some relatives over the disposition of a particular bundle. It got ugly. A lot of people were concerned about what was going on, but nobody wanted to step into the midst of this conflict and put an end to it. Finally, one man did. He went and talked privately to both parties, explained to them how each of their positions made sense, and also how each had been mistaken… and ultimately, how they could amicable resolve the whole thing and put it to rest. They followed the advice they were given, and the issue was settled. For me, the learning came in what happened next. My father-in-law went to go pay the man who had acted as mediator on this occasion. I think he gave him a hundred dollars or so. Why did he pay him? Because he had learned something through that man’s actions, and he knew that in order to really take that lesson and make it his own, he should pay for it. And so he did.

These are the kinds of decisions and moves we can make, as individuals, to keep kippaitapiiwahsinnoon strong. There are so many little and big things we can do. It just takes commitment and diligence. One of my goals is to be able to speak niitsi’powahsin fluently. How am I going to get there? It’s not going to come through taking classes, or wishing about it, or talking about it. The only way it’s going to happen is if I make the decision to do so, and act on it. Maatsiiyiiko.

I’ve been to a number of other reserve communities in both the United States and Canada. Almost nobody has their language or ceremonies in-tact, anywhere near the way we do. We owe it to all those who came before us not to lose what we have here.

Today, Piipiiaakii and I take care of ksisskstaki amopistaan, but we could never do this on our own. When it comes time for our ceremonies, we get a lot of help from our family… including nitakka, Kiitokiiaapii, and his family. Ksisskstaki amopistaanistsi were almost lost completely. In 1963, Akaikinaam, Mike Swims Under, opened his bundle for the last time. He was alone. Not even his family joined him. So afterward, he wrapped it back up, brought it to the creek and made an offering with it. He told the birds and animals in his bundle, “Wherever you float and settle, that will be your new home.” A lot of people criticized him for this. But I wonder, if he hadn’t made this offering, if he had really given up our ways and sold his bundle, or just kept it around as an heirloom, would we have iiyaohkimiipaitapiiyssin today? Akaikinaam wound up, just a couple decades later, being the only man alive who still new this ceremony when finally some people were ready to pursue it again. Now there are over a dozen active aohkiiyaohkoyinnimaanistsi. All of us iiyaohkimiiksi owe it to Akaikinaam, to his father Staahta’potsimi, to his mother Soyii’kayaakii, and to Bad Marriage, and Ponokaatsini, and so on all the way along the line of pommakssin to Matoyaapii, the man who was first transferred ksisskstaki amopistaan. We owe all of these ones who did their part to make sure it was here for us still today. The same could be said for any aspect of kippaitapiiyssinnoon.

One of the practices I maintain, to ensure I’m living up to my obligations to these akaitapiiksi, is that on my way to Mi’kai’stoo for work each morning, nitaatoyinihki. There is no end to the songs of mopistaanistsi, and I feel it’s my obligation to learn as many of them as I can in my lifetime, so that others will continue to have them down the road. Plus, I really enjoy singing them, and I learn a lot from them.

This morning, nohtootaomaahkaani Sikoohkotoki nitainoaa ksikkomahkaayiiksi. Swans. There were three of them in Innoikimi, by B.T.A.P. I haven’t seen them since spring, and their return tells me we’ve only got one more moon left till winter. So I pulled off on the side of the road and sang their song, and then took a picture of them. When I was finished at work today and got in my truck, the first thing I thought about was those ksikkomahkaayiiksi. I couldn’t wait to see if they were still there on the drive home. As I pulled out of Mi’kai’stoo, I tried to pull up their song again. Something else came instead. Just a simple tune, nothing fancy, but I liked it. It sounded like something that would be good to sing to myself when I’m out walking around. And I thought, since we’re going to be travelling together this year, maybe I’d share it here.

Where Is Here?

llll ) llllllllllllll Where Is Here?

When I was eleven years old, growing up in suburbia, my assumption was that I had a pretty good grasp of who and where I was. That kind of knowledge wasn’t really what I’d consider to be a thought, or a belief. It was something more deeply embedded - the only world I had ever been exposed to, the only one I was conscious of at all. And if I would have been asked the question “where is here?” back then, I surely would have had all the answers, no problem. I would have said, “This is Oregon, part of the United States. We’re by the Pacific Ocean, just under the State of Washington, just above California”. But that year would have been the last time I could have answered with so much confidence….

Because when I was twelve years old, I took a walk. And it wasn’t a very long walk, but it took me beyond both suburbia and America all the same. I left my neighborhood, crossed a creek, and was just plodding through an onion field on my way to explore the forest that was on the other side, when I found an arrowhead. It was tear-drop shaped, made from red and white speckled jasper. I picked it up, looked at it… looked at the old growth forest in front of me… turned… looked back at the creek and suburbia on the other side. Something happened to me in that moment. It’s hard to explain, but just like that my entire sense of place and identity shifted. Suddenly, I recognized the foreign presence of both suburbia and agriculture in that region, and the way they functioned to conceal stories I’d never been told. Stories that were in one sense exceedingly ancient, and yet in another still very present….

They were timeless stories. And not in the way that people speak of Shakespeare and Mark Twain, all those classics of the literary tradition. No. These stories were timeless in that they were, in fact, outside of time altogether….

I’m glad this happened to me when I was twelve years old, and I’m glad my parents chose to keep me completely away from Christianity. Because if I would have had this experience later in life, or if I had been sold on the idea that we were really in the year 1984 (because that was how long it had been since Jesus died), I’m sure that finding that arrowhead would have either messed me up psychologically, or that I would have just taken it as a curiosity, something meaningless….

But at twelve years old, and having never set foot in a church, I didn’t have that kind of baggage. For me, the possibility that something could be outside of time made perfect sense. Because time is not reality. Place is reality. And in that place, as in all others, human life is supported by the non-human life that exists there. The Calapooia man who used that arrowhead I held in my hand, his life would have been supported by the deer, and the fish, and the acorns, and the camas. And that arrowhead itself was one of the mediums that connected him to these others….

I looked back at suburbia, across the creek. I thought, How are THEY connected to non-human life? How are THEY connected to reality?

I thought THEY because I was already, in just that instant, aware of a transformation within myself that made me somehow different from my family, my neighbors, my school-mates, my teachers, everyone I’d ever known….

I also thought THEY because, for some years afterward, no matter how hard I tried, I could never get any of them to perceive the stories that exist outside of time….

And so, who was I in that moment and afterward? That was the big question. Because I already knew where I was, at least in the sense that I was now aware of where I wasn’t. The big dilemma was who. Who was I?

I couldn’t be American anymore, because those people weren’t aware of the stories that exist outside of time. I couldn’t be an Oregonian, because they were American. I couldn’t be a Christian, because I still had all my faculties – my eyes, and ears, and nose, and all that. And so I could readily see, and hear, and smell the reality of this world, which my Christian friends told me was only an illusion….

I couldn’t identify with any of these groups, or even so much with my own family. All I could be, it seemed, was me….

And so I began to return to the creek, and the field, and the forest, again and again. And beyond that, to other forests, and to the river. I walked, sometimes all day. I slept overnight, alone, in trees, on rocks, at the river bank. I began talking to some of the ones who still know the stories that exist outside of time. They were my first spiritual teachers. The trees, the hawks….

When I was old enough, I left home, still trying to sort out who I was. I thought maybe I could be a soldier in the Army. Soldiers were supposed to go around the world delivering freedom, defending the oppressed. Maybe, I thought, the oppressed were people who knew about reality, who could still live in stories outside of time. Maybe, I thought, soldiers were the people in my society who understood them, and helped them destroy the political systems attempting to conceal reality….

But I was wrong. At least about the latter part. I was really wrong….

So I ended up fighting instead for my own freedom, so that I could live the stories myself. I fought for three years. I fought against the Army. And eventually, they spit me out, or let me go. I couldn’t be a soldier. They weren’t who had I assumed them to be. So who was I going to be now?

I remembered, growing up, my mom and dad telling me that I was Blackfoot, that my mother’s grandmother was named Sadie Curtis, and that she was a half-breed who grew up in a residential school, and later became a teacher there, before relocating with her husband to Chicago. I remember my parents suggesting that one day we might even move to the reservation. This alleged Blackfoot-ness was the only identity I hadn’t yet explored. Maybe, I thought, I can be Blackfoot. Maybe they’re the people who still live in stories outside of time….

From that point, it took me two years to travel to “the reservation” and meet “the Blackfoot”. Then it took me another few years before I reached kitawahsinnoon and niitsitapi, which I feel speaks to something different all together. And what I found when I got here was the kind of storied place I could finally identify with, and people who knew something about the timeless reality I’d become aware of at twelve years of age. People who were equally frustrated by how that reality was being hidden, rendered virtually invisible by technologies and sensibilities not at all concerned with our need to connect directly to the sources of our life….

So where is here?

To me, here is kitawahsinnoon. That which nourishes us, niitsitapi. That which feeds the ones who can see and smell and hear the reality outside of time, but not outside of cycles. Kitawahsinnoon is the top. The peak. The place where the radiance of the Sun and the power of Thunder dance with the waters of the Moon and the wind of Crows, back and forth, day and the night, summer and winter. Releasing life, and gathering it together once more. Like a heart, of sorts, with the headwaters of all our rivers as veins. A heart that we the living are inseparable from, not as nursing infants to a mother, but more as appendages of the body that this pulse feeds….

To me, kitawahsinnoon is not just – or even primarily – the land. And it is not really territory, at least not in the sense that “territory” can be something political, attached to time instead of reality. Rather, to me, kitawhasinnoon is almost more of a rhythm. A frequency that moves along a downward slope through our ecology. A resonance that flows into the living, eventually manifesting as songs in our bodies, and as co-existent, respectful relationships between ourselves and the non-human life that supports us.

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.