Stuck in traffic on Highway 401, heading out of Toronto on a humid waabigwani-giizis afternoon, sweat begins to trickle down my forehead as the two frozen deer hides in my back seat begin to thaw.

There are 13 moons in the Anishinabe calendar, corresponding to the full moons of the year. “Giizis” (gee-ziz, with a hard “g”) means moon, or month.

Waabigwani-giizis is an Anishinabemowin word for the month of May, and means “Flower Moon”. (There is regional variation in calendars, so some Anishinabe nations have different names for the months.)

Squished amid a tent, clothes and camping supplies, a blue tote bin houses the waawaashkeshiwayaanag. Each one is neatly folded into a square, flesh-to-flesh, and wrapped in a black industrial-strength garbage bag. Six months ago, the deer roamed the bush in Keswick, Ont., before they were hunted by the father of my fellow camper Alessia, an annual family tradition he has taken part in since childhood. 

“waawaashkeshiwayaan” is the Anishinabemowin word for a deer hide, “waawaashkeshiwayaanag” for more than one deer hide. It is pronounced like “wah-wash-kaysh-away-ahn-ak”

Alessia’s father carefully cut off all the meat and generously saved us the skins, packing them into a deep freezer. “I saved you girls the brain too,” he proudly declared through the phone after returning from his hunt, a sentence that would undoubtedly concern anyone unaware of the context.

For the third year in a row, I’m attending Niizh Manidook Hide Camp, a week-long hide tanning revitalization camp for Two-Spirit and LGBTQ+ Indigenous youth. Niizh Manidook means “Two-Spirit” in Anishinaabemowin, a term used by some Indigenous people to describe their sexual orientation, gender or identity. Campers learn the process of traditional hide tanning using the “brain tan” method, which is exactly what it sounds like: the brains of an animal are used to transform its hide into leather.

Deer hides rest on a frame under a canopy before the softening process begins.

For generations, Indigenous Peoples tanned hides and used the soft, supple leather for moccasins, gloves, clothing and bedding. What was once necessary for our survival and a form of currency has become an old way that persevered through devastating colonial policies like the Indian Act, residential schools and the ’60s Scoop — all of which aimed to eradicate our culture. In recent years, there has been a resurgence of brain hide tanning across Indigenous communities and there are now a handful of tanners across the country who are teaching the process to generations both young and old, through camps, workshops and social media. 

The author, Kierstin Williams (left), and fellow camper Alessia (right) carry a wooden frame with a strung up deer hide to the canopy to dry.

Animals are honoured at hide camp — but it’s not for the faint of heart

Growing up in my home communities of Garden River First Nation and Batchewana First Nation, I was no stranger to wildlife. Both of my parents are skilled fishers, and various critters like bears, deer and foxes routinely ate the vegetables in our garden. But I had never heard about hide tanning. Each fall, I peered with awe at the massive, brown and bloody moose that would hang from my neighbour’s tree during hunting season. In the Anishinaabe worldview, it’s important to honour the life of an animal, including by using all its parts to leave minimal waste. At Niizh Manidook, I had the opportunity to follow this teaching by giving the deer a new life and purpose.

In my first year, I was overwhelmed by a sense of hesitancy, and my stomach fluttered over my abysmal knowledge of tanning compared to some of my peers. I asked our camp Knowledge Keepers and teachers a million questions about the steps in the process, how they learned, what not to do and everything in between — questions they happily and patiently answered. But as I approach the campgrounds for my third year, I feel I have something to prove. It’s my first time tanning my own deer hide.

Smoke from punk wood coals curls out the top of a tipi at Niizh Manidook, giving a moose hide its caramel-brown colour and final seal. The camp welcomes around 20 Two-Spirit and LGBTQ+ Indigenous youth each year, along with instructors who teach them about hide tanning.

Within a few hours, I pulled onto the dry, dirt rez roads of the Delaware Nation at Moriviantown, fittingly nicknamed “Bucktown,” about a 30-minute drive northeast of Chatham, Ont. A small craft shop sits at the bumpy entrance to the grounds of Niizh Manidook, which is hosted on the family property of Beze Gray, a member of Aamjiwnaang First Nation and one of the camp’s co-founders. A large white canopy, two tipis, a smaller canopy and a variety of wooden frame configurations make up the work area. I pull up alongside the row of cars parked on the grass and within a few minutes I’m embraced in the arms of fellow campers and teachers who I’ve come to consider family. 

In 2019, Niizh Manidook was founded by Two-Spirit hide tanners, artists and activists, Hunter Cascagnette and Beze. The pair had a bit of hide tanning experience, a small batch of tools and the dream of creating a gathering space for Two-Spirit youth to become immersed in hide tanning. Since then, the camp has grown to host around 20 youth each year from Indigenous Nations across Ontario. This year, one participant even flew in from Alaska to attend.

Beze Gray, one of Niizh Manidook’s founders, uses a steel beam to scrape off a deer hide.

“If you wanna get started on your hides you better get going,” Beze says, gesturing towards the workstation under a canopy. “It’s 2 p.m. now and you’ve got a few hours before we stop for the day.”

I quickly weave my hair into a braid and pop the lid off the blue tote bin, bracing myself for the smell of the thawing hides. With a quick tear, the hides are unfurled with a thump, landing on a blue tarp sprawled across the grass. Mary Ann Maiangowi-Manatch, one of the camp apprentices, pulls a knife from a sheath and precisely removes chunks of fat, meat and stray skin to square off the edges. Blood, flesh, veins, bug bites, hair follicles and even rib marks can be traced across the underside of the skin. Each hide tells a story, and if you look close enough, you can see yourself in it.

Kierstin Williams uses a steel hand tool to “flesh” a deer hide. The fleshing process removes remaining meat and fat leftover after a hunter skins the deer.

Wearing thick waterproof aprons and black rubber gloves, Mary Ann and I drape the hides over a long wooden beam to “flesh” them. Standing at the end of the beam with one foot braced behind me, I hold a steel rod tool with both hands and push down against the hide using my body weight. The remaining meat and fat peels off with a tearing noise and are discarded into a “bits” bin.

After an hour or so of the repetitive downward scraping, the hides are ready to be rinsed in clean water and prepped for the next step. They’ll soak for a few days in a solution that will cause the hide to swell and loosen the hair follicles, making it easier to remove.

Brenda Lee, a Niizh Manidook instructor, speaks to camp participants about the hide softening stage.

Brain hide tanning isn’t exactly for the faint of heart — it’s messy, smelly and labour intensive. Tanners get covered in animal fluids, hair and flecks of skin. In comparison, commercial tanning uses toxic chemicals to tan the hides in large batches. 

After the hair is removed, the membrane layer from the inside of the hide will need to be scraped off. Next the hide will be stretched on a frame, dried and scraped to remove the grain layer from the hair side. Each animal has enough brain to tan its own hide, which is made into a mixture with laundry soap and water and spread on it for a few days for softening. Afterwards the hide is wrung out and softened by hand before the final smoking.

A group of campers and teachers work together to pull and stretch out a moose hide.

Processing hides connects us to the land, but also to ourselves

Over the next few days, campers work alongside teachers on hides in various stages: some are removing hair, some are scraping off skin, others are rolling the hide into a doughnut shape to wring it out before it is stretched. We all take turns at the different stations, not only to gain experience but to avoid too much sun and strain on our muscles. I wander between the stations, trying my hand at doughnut wringing, stretching and softening while taking notes and socializing. A few campers retreat to the shade of a picnic table, carefully beading sets of earrings, medallions and even a full purse. A roar of laughter erupts from their direction every few minutes or so.

A moose hide is twisted and wrung out on custom made birch tree poles made by Niizh Manidook instructor and founder Hunter Cascagnette.

According to Beze, hide tanning helps youth to understand nature in a different way and build community. “I think it’s really healing. When you’re processing a hide, you get to process yourself,” Beze tells me. “It’s a good practice for youth to learn because it’s so interactive and thoughtful and is [connected] to a part of an animal that is usually discarded.” 

Campers use different tools to soften an elk hide stretched out on a frame.

After a few years with the camp, I understand more about what Beze means by “processing yourself.” In the repetitive, scraping motions, I feel the heaviness of my body and the weight of learning this practice. It’s not just about softening a hide, it’s about softening into yourself. We share stories, speak our languages, put in our blood, sweat and the occasional tear, accidentally cut holes, sew up those holes and celebrate the small victories of each step. Hide tanning teaches us to slow down, listen and be in relation — reminding us that to return to the land, is to return to ourselves.

Camp co-founder Hunter (top left) poses with campers and instructors next to a moose hide after twisting it onto a birch tree pole to wring out.

In the crisp, dewy morning hours after a cup of coffee, I lug my soaking wet hide over to the scraping beam. Donning protective gear, I push a metal scraping tool down into the hide and the hair slides out with ease, each movement splashing murky water and fur onto my boots. As I carry the hide and bin over to the hose to rinse off and change the water, the opening chord progression of Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club” calls out from a speaker. It feels as though everyone pauses their work as a blend of voices from all directions join in to chant the lyrics. Gathered on the rez in the glaring heat, a song celebrating a queer space made up of chosen family, community and self-expression makes Niizh Manidook feel like a “Pink Pony Club” in its own right.

Alessia, a camper, repositions her deer hide on a wooden beam to scrape off and remove the hair. Campers in the background work together to stretch out a moose hide.

For the last task of the day, a few campers and teachers help me to string up the hide on a frame to dry overnight. The sun is starting to go down, so Alessia and I return to a clearing where a small village of colourful tents are set up alongside the Thames River. My body is heavy from the strain of continuous scraping, lifting and sweating. Unfortunately, my tent also waged its own battle of wills, losing against a heavy rainstorm that left the poles in shards and the ceiling collapsed. Alessia and I lug our sleeping bags, lumpy air mattress and backpacks into Niizh Manidook’s tipi for the night.

A small group of us settle down in our flimsy ten-dollar camp chairs for an evening fire. The sweet smells of roasted marshmallows and salty hot dogs fill the air as we swap stories from our home communities, plans for the summer powwow trail and, for some, upcoming drag shows. Overhead, waawaate dance above our heads in shades of green, red and purple as the stars illuminate against the backdrop of the night sky. 

waawaate (“wah-wah-tay”) is the Anishinabemowin word for the Northern Lights.

Hides are a testament to resilient Indigenous knowledge and science

On our last day, I sit under a canopy and with guidance from camp co-founder Hunter, use a scraper to remove my hide’s grain layer, which holds the hair follicles. As I press hard against the hide and pull down, the dry skin peels off with sh-sh-sh sound and falls to the ground in the shape of pencil shavings. This is as far as the hide will get for now as there isn’t enough time to fully tan it within a week. Even for experienced tanners like our teachers and Knowledge Keepers, the full process can take between five days for a deer hide and up to two weeks for a moose. 

A deer hide dries out in the sun after the membrane side was scraped.

A few hides are ready for the final step in the process, smoking. Brenda, one of the teachers, demonstrates to campers how to sew a hide to a canvas material and create a “smokestack.” The final smoke gives a hide a beautiful amber colour and a water-resistant “seal.” I haven’t seen the smoking process yet, so after spotting a tipi with smoke billowing out the side, I head over to get a closer look. To satisfy my curiosity, I lay flat in the grass with my feet in the air and peer under the tipi’s tarp. Met with heavy grey smoke, my eyes sting and brim with tears. I see a moose hide strung up in the poles as punky spruce wood burns in a metal garbage can below. 

According to camp co-founder Hunter, this fire under the moose hide was meant to be smouldering, not flaming. But it looked cool anyway.

“Is the wood supposed to be flaming?” I ask Hunter, who immediately runs over to smoulder the fire into coals. “Don’t put that in the story,” they say with cheeks beaming and a wink. “Can’t have people thinking we don’t know what we’re doing.” The smoke wafts upwards to penetrate the hide, preserving the work done to soften it before the final smoke. 

Every camper takes home a piece of luxuriously soft, sturdy, caramel-brown deer hide. As I run the hide between my hands, breathing in the gentle smoke, I’m reminded each hide was touched countless times by dozens of hands and is a physical testament to generations of traditional Indigenous knowledge and science. Despite long-standing efforts to eliminate our culture and remove us from the land, our people are creating spaces of resurgence and this is where I feel most connected to who I am as an Anishinaabekwe. 

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In the early hours of a brisk Onaabani-Giizis (March) morning, Ben Belleau gently directs the bow of a steel fishing boat into the water, a motion that ripples across the clear glassy coat of the St. Mary’s River. 

Belleau has fished and guided people around the area since he was a teenager in the late 1960s. He grew up in Garden River First Nation, an Ojibway community about a 20-minute drive east of Sault Ste. Marie, Ont. Our community is a place called Ketegaunseebee or Gitigaan-ziibi in Anishinaabemowin, named for the vegetables Anishinaabe grew near the shores and traded with settlers.

Garden River First Nation is one of 21 signatories to the Robinson Huron Treaty of 1850. The treaty notes Squirrel Island as part of the reserve entitlement of the First Nation.

As the owner of Ben’s Bait & Tackle, a shop on the shore of the St. Mary’s, Belleau offers guided tours, organizes fishing derbies and, of course, sells bait and tackle. He knows the lands and water like the back of his hand and they know him just as well.

“Over the years, people wanted to know about the river, so I give them the history of how Garden River got to be,” he tells me, a history he shares to this day. For repeat customers, that usually means hearing the same tales more than once. 

“In my 71 years I’ve never seen a winter this mild,” Belleau says, pointing out a small cluster of ice shards floating downstream as he settles into the driver’s seat. It’s warmer than it should be, the tail end of what is officially Canada’s warmest winter on record.

With the flick of a lighter, a thick curl of smoke envelops Belleau. He quickly turns the key to the boat, and a cloud puffs around the motor too. His wife, Glenda, watches from their house as we depart from the dock and head east from his shop — toward a parcel of land that Garden River First Nation has fought to reclaim for decades. 

Ben Belleau, who grew up in Garden River First Nation, has spent his life on the St. Mary’s River, traveling past Squirrel Island on his boat. Since 1987, the First Nation has been gradually reclaiming properties on the island.

Squirrel Island is a 51-hectare isle located about 150 metres from the shore of Garden River. It’s one of a handful of islands in the St. Mary’s divvied up between Canada and the U.S, as the waterway serves as a border between the two. Growing up, when Squirrel Island came into view while out fishing, my brothers and I were always reminded the island was once Anishinaabe land.

“Back in the day, the island was used to store the horses. They were brought over there for safekeeping or to range free,” Belleau recalls, his head nodding and eyebrows furrowing as if he is remembering the story as it leaves his lips. 

Ours isn’t the only First Nation whose homelands were taken. The late Secwépemc leader Arthur Manuel calculated that First Nation reserves comprise less than 0.2 per cent of Canada’s land mass. In the Robinson Huron Treaty of 1850, Garden River First Nation was originally promised a reserve extending over 54,000 hectares, including Squirrel Island. Today, it stands at less than half of that, just 20,700 hectares. Now, piece by piece, our nation is finally getting Squirrel Island back — but that’s only the beginning of a longer fight to truly reclaim it.

Squirrel Island is just 150 metres from the shore, a familiar sight to everyone growing up on Garden River.

The seizure of Squirrel Island from Garden River First Nation

For centuries, Anishinaabe people hunted and lived in reciprocity on the lands surrounding Baawaating; in our language, this means the place of the rapids. In the 1840s, the Province of Canada took great interest in the wealth of mineral deposits, timber and opportunities for settlement in the area. It began issuing mining licenses, which the Anishinaabe did not consent to, and a Crown Lands Agent confiscated timber harvested by Garden River on Squirrel Island. The Anishinaabe viewed these actions as threats to their lands and jurisdiction. So, they called for a treaty.

In 1850, the Anishinaabe entered into an agreement with the Crown at Baawaating, called Sault Ste. Marie in English, creating the Robinson Huron Treaty. Chief Shingwaukonse and his Indian band were promised lands “extending from Maskinonge Bay, inclusive to Partridge Point, above Garden River inland ten miles, as well as Squirrel Island.” Nine years later, the Crown began to pressure the First Nation to relinquish lands set aside in the treaty for resource development and settlements — a series of surrenders known as the Pennefather Treaty. But according to Cole Nolan, Garden River’s historian, Squirrel Island was specifically noted to be retained by Garden River First Nation. 

In 1869, 10 years after the Pennefather Treaty was signed, the band entered an agreement with an entrepreneur, Duncan G. Macdonald, to use the island as a site for a mill, on the conditions that all timber harvested only be sold to one man, who would hire and train Anishinaabe labourers. The mill was never built on the island, and since the requirements of the agreement were not met, the license was revoked. Even so, in 1888, the Bureau of Indian Affairs sold the island to Macdonald, who went on to sell the island to a Mr. Huston in 1905. 

Before it was used for cottage country, Ben Belleau says Garden River First Nation kept horses on the island.

As Belleau and I make our way towards a dock on the sandy shore, a red four-wheeler stands out against the backdrop of white pines and colourful cottages closed for winter. Aside from the wildlife, Squirrel Island is usually vacant in mid-March. But Alfie Miller is an exception to the rule, and he’s patiently awaiting our arrival.

Squirrel Island has changed a lot since the early 1900s, when Huston bought it and began selling lots to future cottagers. Below the ground, power, telecom and water lines run through the island. At one point, there was a mini golf course on one property and even a pool at the largest cottage. A man from the nearby community of Echo Bay built a store and a gas bar on the water so boaters coming down the river could easily refuel. 

Alfie Miller, left, has had a family cottage on Squirrel Island for generations, and offers up a detailed history of the island and its inhabitants. He knows the island was stolen from the First Nation and is equanimous about its return.

“They sold cigarettes and candy, and he put a gas pump in at the dock,” Miller recalls. “There was even a telephone booth right in front of that store.” 

Miller has a long history with Squirrel Island. His family has been camping here for 83 years. During the Second World War, Miller’s father purchased a lot and began building whatever he could afford — initially, it was only a shed. Eventually, he built a small camp, which now includes a guest building for Miller’s grandchildren.

Miller says his father lived and breathed for his camp and that he would have rather lost his right arm than sell it. “We’ve always known that Garden got screwed out of [the land],” Miller says. “Years ago, somebody in Parliament must’ve said ‘There’s no one living there.’ ” But that doesn’t mean he and other cottagers don’t have their own enduring relationships with Squirrel Island, ones that must be considered as Garden River works to reclaim their land.

Ben Belleau (left) stands with Alfie Miller, who has been camping on Squirrel Island his whole life. His grandfather built their family cottage more than 80 years ago.

Following attempts to extinguish Indigenous claims, a long fight for justice

Until 1951, Section 141 of the Indian Act made it illegal for anyone, First Nations or not, to raise money for Indian legal claims. This was part of a concerted effort to extinguish Indigenous titles and advance the colonialist project, by preventing any First Nation from pursuing lengthy and expensive Aboriginal land claims. 

After Section 141 was repealed, it took another 25 years for Garden River to file a claim against the federal government over the unjustified sale of the island. And it was another 11 years until a $2.53 million settlement was reached. This legal victory, finally achieved in 1987, didn’t return the island to Garden River. But it did allow the band to start buying back what was theirs by right, as well as distribute $1,000 to each member. 

The buyback wasn’t exactly smooth sailing: there was resistance from cottagers, some of whom had lived there for decades. Some refused to sell, and some were scornful of the band’s efforts to reclaim what was promised in the treaty. In a 1987 Sault Star newspaper clipping, an unnamed cottager said that “Indian bands try to lay claim to whatever land they think is valuable.”

Above our heads, the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, cutting the cold sting of the morning air and signalling the passing time. “We should probably get a move on, eh,” Belleau says, pursing his lips at the backwoods beyond the lawns of the cabins. Loading onto the four-wheeler and its trailer, we set out toward the place I’m most eager to see: a garbage dump and dilapidated cottages. With Miller in the lead, we bounce along the bumpy paths and brush, stopping every so often to get a closer look inside the old buildings. 

After the First Nation began buying back cottage properties, the buildings fell into disrepair

After Garden River First Nation purchased some of the cottages on the island, the band hired a few members to check on the properties. But with the passing of time and the turnover of band councils every two years, the cabins fell into disrepair. Today, once-beautiful places are a sad sight: windows are broken, old appliances are overturned and floors and ceilings are sagging. As I tread carefully in one, worried about the floor collapsing, I spot an old mattress that some small critters have made into a home and a fern sprouting up through a board — small reminders of the resilience of nature.

Miller recalls his father telling him about the horses that used to be here.“He’d hear them going around the island at night,” Miller tells us. “Sometimes you’d be lying in bed there and you’d hear a thunder of hooves go by.” 

Reaching the island’s centre, we can see a fence that once penned the horses, which now marks the boundary of a garbage dump. Miller says a tall barn once stood adjacent to the dump, filled with marine supplies, but burned down years ago. Now, brightly-coloured old trucks, barbecues, folding chairs, go-karts and various pieces of outdoors equipment are heaped in large piles consumed by leaves and tangly brush. As I wonder how all these objects arrived here, a more important question occurs to me: how is this mess going to be cleaned up?

Where horses once roamed, a heap of trash and old vehicles is mounded in the centre of Squirrel Island. The First Nation is negotiating with provincial and federal parties to clean it up.

As the remaining cottagers get older, questions are arising over the fate of their properties. Karen Bell, Garden River’s Ogimaa Kwe, the Anishinaabemowin term for a female chief, says the lawyers and cottagers have agreed on a set of terms, which give the First Nation the right of refusal if a property is being sold or inherited. 

Miller, who is now 73, inherited his father’s property on the island with his younger sister. Though the agreement applies to his cottage, he’s sanguine about what it will mean for him and his family in the future. “What’s going to happen is going to happen, but you can’t worry about it,” he says he told his daughters. He isn’t concerned about Garden River forcing him or his fellow cottagers off the island, and he knows that reclaiming the island will be a long and gradual process.

‘Indigenous people are here for the long haul’

Sitting at the head of the table with a portrait of the famous leader and warrior Shingwaukonse looking over her shoulder, Chief Bell says the band is currently negotiating with the provincial and federal governments about restoring the island. “The onus is on them to do the cleanup,” she explains, saying a barge will be required for the broken-down cottages and garbage dump. “The burden should not be on the nation and [the governments] understand that.”

Chief Karen Bell is optimistic about the future, despite the challenges of reclaiming Squirrel Island. The nation is negotiating with provincial and federal governments, as well as the remaining cottagers.

Although the band has bought some cottages, lands purchased by a First Nation are not automatically added to its reserve, even after a specific claim settlement like the 1987 ruling, which affirmed that Squirrel Island shouldn’t have been taken from Garden River in the first place. Chief Bell says the band will eventually be seeking an Addition to Reserve, a lengthy process of applying to the federal government to have the land granted reserve status. 

This requires meeting specific criteria laid out by Indigenous Services Canada before being approved by the Minister of Crown-Indigenous Relations and Northern Affairs. The process of gaining approval can include doing environmental assessments, providing public access and utilities, consulting with municipal and provincial governments and addressing “third party interests.” For an area like Squirrel Island, which was divided into numerous privately-owned lots, it’s a particularly challenging process. 

Even if the First Nation purchases all of Squirrel Island, it does not automatically become reserve land. That process requires a separate application to the federal government, another stage in the long and complicated process of reclamation.

Garden River would like to reclaim the entire island eventually, but before that can happen, these outstanding issues must be resolved. Bell isn’t deterred by the challenges ahead. “Indigenous people are here for the long haul,” she declares. “We’re not going anywhere and so we have to work together in order to be able to co-exist.”

In May 2023, Garden River leadership travelled to Queen’s Park to file a lawsuit against the Ontario and federal governments for breaching the Robinson Huron Treaty of 1850. The nation alleges the government coerced the sale of over 30,000 hectares of Garden River’s lands promised in the Robinson Huron Treaty for the 1859 Pennefather Treaty. 

The lawsuit claims the Crown breached its fiduciary duties by not defending Garden River’s interests in the lands. “We want to be compensated for it in the way of the society of today, we’re not going to get it back,” Chief Bell says, acknowledging that how the lands have been used and developed since 1859 has informed the nation’s demands. The lands that were sold now form the neighbouring communities of the Township of Macdonald, Meredith, and Aberdeen Additional. Some of the land remains undeveloped, and the nation is asking for its return. For the portions of the lands that cannot be returned, the lawsuit says “an order of damages or equitable compensation” should be paid to the First Nation for lost opportunity. 

As Belleau and I head back to shore, Squirrel Island slowly disappears behind us. With whistling winds and a mist of water against my face, I close my eyes and imagine the island as an Anishinaabe land-based learning camp. I see scenes of sugar bushing, canoeing lessons, fishing and hide tanning camps. Then I picture the island cleaned up and simply returned to its natural state — unoccupied, except for the deer, beavers and other critters that call the island home.

After heading up from the dock, I get into my car and head down the old Highway 17B, a two-lane thoroughfare running through the First Nation. No one who drives on it can miss the distinct message graffitied in white paint across the length of a nearby CP Rail bridge. “THIS IS INDIAN LAND,” it declares — a truth the members of Garden River First Nation, and Indigenous communities across the country, know and have always known. The longstanding and ongoing fight to reclaim promised lands does not end here.

Updated on June 6, 2024, at 3:00 pm. PT: This story has been updated to correct the name of Alfie Miller, not Alfie Huckson as was previously written. We also have removed a misquote by Miller. The Narwhal regrets the error.

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