Ceremonial Smudges . . . Sunrise To The East . . . Leapfrogging Vehicles . . . Seven Fallen Feathers . . . Running  Ahead Of Schedule . . . Damn These Mosquitos . . . 

* * * 

By the third ring, I pick up. 

“Hello, Auntie.” 

“Boozhoo, Nephew. I’ll be there in fifteen. See you soon.” 

Click. 

Four forty-seven. Time enough for one last power nap? 

No such luck. I dillydally too long and before I even have time to brush my teeth, my fifteen minutes are up.  Headlights are pulling into the driveway. It’s time to go. 

I grab my semaa and jacket, lace up my Birks and I’m out the door. 

Yawning hello, I slip into my sleeves and zip up before hopping in the front seat and reaching for the safety  belt. 

“A bit nippy, no?” 

Auntie’s wearing her blue hoodie and ribbon skirt, layers underneath. 

“How about some coffee? We can make a stop at Tim’s after we pick up Laura and her friend.” 

“Probably not a good idea. The last thing I need is a bad case of floating teeth when it’s my turn to hold the Eagle staff.” 

I reconsider Auntie’s offer after contemplating the long day ahead. 

“Extra large black, please and thank you.” 

I’m on autopilot, riding shotgun, eyes closed, sensing the bends in the road as we cruise down Red River. There’s a stillness to the morning. It’s pitch dark but there’s a bright bulb of light to our left—the Strawberry Moon is in full splendour. 

We pull into Dawson but there’s no one there. The lot is silent. Vacant. 

Auntie sends a quick text then turns to me. 

“We’ll give them five minutes.” 

“What time is sunrise?” 

“Five fifty-eight.” 

It was quarter past the hour.

“And where are we meeting the others?” 

“Up Hazelwood, a click or so off the highway. Sherrie knows the spot and will be there shortly with the shell.  Once we’re all good and smudged, she’ll gather Nibi and we’ll be on our merry way.” 

“That’s what, maybe ten minutes from here?” 

I check the clock display on the dash then gaze at the empty Walmart parking lot, scanning for signs of Laura’s truck. Auntie illuminates the darkness with her cell phone. 

“Still no reply. We’d better get going if we want to beat the sun.” 

* * * 

Sherrie’s not at the agreed location. No one is. 

It’s still dark but to the east are subtle traces of oncoming daylight. 

* * * 

I wait for Sherrie to pass to Auntie the copper pail before extending my reach and taking possession of the staff. 

“Miigwetch.” 

As I commence to walk, I can’t help but reminisce. I’m back in the eighth grade. It’s track and field. Our team is running in the relay, on our way to placing first, that is … until I fumble the baton. 

I sprinkle semaa onto the land and lose sight of the memory. 

“Creator, guide my hand. Keep it true and steady.” 

Auntie is a few steps ahead and slightly to my right, humming prayers, blessing the water with each stride —always moving forth. 

Crunching the gravel behind us, rolls Sherrie and company in Laura’s gas-guzzling pickup, flashers blinking all the while. Safety first. 

Ahead of us awaits Laura who is busy swatting mosquitos while pressing her ribbon skirt smooth. When she catches sight of us, she extinguishes her smoke, snaps a couple photos of Auntie and I and readies herself for the handoff. 

* * * 

You never know the type of car you’ll inherit after passing off the pail and staff. 

This time it’s a Ford F-150. A smoker’s ride.

“Where are the hazards on this thing?” 

I always make it a point to use a car’s flashers when either pulled over to the side of the road or moving at a snail’s pace. Despite this feature being available on every automobile known to man, it is seldom located in the same place. 

Would now —as I’m seated in the driver’s seat— be an appropriate time to tell Auntie that I didn’t think to bring my wallet, nor my licence? Are we likely to get pulled over? 

“Why didn’t you bring your ID?” 

“I like to travel light.” 

I shift from neutral to drive and commence to trail the walkers, leaving a slight gap to allow them the privilege of being with Nature undisturbed. 

* * * 

 

It was cool and crisp in the boreal forest the first time I experienced walking with water.

“Can you hear that? It sounds like someone is walking behind us.”

It’s not that it sounded like someone was walking behind us. Somebody was…. or some thing. Only, if you turned around and took a peek, there was nobody there. Nothing. Or was there?

Sometimes, believing is seeing and not the other way around. Sometimes, you have to filter the world around you and view it through your heart.

“Creator is all around us,” whispered Auntie, her gaze ever forward.

Sometimes it’s Waawaaskeshii who stands there in the morning twilight wishing us well as we take the first of many steps on a long, arduous journey. Sometimes it’s Migizi soaring the skies above before perching himself on the branches of a tall-standing pine. Sometimes it’s Waboose who comes scampering from beneath the forest floor, twitching her nose against a gentle northerly breeze. 

You never know.

Which is to say: When you walk with Nibi, you best expect the unexpected. Learn to greet all who stop and say hello.

“Waynaboozhoo, Kitchie Manitou.”

I reach into my pouch and lay down some tobacco.

* * * 

Laura has a slow and steady pace. She likes to sing when she walks. 

“Singing is healing.” 

I feel bad. I don’t know any songs. I don’t speak the language. I know very little in fact, and so it is my  preference to stay silent —keep quiet. In my head, I pray… and also in my heart.

 

* * * 

“Where on earth is George Burke Park?” 

Three vehicles are idling at a four-way stop, blocking traffic —regrouping. 

We’re lost.  

After zigzagging and crisscrossing all throughout the neighbourhood, my memory suddenly kicks in. A close friend used to walk her dog in that exact neck of the woods. I know the spot. 

“The entrance is next to the cemetery. Follow my lead.” 

I put Auntie’s car in gear. 

* * * 

Sherrie walks swiftly and with authority. She is tough. She is resilient. She is a survivor, but I get the sense that there is deep anger and much hurt locked up inside. 

History has not been kind to the people of this land. 

When I am in her presence, I watch with my ears and listen with my eyes. I soak up as much knowledge as  possible and wish not to compromise the teachings in any way. 

I have walked on several occasions with Sherrie and grow more and more fond of her each time we meet. I would like to think that the feeling is mutual; that I am slowly gaining her trust but with the strong, silent type, one can never be too certain. One thing’s for sure: Respect may be a two-way street, but it is not earned overnight. 

* * * 

Elisabeth, Laura’s friend, joins the entourage at Shoppers and immediately mucks things up. 

I’m trailing Sherrie, who begins slowing her pace when she sees Auntie smudging the newcomer. With semaa in my right hand, I’m ready to sprinkle it down the minute Laura takes the Eagle staff. Elisabeth has the handle of the copper pail firmly in her grasp. 

And they’re off. 

Except the rules state that she who carries the water must always move forward; never back —and can never stop. Nibi can’t ever stop… ever! And no looking side to side. That’s the staff carrier’s job. He gets to be the eyes and will direct traffic and operate —as required— any and all crosswalk buttons. She who carries the water must rely solely on blind faith. 

Which is why it is advisable to study the city map that Auntie always so kindly provides on the dash of every vehicle, to know how to navigate the busy streets… and which way to go.

 

“They’re going the wrong way. They shouldn’t be talking. Laura’s got the staff —why hasn’t she hit the  button? Oh… we never should have made the handoff right here.” 

Sherrie’s pissed.  

We’d been caravanning cars all morning, leapfrogging them from the outskirts, doing so with panache, without incident. Down Dawson, through to John before weaving our way along Riverside. We were now a stone’s throw away from our destination: The Neebing-McIntyre Floodway. 

Collectively, we’d walked just under twenty kilometres in a little over four hours —we were making good time. Auntie was on the verge of calling Java Hut to adjust the food pick-up. We were scheduled to touch down around one o’clock. 

It was ten fourteen. 

* * * 

Sherrie makes an executive decision and temporarily halts the walk. 

From the back of her vehicle, she retrieves a bundle in a red blanket. From it, she takes and carefully places a sacred stone down onto the pavement, then guides Elisabeth towards it and instructs her to circle the pail around the Grandfather four times. 

“Do it in the direction of the sun.” 

Laura is told to put a handful of tobacco onto the stone before pressing onto it the butt end of the Walking Stick. Each of us in turn places semaa onto the stone. Sherrie then takes Nibi and cradles the pail to her chest, contemplating our next steps. 

“How do we correct our path and backtrack without going against the natural current?” 

Water never crosses over itself, and it is the duty of the walker to not only move like Adam’s Ale, but to think like it too. 

* * * 

“What do you mean, long pants? What’s wrong with these?” 

I’m wearing cut-off jean shorts. Levis. 501s. 

“You could have said something first thing this morning when you picked me up at the crack of dawn, you know. Besides, isn’t our way based on the oral tradition? So, no, I didn’t read the pamphlet. You should have told me that shorts are unacceptable… if it’s all that important. Good thing they sit just below the knee,  eh?” 

I like to rib Auntie. 

We’ve got time on our hands as we await Sherrie and Laura’s return. Taking advantage of the situation, I find a quiet place to have a tinkle. Auntie gives Elisabeth a crash course in Anishinaabe protocol.

 

* * * 

“They’re coming.” 

Sherrie holds Nibi. Laura’s got the staff. 

The two of them looped back to the place where the original path had been altered, made the proper adjustment, then circled back again in one big, giant reverse curve —just like a river. 

* * * 

“Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that if I was the last human being on Earth, I still couldn’t carry the water? Like, there is not one other living soul walking the planet?” 

“’Fraid not, Nephew.” 

“So, as a man, I am a designated staff carrier… no more, no less? But as a woman, you get to carry the staff, the pail, or both? Sounds a little unfair to me, like some kind of double standard. Wouldn’t Creator simply be happy in the fact that someone —anyone— is carrying forth the tradition, regardless of their gender?” 

“I suppose if you reach for the water and lightning strikes you dead, you’ll have your answer.” Auntie also likes to rib. 

* * * 

The final leg of our journey has Auntie in the lead. I walk two steps behind with the others in tow. Despite tired limbs, we march as one. As we approach the mouth of Lake Superior, our strength begins to return. Suddenly, the copper pail and Eagle staff are practically weightless. 

Upon arrival at the water’s edge, Auntie pauses for silent prayer. She then speaks in the language, honouring the land while feasting the water. 

“We are walking for the water. We move like the water —all day long— until we reach our destination. We  carry with us tobacco to offer to any flowing rivers or streams we cross… And to honour any animals we may meet along the way. We do this to honour all Nibi so that the rivers, lakes and oceans will be healthy, for our ancestors and generations to come. For you, Creator, we sing and pray. And, for you, our fallen youth, may you rest in peace.” 

Auntie empties Nibi into the floodway… but not before Sherrie has a chance tocollect the Cowrie shell. “We’ll need it for next time.”

Sherrie, Laura and Elisabeth each sprinkle their semaa onto the surface of the water. I go last, followed by a final touchdown of the staff and a couple songs for good measure. 

“ . . . Way-ya-hey-ya-hey-ya-ho.” 

It’s time to eat. Let us feast. 

* * * 

When the moon is again in all its glory, we will come together and walk. Be it Flower Moon or Strawberry, Buck Moon or Sturgeon.