The journey began in Ottawa. We paddled a 16-person, 35-foot fibreglass canoe fashioned in the image of the birchbark canoe, painted to detail the birchbark, the cedar gunnels and the pitch used to seal together the traditional vessel that our ancestors would have paddled. Weighing a colossal 270 kilograms, these finely designed vehicles were once the key to the economy, delivering heavy freight all across the Great Lakes and inland lakes and rivers. With one person acting as the rudder in the back and one person setting the pace in the front, the rest of us smushed into the canoe, two by two, and onward we went. 

We followed the Kichi Sibi almost 300 kilometres to the Mattawa River, then continued onward 200 kilometres through Nbissiing (Lake Nipissing) into Wemitigoj-Sibi (the French River). From there we were on the Great Lakes. We sailed our way across 250 kilometres of Huron’s northern shoreline with a makeshift carved mast and a tarp for a sail. We had many hiccups along the way, but once we travelled through the Bawaating area, 200 kilometres from Biniwaabikong (Blind River) to Obatchiwanang (Batchewana), and made it to Superior, we really hit our groove. After Gichi Gami, we continued onward, up through the Gojijiwininiwag (Rainy River area) and into Pikwedina Sagainan (Lake of the Woods). We ended our journey with a grand welcome and big celebration at the Métis Nation of Ontario’s Annual General Assembly in Wazhashk-Onigamiing.

We were on the water day in and day out, paddling and portaging, sleeping at the beaches and river mouths where my ancestors undoubtedly camped, taking moments for prayer and ceremony at sacred sites and luxuriating in moments of pause, play and reprieve when the waters allowed.

The water dictated how our day would go. If it was a calm day, we took the time to rest, finding the nicest rock or beach to enjoy lunch and a swim — paddling extra hard to achieve most of the travelling distance in the morning so we could soak in the water, sun and company for the rest of the day. These were the days we would play games or sing songs as a crew, all the while paddling merrily on our journey.

On windy days, especially when we were far from our next touchpoint with our road crew (and cellphone service), things were more serious. We were often silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts — whatever enabled us to paddle that next stroke. For me, it was a meditation. In those moments, I didn’t have to think about my grief — I was completely entranced by the water. With each stroke, a breath. With each wave crashing against the canoe, a call to remain present. It was in those moments that I was able to exist outside of a world of grief. Each kilometre further removed, I was reminded that I was strong, that I come from resilient people and that I would continue to move forward.

Moving through the waterways became a metaphor for the grief moving through my body. In the rivers leading to Lake Huron, we ran across many barriers, some akin to those of our ancestors — small creeks and marshlands through which we had to portage. Others were more modern. We couldn’t sleep on the shores of Kichi Sibi as our ancestors had done because so much of the land is now privatized. We paddled from boat launch to boat launch, taking the giant canoe in and out of the water and hauling it and ourselves to the nearest campground. At this point, at the start of our journey, I was coming up against emotional barriers, too—I would dam up my own feelings of grief and sadness, and they would come out in powerful outbursts, just like the river rapids. 

Lake Huron provided a much-needed reprieve from portaging, campgrounds and black flies. The days were warm, with calm, mirror-like waters. We received lots of kindness, generosity and delicious food from Métis communities and First Nations along the way. We sailed leisurely into Biniwaabikong, cutting out two days’ worth of paddling. I was grateful to be greeted by people from my own community, especially my sister and mom. I was greeted again by more family, my aunts and my grandmother, when we arrived in the Soo.

I saw a lot of family on our route. One of the other paddlers, whose Métis roots come from the Prairies, noticed I usually had at least one family member at every community event along the paddle. This was a time for me to acknowledge what had happened, to sit with the feelings of grief and sadness and to be loved and supported by those close to me, including the familiar waters of Huron’s north shore, where I was raised. I considered ending my journey here, to be around loved ones, but something urged me onward. I told myself that if I wasn’t happy by Animikii-ziibiing (Thunder Bay), I would stop there.

Once we reached Superior, we canoed in the morning while the waters were calm, then took in the lake’s charm after we set up camp in the afternoon. This meant exploring its many beaches, some of fine-grained sand or small effervescent stones, and others of large rocks like dinosaur eggs, rounded by the throes of the great Superior’s epic waves. There were lighthouses, sacred sites, saunas on islands peppering the coast and magnificent waterfalls, all gems tucked away for those confident enough to navigate the lake that “never gives up her dead.” 

We spent days — sometimes a week at a time — without connection to the outside world. There was no cell phone service, and certainly no proximity to the road crew to bring us ice cream after a hard day’s paddle. Among many days of wonder and adventure, there were also days where we had to paddle harder than we knew we were capable — days with waves so high that I had to bail the water out of the canoe as the others continued to paddle. Even in July, we had chilly days when all our clothes and gear were damp, when the winds howled, when we were down to the scraps of our food and when fellow canoers got seasick and had to lie in the bottom of the canoe as we trudged onward in wavy waters.

Something about this challenging time on Superior allowed me to reconnect with feelings other than grief. I have always felt a deep affinity to the lake, but being able to live my life in rhythm with its movements was life-giving. I felt awoken by, not fearful of, the lake’s frigid waters. I felt deeply relaxed while sleeping to the lulls of the waves. I felt powerful and enthralled as I paddled against the whitecaps. I felt joy in connecting with the many sailors, artists, adventurers, Knowledge Keepers, scientists and storytellers along our travels. It was a time of great healing. I was able to finish the rest of the trip to Kenora, not without struggle, but certainly with much more room in my heart for the gifts of life. 

It has been six years since my father passed. I now live in a beautiful cabin on Gichi Gami. Every day, I look out at the lake and am empowered and healed. I see the life she gives to me, to the family of otters that catch fish off the shoreline, to the mother and adolescent eagle that fly over my house, to the great pine tree outside my window that defies gravity and to a great many others. I do not own this land or this waterfront. I am only here for a short time, and the rocks and waters will continue to be, long after I am gone. With the time that I do have, I seek to honour my relationship with the Great Lake that gives my life so much greatness. I am bound and determined to find a way to protect and heal this lake as she did me. This is reciprocity, this is relationship, and this is love. The time to act is now.

I sit writing this on a warm, early September day. My dog Thor, who I lovingly call Myeengun-onse (Little Wolf in Anishinaabemowin), and cat, Shadow, who I like to call Bishiw-onse (Little Panther), soak in the last days of sun on the deck next to me. The lull of the waves and the cool breeze have us all relaxed. It is a relatively rare day for September. The winds usually start picking up around this time, leading up to the infamous gales of November on Lake Superior. On days like these, I am reminded that all beings need rest, even the Greatest of Lakes.

Each day, the lake gives me something to be grateful for. It gifts me with lessons and love. In moments where I feel heavy, the northern winds remind me of lightness and the importance of breathing. In moments where I feel alone, the rising sun warms my back like the caress of a loved one. When I am feeling angry, the lake responds with thrashing waves, reminding me that it is okay to be furious. If I am anxious, the glassy morning waters call me to tap into my inner calm. What the lake continually teaches me is to not fight my own nature.

My connection to water is part of my own nature. It is something that I have inherited from my ancestors. It flows through my veins just as the rivers and streams are the lifeblood of Shkaakaamikwe (Mother Earth). The closer I get to the lake and my own nature, the more I understand that our well-being is tied to one another.

My water comes from the lake. I draw it into my house, to a pool in my basement. It is a gift to be drinking the waters from Gichi Gami. As a good friend told me, if I am 60 per cent water, and the water I am drinking is from Gichi Gami, then 60 per cent of me is Gichi Gami. If the lake is well, I am well. If the lake is sick, I am also sick. 

My first year moving home, I was excited to go smelt fishing, one of my favourite springtime activities, taught to me by my father. Smelts are a small, silvery fish that travel in large schools up rivers and streams in the early springtime. At night, with flashlights, friends and family, we head to tucked-away creeks and river mouths to catch dozens of these small fish in special handheld nets. They are delicious fried and crispy golden, and any leftovers from gutting the smelts go to the compost to bring the rich nutrients from the water onto the land, into the plants and, eventually, back into the bellies of myself and my family.