When Ken died in February 2021, we had an outpouring of messages from readers, with many telling us how much his columns meant to them. In light of that, we thought we would go back through our files and re-publish some of them. Ken would be flattered by the kind words readers expressed. We miss him as a friend and as a storyteller.

One of the best conversations I’ve ever heard was between my dad and a friend of his. At the time my dad was healthy and so was his friend. The were both in their late 70s, with Cree as their first language. Both were trappers and excellent hunters when they were younger. Fishing was still something they had a passion for. My dad was expecting him and had a pot of tea ready when his guest arrived. They hadn’t seen each other for a while, so it was going to be an interesting visit. When the vehicle pulled into my dad’s driveway, I decided to excuse myself and watch a littte bit of Saturday afternoon television. They were both hard of hearing, so they had to holler at each other at times. I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation so I kept the volume on TV low. Being a fluent Cree speaker, I understood every word they were saying. Sometimes the talk was sombre as they spoke of the family and friends they had lost. But that soon was replaced with stories of trap line and hunting adventures.

I remember one story in particular because I was there. I was a boy of about eight at the time, but I can still remember every detail. I don’t know why I was brought along on one of their hunting trips, but there I was. At the time, everywhere we went was by dog team. We had nine dogs —- eight pulled and the ninth rode with me on the sled. His name was Buster and he was the meanest and toughest of all the dogs. However, Buster refused to pull. No matter how hard my dad tried to train him, the dog just sat down. One time, the other dogs were pulling and here was Buster on his butt being dragged along. However, he had to come with us in case we got attacked by wolves.

We connected with my dad’s friend at a designated spot, and from there we used two dog teams. It was starting to get dark and the winds were picking up, so they decided to set up camp. Instead of finding a sheltered area surrounded by trees, my dad said the camp would be made in an open spot to give them time to react to a wolf attack. Every time they mentioned wolves. I would get scared; but I knew I had my trusted Buster to back me up. After a fire was built, two tents were pitched. We were sitting around the fire when all of a sudden the dogs started to freak out. Immediately my dad and his friend grabbed their rifles. I clutched Buster, the only dog not tied up. But Buster broke away from my hold and headed straight for a treed area. My dad and his friend followed. Within a few seconds I heard two rifle shots and the agony of a dog’s scream. I thought Buster was shot. It seemed like a long time, but when my dad and his friend came back in sight they were dragging a wolf. Right behind them was Buster.

My dad and his friend told many stories that afternoon, but one thing really stuck out. It was something I should have known, but never really had given much thought. In the Cree language, there are many words for the different types of weather — snow, rain, and even wind. Just the wind alone probably has 10 different words. These days, no matter what type of wind, I can go for a walk and see what they were talking about. When I go for those walks, I always keep an eye out for a wolf. Frankly, I don’t care because I have another dog about the size of Buster.

-Ken Noskye