Iitaohkanaikokotoyi Niitahtaistsi

llll ) llllllllllllll Iitaohkanaikokotoyi Niitahtaistsi

Our first real blizzard of the season unfolds just as we fly back to mohkinsstsis after a week-long summer sojourn in Melbourne, Australia. We went down under – piipiiaakii, ohkomaakii ki niisto - for the World Indigenous People’s Conference on Education (WIPCe), an intensification ritual hosted by a different community once every couple years. It was the first time our family had an opportunity to attend. Luckily, piipiiaakii and I were both giving presentations there, so we were able to pull funding from our respective projects. Although we were able to catch most of the keynote talks, we didn’t bother sitting too many of the other sessions. To me, the excitement of our visit was in observing ki photographing birds ki other local animals. For piipiiaakii ki ohkomaakii, it was in shopping ki meeting new people.

We had three particularly enjoyable experiences. The second day there, after attending registration ki opening speeches hosted by the Koori ki Boonwurrung tribes at their recreation centre in one of Melbourne’s suburbs, we returned to the city ki split off to address our separate interests. Piipiiaakii ki ohkomaakii shopped the busy metropolis for hours, picking up souvenirs for folks back home, ki a few wardrobe items for themselves. I decided to take a hike through Melbourne’s green strip, which included the Royal Botanic Gardens. My planned destination was Albert Park ki its wetlands, touted in the visitor brochures from our hotel to be something like a nature reserve, with a variety of waterfowl ki a colony of rare skinks. As I wound my way through other parks toward it, occasionally stopping to ask a local for precise directions, it became clear that many of the city’s residents either didn’t know about the wonders of Albert Park or couldn’t quite understand why a tourist would be attracted to the place. Most suggested strongly that I should visit the botanic gardens instead, ki those inside the garden itself assured me that there were no larger nature parks in the vicinity. All were, of course, correct. But as a stubborn tourist I had to learn this for myself. When I finally reached Albert Park, all I found was a golf course ki an over-developed lake, surrounded by busy streets. There were a few black swans there, but no skinks I encountered. Thoroughly disappointed, I returned to the botanic gardens ki there passed the remainder of the day photographing the many birds that enjoy this magnificently lush ki sculpted park.

While walking, I also made note of some of Melbourne’s quirks. For instance, one of the things we learned very quickly was that most of the coffee available in the shops there is made from freeze-dried crystals. A black coffee is called a long black, an espresso a short black, ki a mocha is a flat white. Their large cups are not even equivalent in volume to our medium, ki nothing tastes the same. This goes for food as well. Small portions, all of which seemed missing key ingredients. Nearly every city block includes the Subway ki 7-11 chains, but the latter do not have Big Gulps or corndogs. Burger Kings are called Hungry Jacks, ki have the same menu as we do at home, but the fries taste funny. Ketchup is labelled tomato sauce (we never learned what tomato sauce for pasta was called). When people talk racist, they use the term “feller” – as in “you’re a white feller, eh?” or “me being a black feller...” etc. The understanding of at least some people there is that the First Nations of Canada used to be referred to “Red Indians” but that now we prefer to be called Aboriginal. Their paper currency has windows in it. Their coins are not sized as per denomination. In fact, the smallest coin is two-dollars. And there were no pennies (a good thing).

So our exploration day was the first good experience we had. The second came later in the week, when we hopped on with a tour to Phillip Island, just southeast of Melbourne along the coast. For me, this visit was particularly enjoyable because it took us to several ancient Boonwurrung sites, as well as a number of wetlands, a koala reserve, and places where the State of Victoria had engaged in successful environmental restoration projects. Overall, I was very impressed with the ecological consciousness of Australians. They were doing far more, even in the metropolitan areas, to conserve water, recycle, ki ensure that waste was managed. On Phillip Island, the government had gone so far as to buy-back large housing tracts from the public in areas where the sharp-winged plovers nest, so that the land could be rehabilitated. If only Alberta could see this as a model to combat the popular perception that a reintroduction of bison is unrealistic. On our tour, I was able to observe ki photograph several bird species (all new to me), colourful insects, amazing foliage, a wallaby, ki the precious koalas. I got to enjoy the company of piipiiaakii ki ohkomaakii. Ki the tour was capped off with a visit to the beach where little penguins return each evening at sundown, riding in on the waves ki hiking up to their nests in the dunes.

Our final day at WIPCe was another treat. In the conference’s exhibition hall, the Maori had set-up a nice display. They were very welcoming of all the other visiting nations, so much so that at times it felt as if they were more host to us than the Australians. We were lucky enough to be invited to a Maori dinner party a few evenings prior, but piipiiaakii had been trying to arrange to receive a traditional tattoo, ki on the last day of the conference she got her wish. Two or three of their artists had flown in from New Zealand with their equipment ki were ready to get to work. We learned that each of them had been specially selected to apprentice with elders while in primary school, ki had undergone extensive training before they were ever allowed to work on human skin. We waited on the sidelines for several hours past the appointment piipiiaakii had made before they called her to be drawn-up. One of the men took her outside with a set of ink pens. The way these tattoos work, the recipient is to tell the artist about themselves, ki from that narrative the artist hand-draws a design that will incorporate elements both reflecting ki assisting the assistant in his or her life. While piipiiaakii was outside sharing her story, I was still at the booth where another artist (the youngest among them) was told that he would be giving her the tattoo. He immediately asked where she was, ki when he learned that she was already outside being drawn he jumped up ki ran to intercede. It was apparent that he didn’t have the greatest confidence in the man who was supposed to do the drawing. As it turned out though, part way through piipiiaakii’s narrative the man had stopped her himself, telling her that he didn’t believe he was qualified to draw her tattoo. He said that their best artist was also their youngest, ki that he should work with her. The two artists met half-way, each having gone in search for the other, ki the young man Damion Scarlett took over.

Damion was amazing. He brought piipiiaakii inside, sat her down, listened to her story, ki proceeded very quickly ki skilfully to draw on her shoulder the most intricate ki beautiful tattoo we’d ever seen. It incorporated several underwater spirits, including the hammerhead shark, a life-line ki birthing canal, ki a braided weave of a sorts he explained bonded her to water. Before setting to work with the needles, Damion put his hand on piipiiaakii’s shoulder ki prayed. It took him at least an hour to complete the work. Afterward, I took a picture of piipiiaakii ki Damion together, in case we meet again in the future.

Awatoyiiksi

IIII ) ll Iitao’tsstoyii (2 Nov 08)

I’m crouched, squatting behind a thin veil of aahsowa. Not ten meters from me, slightly further up the bank from her watering hole, is awatoyi. She had been casually eating when I walked up on her. And although she didn’t notice me then, she knows there’s something there, a shadow in the burr thicket. She’s facing me, ears forward. I stoop my head lower, she raises hers. As quiet as possible, I ready the arrow - a thin carbon rod, tipped with razors. From my position, so near the ground, all I can see is her head stretched high above the grass, eyes and ears alert. If I were to suddenly stand up, could I hit her in the chest before she turned tail? I wait, hoping she’ll go back to eating, give me that split-second advantage I’ll need. But she doesn’t. She knows something’s wrong. She makes a quick shuffle forward, just her forelegs, and whistles. I keep absolutely still. She lifts her head a little higher and whistles again. I know that if I don’t draw down soon, she’s going to run. And she knows that if she doesn’t turn soon, whatever the shadow is will pounce. We move at the same time. I stand and draw while she bolts. Three leaps it will take her to move through the bullberry bushes and out of sight. Somewhere near her second leap, I have my chance to release. No doubt the arrow would make contact. But it is not the target I want. Not the absolute kill shot. And so I hesitate and she’s gone. Nothing but a crashing forest sound growing more distant.

This awatoyi was not the only I’ve seen today. From dawn to dusk I move around an island of poplar forest on the north end of kainaissksaahko - sometimes with stealth, at other moments carelessly stomping through the brush and fall leaves. Many times I see the white tails, flickering as they bound away. There are no issikotoyiiksi in this stretch, as far as I can tell. No bucks either. Just awatoyi females, moving cautiously between beds, meadows, and watering holes. Twice I am near enough to warrant notching my arrow, but only the once in a position to draw. I wonder… if it were the past, and it meant the difference between eating and going hungry, would I have released anyway? Would I have dared ever move as carelessly?

The trees are all bare of leaves now, the songbirds gone. On a couple occasions, I startle large, grey sipisttooiksi from their roosts. But they see me before I see them, and so I get no clear identification. I also hear pairs of ringed-neck pheasants, flying away from me to keep their distance. The occasional flock of aapsspiniiksi passes overhead. And while I sit in a poplar, burning a cigarette and waiting for awatoyiiksi to pass below, a few niipomakiiksi come to inspect my circumstances. Dusk closes fast.

Although I go home empty-handed, for me it is a good day. Its times like these I really learn to appreciate aokakio’ssin, and how little I’m actually aware of in this place. But rather than taking such observation as a set-back, I receive it as a challenge and an opportunity. Every mistake carries within it the possibility for growth. Certainly now I have gained a sense of how different the odds are when hunting with a bow, as compared to a rifle. One needs to know the deer well if there’s any hope of ambushing them, and even better if there’s intent to stalk. I’ll have to experiment for a bit. I’ve determined that next time I come here, I’m going to set myself up comfortably in a brush blind overlooking the waterhole, and be patient. We’ll see what transpires then.

Itsiinohksikanikimmiksi Akaito’tooyaa

IIII ) lllll Iitao’tsstoyii (5 Nov 08)

A few short days can bring a lot of change. In the south, a new and hopeful president-elect. Here in kitawahsinnon, our first real wave of winter snow and an accompanying shift in avian phenology.

Miistapatonni, we awoke to strong, freezing winds coming from the northwest. For most of the morning, there was a well-defined arch of high clouds sculpted by these winds, and a more ominous dark curtain of low clouds peeking through the miistakiistsi. Driving along the canal, from BTAP through to Mookoan Reservoir, it was apparent that the animals were not overjoyed by this change after such a prolonged warm stretch. There were kakanottsstookiiksi sitting on gopher and badger mounds in the shelter of the canal’s levees, and awatoyiiksi as well. None of the usual aapi’siiksi were out. And the large flocks of mi’ksikatsiiksi were nowhere to be seen.

By the following morning, the wind had played out, and the low dark clouds that were previously lurking from behind the miistakiistsi had rolled down over the prairie, forming an even ceiling not much higher than Mookoanssin. It was still very cold, and apparently more so just below the clouds. Yet another wildfire was burning west of Levern, and it wound up testifying to the location of the cooler, more compact air. The smoke rose almost straight up, hit this wall, and spread out in a thin plane horizontal to the earth.

Along the canal again, the kakanottsstookiiksi were off the ground, onto the fenceposts. The awatoyiiksi were off somewhere doing their thing, no longer impeded by wind. The aapi’siiksi had come out of hiding. And all the sa’aiksi had returned. The hidden lake was covered in patches of mi’ksikatsiiksi, Mookoan Reservoir with flocks of aapsspiniiksi set right in the middle of the water, and a half-dozen stray buffleheads off the shoreline (all but one being female). On the fields between the two bodies of water were itsiinohksikanikimmiksi, feeding in a line. Although some of my earlier observations of ksikkomahkayiiksi on the lakes – a few of which remain, by the way – could have been itsiinohksikanikimmiksi, misidentified because of their distance from me, this sighting on the field was a sure thing. White goose bodies with black wing tips… as far as I’m concerned, the first I can confirm along my route this season.

Traveling the highways, ksikkapiitaipanikimmiksi and mamia’tsikimiiksi are the predominant sight. On my way home, as the inevitable snow finally began to fall, I counted seven ksikkapiitaipanikimmiksi between Mi’kai’sto and the turn-off to Mookoan Reservoir. Back along the canal, the aapsspiniiksi had moved to the shorelines, the itsiinohksikanikimmiksi had disbursed, and just a single patch of mi’ksikatsiiksi remained in the hidden lake.

What interested me most about these couple of days, besides the arrival of itsiinohksikanikimmiksi, was the number of kakanottsstookiiksi that are around. I wouldn’t be surprised if these were the sipisttooiksi I had been seeing while out deer hunting the other day. And it reminded me that, each winter, at Mi’kai’sto, we usually have a kakanottsstooki couple who live in one of the poplar trees lining the driveway. So this morning, when I went to work, I looked for them. They’ve not returned yet, but I would suspect it won’t be long.

The snow continued throughout the morning today, letting off finally by afternoon. It wasn’t cold enough to ice the streets, so it only stuck to the fields, but it was a respectable little storm. I’m still wondering whether the quick burst we had during the last moon was makoyisttsomo’kaan. On the drive home today, passing Innokimi, the waters were absolutely full of both mi’ksikatsiiksi and itsiinohksikanikimmiksi. Quite a sight. If it’s the same in the morning, I plan to take a few photos.

Kiihtsipimisa’aiksi

IIII ) lllllll Iitao’tsstoyii (7 Nov 08)

Matonni, the cloud cover was high and, just as predicted, the first of the kakanottsstooki couple who usually winter at Mi’kai’sto returned to the perch. At Innokimi, hundreds of mi’ksikatsiiksi covered at least a third of the lake’s surface, but no sign of the many itsiinohksikanikimmiksi.

Annohk ksiistsiko - which began with blue skies, but eventually gathered some high altitude clouds – nitsitapoo Siksika. As with my last trip up that way, there was no sign of wildlife (not even many ayinnimaiksi) during the drive, with the exception of my detour to Keho Lake. There, I found thousands of mi’ksikatsiiksi and hundreds of ksikkomahkayiiksi, the latter travelling in family groupings: mother, father, and an average of four juveniles. I noticed that some of the mi’ksikatsiiksi had black collars around the necks, and wonder what intrusive, so-called “environmentally-concerned” monitoring group is up to this? My thinking is, if you don’t want to take the time to get out there and look for yourself, get to know individual birds, and be a part of their lives, then you don’t deserve to know what’s going on with them. All these radio-based studies that involve chip insertion or collars seem wrong. Non-radio bands (bracelets) on the other hand, I don’t have such a problem with. In the past, niitsitapi would sometimes capture a juvenile bird, keep it for a short period in a willow cage, then put a bracelet on it and release it. They would tell these birds that they were empathizing with them, and this is why they were going to let them go, but that they hoped, in the future, those birds would return the favor, and come visit them again bringing a powerful gift. If the bird returned, it would be recognized by the bracelet.

Another recent arrival to the region this season, as far as I’m aware, were the kiihtsipimisa’aiksi swimming in the canal that drains from Keho. I’m going to be watching them this winter. I want to get a photo of one of the males in display, rearing his head back until it almost touches his tail. The image I’ve inserted here is of one of the females, just stretching her wings.

Outwitted, Outsmarted, Outlasted

IIII ) lllllllll Iitao’tsstoyii (9 Nov 08)

I have a newfound respect of awatoyiiksi. Over the last couple of days, they’ve completely skunked me. Miistapatonni, I returned before dawn to the north-end hunting grounds. After my prior failure to even line-up a good shot, I decided that rather than stalking I would sit still and wait for the awatoyiiksi to come to me. I found a good position between a bush and an embankment, where I could hide and look out over a watering hole on one side, and across a brushy feeding area on the other.

I brought a cushion to sit on, my bow and morning coffee, and just sat still for about an hour. A little ways off, down by omi niitahtaa, there was a flock of aapsspiniiksi, and I considered going after them. But I’d made up my mind whether to make the shift in intent, the aapsspiniiksi flew away. At that point, I decided to stalk a couple hundred meters into the brush, just to stretch my legs. I hadn’t gone more than a quarter this distance when I came head-on toward an awatoyi. She almost saw me before I crouched below her line of vision. But she knew something was amiss ahead, and so casually turned and began walking through some thick pa’kiipistsi. I got an arrow ready, and even though I didn’t have the perfect shot I went ahead and loosed it. At the sound of my bowstring, the awatoyi ran straight through the pakkii’pistsi and part-way up the side of the coulee. At first, I thought there was a good chance I had hit her. But when I moved forward, I found my arrow stuck neatly in the ground.

Walking back to my natural blind, I thought to myself that if I’d just stayed still another ten or fifteen minutes, that awatoyi would have walked right up to my ambush. I sat down again and waited. A heavy cumulous cloud moved overhead, drizzling rain. The rest of the morning passed with no activity. Eventually I got hungry and drove to town to pick-up lunch.

Returning about an hour later, I moved back into the blind again. Soon a flock of simitsiimiksi came over, alighting on a nearby a’siitsiksimm. I had expected them earlier in the season, when there were more mi’ksinittsiimiksi, and I’d even wondered if they’d passed through especially early and unnoticed, which might have accounted for the general lack of these miinistsi when we began picking. But here they were now, colorful and happy as usual. From the hight of their chosen tree, they would send out a few scouts in different directions, to find the choice miinistsi. Then parts of the flock would join the scouts, clean the bushes of their remaining fruit, and go back up the a’siitsiksimm. Never does the entire flock abandon the anchor tree until either they’ve had their fill or there’s a danger that provokes them to fly away. The simitsiimiksi remained near me for at least an hour, chattering away and eating mi’ksinittsiimiksi in this manner. When they finally left, I decided my legs were overdue for another stretch.

This time, I walked past the water hole, along the opposite embankment, toward omi niitahtaa. Out that way, there were some thick patches of kinii and mi’kapikssoyiis, and there I just saw white tails wagging into the woods as one after another awatoyi made easy escape.

Returning again to my blind, there was an awatoyi standing right in the open by the water hole, where I could have shot had I just remained in hiding. As it was though, she spotted me coming, and made her way quickly into some brush. I hunkered back down, watching the bush she entered, waiting for her to re-emerge. Eventually, she did, but not completely. She’d just put her head out every few minutes, and I got the sense that she was monitoring me, and would never come fully into view as long as I sat there.

By this time, dusk was coming. I hatched a final plan to circle wide around, out of sight, and stalk up on the bush with the doe. I took my time getting around to come at her from the opposite side. Walking the woods was a far different experience than it had been a few days prior. The snow had dampened and flattened most of the poplar leaves, making it a much more quiet experience. When I eventually got within decent range, I heard the awatoyi whistle twice. She’d spotted me. I crouched down and sat still. Then a pheasant, apparently also hidden in the same cluster of brush, began gobbling. When it finished its protest, I took four or five steps and hunkered back down. Again the awatoyi whistled. And then the pheasant picked up its gobbling. When it finished, I took a few more steps, sat down. The deer whistled. The pheasant gobbled. Now it felt like some kind of twisted game. Like we were all toying with each other. Our sequence went on another couple of rounds. By then, I’d moved too close and the awatoyi emerged, well within range and right in the open woods. My arrow was ready. I went to draw, using my trigger device, and I must have done something awkward in the excitement because, before I had drawn half-way, my arrow released. With the unexpected break in tension, I ended up slapping myself in the mouth. And of course the arrow fell far short. The awatoyi took off.

As I moved forward to retrieve my arrow, three other awatoyiiksi emerged from the same clump of brush, one of them a big buck. He stopped about where the first doe had, and so I quickly notched my arrow again, and this time drew back perfect. The buck jumped at my release, ran just a little ways, and stopped to look at me again. I wasn’t sure if I had hit him or not, so I got a second arrow out of my quiver, aimed and shot. This time, the buck bolted far into the bush.

I wasn’t completely confident that I’d hit him. Walking out to where he had stood, I began searching the grass and leaves for any sign of blood. It was getting quite dark, and after about fifteen minutes of search, I realized that I would not be able to see the signs if there were any, and that by the time I found him the woods would be black. So I gave up and resigned myself to go home (minus my two arrows) and return at first light.

This morning at dawn, I went back to the site. There was my first arrow, its yellow fletching bright against the brown leaves. I began walking switchbacks in the area of the second shot, finding neither my other arrow, nor blood traces. I continued switching-back into the woods, where the buck had run. Nothing. Half the day I wandered around the area. Nothing. I'd been skunked again.

Nitsitayo'kaa Paahtomahksikimi

llll ) llllllllllllllllllllll Nitsitayo’kaa Paahtomahksikimi

It’s been five sleeps since piipiiaakii and I closed our bundle in recognition of the migration of pi’kssiiksi that is underway, and therefore the arrival of sstoyii. For the past few seasons, we’ve hosted our ceremony at paahtomahksikimi, the origin site of amopistaan. Positioning this event in the mountains requires a bit more preparatory work than if we were to have it right at our house. Because of the travel involved, we do our sweat two days prior to the ceremony, and throw our tipi up at the same time, leaving piipiiaakii a day in between to do her cooking back at home while I continue preparing the camp. We also rely on those family and friends who have transfers from our bundle to help us make the move. Without their assistance, it would be impossible.

This time around, I slept alone at our lodge for two nights before the ceremony. I stayed pretty busy during the days, and then enjoyed the peacefulness of the nights for both sleep and contemplation. On both evenings, I didn’t get my fire started until well after dark, when the moon was already out. One thing I noticed both nights was that, as soon as I got a good flame going, the makoyiiksi would start to howl. Then I wouldn’t hear them again until much later. I’d been told different stories about these makoyiiksi. Some of the biologists at paahtomahksikimi informed ki’naksaapo’p and I that they were absent for many years, and only recently returned on their own accord from over the mountains. But I’d also heard there were a few hold-outs who stayed here all along, and in particular a black wolf that was sighted on occasion. One biologist confided to my friend kiitokiiaapii that there was a pack of makoyiiksi purposely reintroduced by the parks a few years back, and that this group had adopted the black wolf right away as one of their alpha members… which makes sense, because he was already familiar with the area. In any event, when I heard these wolves howl each night as my lodge started glowing, I began to wonder if maybe they somehow recognized what they were witnessing. Certainly I recognized their voices right away, so distinct from dogs and coyotes. Is it too difficult to believe that they, in turn, might have retained a memory of human presence here as it was in the past?

This thought prompted me to reflect also on my approach so far with a phenology project I’ve taken up as part of Kainai Studies curriculum development. In the interests of being able to more efficiently cull through data later on, I’ve been trying to keep just a simple record of observations, and perhaps questions that could be addressed to advance my knowledge of the patterns and behaviors I’ve been noting. In other words, I’ve been trying to keep things very objective and to the point. There’s nothing wrong with an approach like that. However, when someone merely records his or her observations as “data”, as I have been, in a detached manner, part of what they’re trying to do is conceal narrative aspects of their experience. Western science does this all the time, using objectification and quantification as a means to imply that they are dealing with THE facts of the matter in an unbiased and impersonal way, so that they can eventually arrive at THE true account of any given phenomena, as if there can be only one accurate explanation. I personally don’t believe that’s possible, and I don’t want to feed that agenda. Out among the howling makoyiiksi, I became determined to switch to a more familiar method of record-keeping that will hopefully allow for greater recognition of the specific narratives that I live by, and which inform my observations. Namely, the same kind of free-flow journal writing I’m using here.

Perhaps this change is just an issue of aesthetics, but I believe it goes deeper than that. After all, there’s a big difference between a perspective that views knowledge as something resulting solely from careful observation of THE facts, on one hand, and conceptions of knowledge as something gifted to human beings through exchanges and alliances with non-humans on the other. On occasion, both pursuits may arrive at similar (or at least equally valuable) understandings of the mechanics of a given phenomena. However, what is then done with the knowledge gained, how it becomes applied, is entirely different. I’ll give an example. During one of the days at paahtomahksikimi, having completed my chores for the morning, I decided to cross the water and explore the peninsula and wetlands. I brought along my video camera and did an impression of Survivorman, introducing a number of edible and medicinal plants I found in abundance out there – niistsiikopa’s, wild chives, parsley, licorice, maaniikapi, bulrush, buffalo grass. There was a lot. I also noted an absence of the large flocks of sa’aiksi that I’d been seeing down on the prairie lakes, as well as the presence of other animals, like ponokaiksi (a whole herd of which passed through eating buffalo grass) and kiaayoiksi. Anyway, walking around out there, and talking about these things on camera, I realized that while I may perceive that I know something about many of these others, and while I may even call on them in ceremony, I don’t really live by them. I don’t allow them to contribute significantly to sustaining my life. I don’t rely on them. Like so many others, I have separated my life into two different aspects, the spiritual and the mundane. As a result, maybe I don’t really know these others at all. All the plants and animals at paahtomahsikimi, as a human being what is my responsibility in relation to them?

Kainai phenology should be about aokakio’ssin, being aware. That’s crucial. If we’re unaware of the identities and ways-of-life of the others in our environment, then we will not notice when their behaviours become peculiar, i.e. when they are giving us warnings or insights into wider events unfolding around us. To this effect, being oblivious to those in our environment is dangerous. But that’s really only part of the picture. We also need to be thinking about ecology, which speaks to relationships between members of a shared environment. This too is an important aspect of our phenology. In order to truly understand the gifts that have been passed down to us in the form of naatowa’pii, for instance, we need to learn how the animals used them in their interactions with one another. Moreover, we need to appreciate the responsibilities inherent in their exchange of these gifts with us. Are they meant to be the garnish of our lives, the fancy things on the side of our plate that we rarely eat? Or were they given to us as principal forms of sustenance, in order that we would become adapted to this place? Are we living up to our end of these relationships? Its one thing to be oblivious and unaware, quite another to recognize certain obligations and yet go right on ignoring them.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, while at paahtomahksikimi, I was reminded that recording daily observations of others in our environment is important, but that it’s also not enough. This winter, as I continue along with the phenology study, building both a practice and a curriculum, I hope to shift my approach, not only toward a style of record-keeping that better reflects the narratives guiding this project, but also in terms of ecological context, and particularly my own engagement in eco-relationships.

Akainnaissko

llll ) lllllll Akainnaissko

I walk along the coulee rim above the confluence of isski’taiitahtaa and naapisisahtaa, not far from nookoowa, quietly observing an expanse of poplar forest in the flood plains below, gold and red in its fall colors. It’s easy to imagine what this place would have looked like in the past, with smoke-tinged lodges nestled into the forest meadows and kids playing at the river. Every time I come here, I think to myself about how nice it would be to do something down in the poplar flats, put up our tipi and camp here for a couple weeks, get to know the place as a resident instead of just an occasional visitor.

You couldn’t tell from the look of it, but this place holds a bit of dark history too. Its well within the bounds of an area referred to as akainnaissko, the place of many deaths. And from where I’m standing, I can almost see the neighboring flat, just over a ridge and across the river, where Healy and Hamilton set up their whisky trade post in the winter of 1870. It was the same winter as the Baker Massacre. Fort Hamilton, was what they first called it, but the post soon became known more widely as Whoop-Up. During the following summer, I’m sure a lot of people camped in the trees right below where I’m standing, just as they probably had forever. But that year, and for a few years after, this wasn’t such a happy place. The traders offered a single jug of whisky for every buffalo hide. And for some reason beyond my comprehension, the people went for it. Over a period of only four years, Hamilton and Healy were able to acquire nearly eighty-thousand Blackfoot-tanned buffalo robes. It’s a big number. Far greater than what was traded by the Crow, Gros Ventre, and Assiniboine combined. But still, not nearly as devastating as the three-million one-hundred and fifty-seven thousand buffalo hides taken by white hunters further downriver during the same years.

Although it’s important not to forget about the events of that era, and to keep telling the stories of akainnaissko, to me the history in this stretch of the river is far richer and more positive. Whenever I come here, I’m very conscious of how this place connects the north and south lodges of kitawahsinnoon, through the confluence of isski’taiitahtaa and naapisisahtaa. To me, it’s no wonder that factions from all of the confederacy came here to camp together after the Baker Massacre. Iitainnaihtsiiyo’p. This is a place where many relationships have been defined, and agreements made about how to co-exist. That’s why, in the winter of 1871, we made treaty with the Pend d’Oreilles and Kootenay at this site. The rivers connect lands that bind people together.

Another aspect of this place that’s important for me are the ones that live here. Omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi, ksisskstakiiksi, otsipiiistsi, miisinsskiiksi, issikotoyiiksi, mi’kaniki’soyiiksi, the list could go on. These are the ones I come to visit here.

Like the bears, omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi are getting forced into smaller and smaller bits of land each year. And when they stray out of these reserves, people kill them on sight. I don’t know how many snake stories I’ve heard people tell, but the ending’s almost always the same… “I ran it over” or “I hit it with the shovel” or “I picked it up by its tail and whipped it, cracking its back”. These are some of the oldest living species on earth we’re talking about, and people think it’s heroic to kill them. If they were meant to be eliminated, Naato’si wouldn’t have let them continue on, and Katoyiss wouldn’t have allowed the one pregnant female escape. There are very few beings alive today whose power is so obvious that we immediately tremble in their presence. We should respond to that power with respect, rather than blind fear.

I’ve never had any problem with pitsiiksiinaiksi, and maybe that’s why the ones who stay here showed me where they live. Now each spring and fall I take a walk down here, when they’re all gathered at their winter den. In a space not bigger than your average living room there are several abandoned gopher holes that the omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi have taken residence in. I’ve never got an accurate count of how many members there are in this particular family I visit, but I’d estimate at least two dozen. They range in age and size from little babies that aren’t even as big as a garter snake to the elders with rattles as big as my index finger. They’re always here in matsiyikkapisaiki’somm (frog moon), and then again in awakaasiiki’somm (deer moon).

Each time I visit omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi, there’s a new lesson, something to think about. Today, as I walk up to their main door – the largest of their den holes – I find three adults and two babies sunning themselves. When they see me approach, I make a tobacco offering. As I speak, they each in turn slip down into the hole, going in order from youngest to eldest. About three minutes later, one of the smaller adults emerges again, returning to her original position in the sun beside the den. I assume she is female, because as soon as she’s seated comfortably a larger snake comes out and lays on top of her. I think this is her husband, and that he takes this position in order to protect her. Both of them are comfortable with my presence, otherwise they wouldn’t come back out with me so close by. But they never leave caution entirely behind. He shields her with his body, and whenever I move around too much, they rattle their tales to remind me of where they’re sitting, so I don’t accidentally step on them. I know their rattling isn’t hostile, because I’ve witnessed other snakes in the past, and when they’re preparing to strike, you definitely know it. Their entire stance will change in one lightning-fast and audible snap, all their muscles tense, and they pull their head back, ready to launch forward and bite. These snakes aren’t doing that. They’re just casually coiled on their sunning site.

I slowly take a step to my right, and don’t even know that my foot is beside another small adult snake sitting under some sagebrush until it rattles and moves out of my way. This is how it is when I come here. I try move carefully, because they’re so camouflaged, and they extend equal caution by alerting me when I’ve come too close, or making themselves known if they intend to approach me. Neither myself nor the snakes are agitated. They can read my emotions very accurately, and I believe they can also send thoughts into my mind. But if I get scared, they’ll get scared. Last spring, I demonstrated this to Piipiiaakii. She wanted to come down with me to visit the omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi. When we got near their home, I told her to walk really slowly, stopping and looking with each step. I also warned her not to panic when we reached the den. I knew I couldn’t stop her from being afraid, but if she panicked and tried to get away quickly then it would get dangerous. I think Piipiiaakii had the impression that I was being a little too cautious, until we arrived at the main door, and she met my friends face to face. She was able to stand there with them for a few minutes, but she was pretty scared. The snakes could sense this, as I’d predicted, and when her fear didn’t subside after a few minutes they passed a message along amongst one another. First one began to rattle, then another, and within a few seconds the whole area around us was buzzing. This was enough for Piipiiaakii. She was starting to worry that she’d pass out and fall down on the ground amongst them. So before absolute panic set in, I led us slowly out of the den area, back to the trail up the coulee to our car. About an hour later, I returned to the den, just to make sure there were no hard feelings.

I make an effort not to be a nuisance to omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi. I stop in to see them at the den a couple times a year, but I don’t bother them for too long at any one visit. Usually, they have something to show me, a quick lesson, and then I’m on my way. I’ve considered sleeping out there on a couple occasions, to see if they’d transfer me something. It feels like I have an open invitation from them to do so. But I’m not sure that even I’d have the guts to stay overnight amongst them. On a few occasions, some of these snakes have tried to approach me, coming right up to my feet. I always start wondering, What will I do if they wrap themselves around my legs and then become agitated? I’m pretty sure, with the ones that have approached me, that I could pick them up and they wouldn’t mind. But I haven’t been willing to test that theory.

For me, part of why I come out here is that it’s just reassuring to find them back at the den as the seasons turn from hot to cold and back again. I like to see that there’s new generations being born, and that the old timers have made it through another season. I hope that one of these summers in the future, I’ll be able to take the time to follow one or two of them through their whole annual round. I know that in the past there were people like Calf Robe who had even closer affiliations with these snake families. I think if we were living in the coulees, as they did back then, and had our children there, then people might appreciate why it’s important to have someone who’s allied to omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi. It’s part of aokakio’ssin, to be aware of where these ones are bedding and hunting during the warm seasons, so that neither of us gets hurt.

After I visit omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi, and know where they’re at, then I can move more freely throughout the rest of the coulee. And this is what I do. I go to the snakes, and then I take my walk to visit with the others who live here. I like to see who’s around, and what they’re doing. On this particular occasion, I notice that while most of the plants have dried up, there’s still some that have remained green. Among them, saa’kssoyaa’tsis. A lot of people call this plant “poison ivy” and caution against ever touching it. But they’re mistaken. There is poison ivy down here, but it’s an entirely different plant (and it happens to still be green as well). Saa’kssoyaa’tsis is actually stinging nettle. It has little barbs all over its stem and under its leaves, and when they get in your skin, they sting and itch, but only briefly. That’s why people think its poison ivy. But really, saa’kssoyaa’tsis has a lot of uses, and if you know how to handle it, you can collect it with your bare hands and never get stung. This is one of the strongest forms of natural hemp in our region. If you take a bundle of these plants and hang them up to dry, the barbs shrivel right up and can’t penetrate your skin. Even wet, they won’t break through the tougher skin of your palm. When you have a dried bundle can strip of the leaves, which make a nice strong tea, and keep the stems. Those dry stems, you crunch them up and pull all the woody stuff off them. What remains is a really strong fiber that can be twisted up into twine and rope. Across the mountains, this is what people used for making nets, fishing lines, all kinds of things. It doesn’t wear-down easy.

Something else I notice, as I’m making my rounds in the poplar flat, is the absence of mi’kaniki’soyiiksi, red-shafted flickers. The last time I was here, there were lots of them around. They’re part of amopistaanistsi. When young guys were going into a dangerous situation, especially for war, they might have one of these birds transferred to them from an iiyaohkiimi, and they’d wear it tied to their hair. Mi’kaniki’soyiiksi are able to quickly hop from one side of a tree trunk to the other. So too a young warrior, wearing mi’kaniki’soyi, would be able to quickly dodge the enemy’s arrows.

After I walk among the poplar, I head down to the river. There I find a new ksisskstakioyis, one that wasn’t here last time I came. It’s built into the bank, but extends far out into a deep pool that I usually swim in on warm days. Coming across this new lodge, it really hits home how long I’ve been absent from this place. I hadn’t bothered to come down here since the omahksisttsiiksiinaiksi emerged last spring. I’d completely missed-out on all of the developments of summer, including the opportunity to watch this ksisskstaki family build their new house.

Why hadn’t I bothered to come down here? What had been so important that it kept me unaware of these events unfolding in one of my favourite places? All the way back up the coulee-side, I contemplated these questions and quietly critiqued the manner in which we schedule our lives. We spend so much time indoors, disconnected from the ecology of kitawahsinnoon. Wouldn’t it be better to conduct our indoor activities in the evenings, or during the seven moons of winter? Wouldn’t it be preferable to set aside our jobs and classrooms, at least during the daylight of our summer months, to engage in a renewal of our relationships with place? We work relentlessly on so many of the wrong things, and it’s hurting us. I’m reminded of these lyrics from a poem sung by John Trudell:

Drenched in possession,

What we take is hard to do,

What we do is hard to take

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.