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.

Up until the age of eight, my world consisted of my parents, my dogs and me. We were living on a northern trap line. I didn’t speak a word of English, had never seen a television and hadn’t met a white person. In fact, I didn’t even know there was a world beyond the tall evergreens surrounding us. Even though trapping season was during the winter months, we stayed in our cabin all year round. In the winter we had our main camp, which had a cabin; and we had two other camp sites where a white canvas tent was hung high on a tree. When we needed it, we would pull it down and camp out. In the summer, we just stayed in our main camp.

During the summers, my dogs and I would run through the forest chasing flying squirrels and shadows that lurked behind every tree. In my youth, we lived by a lake, so most of my days were spent diving off the banks and swimming with my dogs. Or, I would go out on the lake with my dad to catch fish. Even though I recall most of my days up north, I don’t remember ever catching a fish. Sometimes I would look to the sky and see the jet stream of a plane passing overhead. I would think to myself, “what a funny looking cloud.”

My dad’s brother would sometimes stop and they would talk about how much the white man was paying for animal pelts. I had never seen a white man and, being a fluent Cree speaker, I pictured a white man as white as the snow that fell during winter. One day my mother told me we were moving to a reserve where my relatives lived. I didn’t know what to think, but I would learn later the reason we had to move to the reserve was because of me. Apparently, social services found out I wasn’t going to school. I didn’t even know what a school was. The only school I’d heard about was when my parents would talk about a residential school. We walked, along with the dogs packing supplies, 50 miles or so before we reached an old gravel road. The following morning a white man came by to pick us up. His name was Jack and he passed away on my reserve after living there for more than 80 years.

Jack, however, was not what I had pictured, because he was mostly pink. We moved to the reserve, where I found out I would be going to a residential school. I was terrified because of the stories my folks had told me. I was lucky, though, because I was only there for a couple of months as the whole concept of the residential school was being phased out. I then attended a day school. This is where the white kids who lived on the reserve went to school. There are resorts and lake-front homes along the lake where my reserve is located. There are many white families and the day school is where their children attended. I was then “allowed” to attend school in the closest town. I was thrilled because I got to ride a school bus. This was long before my brothers and sisters were taken. I didn’t know it at the time, but the federal government had First Nations children being placed all over the world. These became known as the “scoop years.”

I ended up in all kinds of foster homes, group homes and youth centres. Eventually I got old enough and ended up getting into all kinds of legal trouble, often ending up in prison. Finally I was able to get my life together and started educating myself. Eventually I completed my Grade 12 and attended postsecondary, where I graduated in broadcast journalism. What a journey it was to enter the civilized world. One day I might return to my dogs and chase the flying squirrels, along with the shadows lurking behind every tree. Not many days go by now when I don’t think about our main camp. I almost feel like it’s a calling sometimes. Maybe one day I will secure a trap line licence. It would be like I travelled a complete circle.