My Relations
when my mom was alive she used to take us to visit this Cree man who lived in a cliff cave by the side of the road. i was young, around eight or so, and i can't remember his name (never was good with them) and i asked my brother if he could remember his name but he doesnt.
he was a trapper and lived there year round, it didnt matter if it was forty below freezing he was there, doing his thing. there was a narrow crevice at the top of his cliff cave home and how she knew he was there was when she saw smoke coming from it. the way to get in was to circle to the back by walking along the road until you got to a break in the bush along the ditch. the water that pooled in the ditch was shallow but there was a narrow board walkway to cross it. the boards were splintered, worn smooth and covered in moss. they would dip into the water when you stepped on them, wetting your feet.
the land up north is rugged, lots of sheet rock substrates that are covered in a thin soil that can often only support the low-reaching roots of small bushes, muskeg, grasses, vegetation with runner roots, not reaching. the rainwater collects in the rock ditches, creating these long strips of pools that parallel the gravel roads; the water in them clear with a brown tinge. when we drove the road that cut through the land where my mother was born i would stare out the window at the rock pools thinking how perfect and beautiful they were ringed with cattails or fireweed or both. when the sky was overcast, the water would be too, a grey color, sometimes an odd greenish blue.
the side of the dusty gravel road was dotted with tiger lilies and diamond willow and when we stopped so my mom could point out a berry patch and tell us stories about it (strawberries, blueberries, chokecherries, mooseberries; one favorite stopping place was this small rock shelf covered in a thick system of strawberry runners. the berries were so sweet they filled your mouth with an explosion. not like the thinly-flavored berries you buy in stores or farmer's markets---these were wild strawberries, the best) me and my sister would run to see who could be the first to get a tiger lily if our mom said it was okay. don't eat too many of them. there aren't a lot so make sure to leave some to grow.
this path took you back into the bush a ways, his front door was a person sized crack and you (well, i could, but i was eight) could walk through it without bending over. it was not too long, sort of narrow and opened up to the cave inside, wide and cool and earthy-smelling, a rich, deep rooty odor mixed with woodsmoke and pelts; it smelled like a typical trapper's cabin. he had things hanging from cracks in the rock walls, had an oil-drum woodstove with a pipe that ran up to the ceiling of the cave. there was a wooden cot built bush style: with an axe out of pine poles and lashed with leather and rope. an old CN blanket & cardboard covered it as a mattress and piled at the foot of it a big moose hide quilt and a patch-work blanket that someone had made for him. and everytime we visited he would offer it to us and pull up a wooden box for himself where he would sit and cross his legs to hold his tobacco pouch as he rolled a cigarette and handed it to my mom, gesturing with his lower lip toward the family sized tin can bubbling over with tea on the oil drum.
sometimes when i smell a certain combination of scents (leaves, woodsmoke) and when the air is a certain temperature something triggers in my head and i can see the oil stove with the pipe leading up to the crack in the ceiling and feel the coarse hair of the moosehide blanket tickling my leg, feel the damp coolness of the air. i can see him sitting in the dim blue light of the cave with a shaft of sun slicing down from up top brightening his dingy white cotton tshirt but leaving his face in shadow. he is talking with my mom in Cree about this or that: the past fur season or the fishing or a female moose he saw with twins just the other day when he was out looking for berries. he is gesturing with his wizened hands in the way that Cree do and leaving a wispy zig-zag trail of smoke from the stub of a rollie clenched between two fisted fingers. his voice is echoing in the cave.
he was a trapper and lived there year round, it didnt matter if it was forty below freezing he was there, doing his thing. there was a narrow crevice at the top of his cliff cave home and how she knew he was there was when she saw smoke coming from it. the way to get in was to circle to the back by walking along the road until you got to a break in the bush along the ditch. the water that pooled in the ditch was shallow but there was a narrow board walkway to cross it. the boards were splintered, worn smooth and covered in moss. they would dip into the water when you stepped on them, wetting your feet.
the land up north is rugged, lots of sheet rock substrates that are covered in a thin soil that can often only support the low-reaching roots of small bushes, muskeg, grasses, vegetation with runner roots, not reaching. the rainwater collects in the rock ditches, creating these long strips of pools that parallel the gravel roads; the water in them clear with a brown tinge. when we drove the road that cut through the land where my mother was born i would stare out the window at the rock pools thinking how perfect and beautiful they were ringed with cattails or fireweed or both. when the sky was overcast, the water would be too, a grey color, sometimes an odd greenish blue.
the side of the dusty gravel road was dotted with tiger lilies and diamond willow and when we stopped so my mom could point out a berry patch and tell us stories about it (strawberries, blueberries, chokecherries, mooseberries; one favorite stopping place was this small rock shelf covered in a thick system of strawberry runners. the berries were so sweet they filled your mouth with an explosion. not like the thinly-flavored berries you buy in stores or farmer's markets---these were wild strawberries, the best) me and my sister would run to see who could be the first to get a tiger lily if our mom said it was okay. don't eat too many of them. there aren't a lot so make sure to leave some to grow.
this path took you back into the bush a ways, his front door was a person sized crack and you (well, i could, but i was eight) could walk through it without bending over. it was not too long, sort of narrow and opened up to the cave inside, wide and cool and earthy-smelling, a rich, deep rooty odor mixed with woodsmoke and pelts; it smelled like a typical trapper's cabin. he had things hanging from cracks in the rock walls, had an oil-drum woodstove with a pipe that ran up to the ceiling of the cave. there was a wooden cot built bush style: with an axe out of pine poles and lashed with leather and rope. an old CN blanket & cardboard covered it as a mattress and piled at the foot of it a big moose hide quilt and a patch-work blanket that someone had made for him. and everytime we visited he would offer it to us and pull up a wooden box for himself where he would sit and cross his legs to hold his tobacco pouch as he rolled a cigarette and handed it to my mom, gesturing with his lower lip toward the family sized tin can bubbling over with tea on the oil drum.
sometimes when i smell a certain combination of scents (leaves, woodsmoke) and when the air is a certain temperature something triggers in my head and i can see the oil stove with the pipe leading up to the crack in the ceiling and feel the coarse hair of the moosehide blanket tickling my leg, feel the damp coolness of the air. i can see him sitting in the dim blue light of the cave with a shaft of sun slicing down from up top brightening his dingy white cotton tshirt but leaving his face in shadow. he is talking with my mom in Cree about this or that: the past fur season or the fishing or a female moose he saw with twins just the other day when he was out looking for berries. he is gesturing with his wizened hands in the way that Cree do and leaving a wispy zig-zag trail of smoke from the stub of a rollie clenched between two fisted fingers. his voice is echoing in the cave.