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 my favourite summer evening activities is going for a walk along Sturgeon Lake in northwestern Alberta. In the Cree language we call the lake “mis-sa-gun,” which could be loosely translated as giant lake. This is the lake where I spent my childhood and where I learned how to swim, fish and build a raft. The lake is eight miles long and four miles wide, but when I was a boy it seemed endless.

 “Don’t go too far, the eagle might get you,” my mother would say before my friends and I would set out on the raft. It was a Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn-type raft, basically a few logs tied together to take me and my friends for a ride. Our orders were clear: don’t stray too far from the shore. We were told eagles were known for grabbing small children, especially the ones out in the open.

On one summer afternoon there were four of us on the raft. We were all about nine and 10 years old. We were diving and pushing each other off the raft when I heard my mom calling me. The currents of the lake had carried us about a football field’s length from the shore. My mom was standing with the mothers of the other boys. All four of us kids looked up and we saw the eagle directly above us. Instantly we all jumped to our stomachs and clung to the raft.

“What are we going to do?” one of the boys said, his lips quivering like he was about to freeze. We didn’t have oars or a long wooden pole to guide us back to the shore. One of the boys suggested we use one arm to paddle, and the other to hang on tightly to the raft. But that still left our entire bodies exposed for the eagle to grab. I thought I would outsmart the others (or was I willing to sacrifice them?) by dropping my entire body into the lake with only my head sticking out and one hand clinging tightly to the raft. Slowly we made our way closer to the beach. When we were close enough, we swam for it. When we got to shore, our mothers reminded us of how lucky we were because the eagle could have carried us off and fed us to its babies.

As I enjoy my evening walks now, I wonder how many children on the reserve have been told that story. Of course, no child knows eagles are rare this far south and it’s only on rare occasions an eagle can be seen. Last summer I spotted an eagle twice, and more than likely it was the same one. This time, however, it wasn’t fear that made me watch the eagle as it disappeared into the setting sunset; it was a moment to thank a beautiful bird for reminding me of a special time in my life. It was also a reminder of the sacred place an eagle holds in the traditions of my ancestors. From high above the banks of the lake, I stopped to admire the sunset and feel the power of the lake. It was almost like the lake was telling me to enjoy life today. There is no past, nor is there a tomorrow; there is only today. It’s in such moments I feel alive, thankful for what I have and enjoying freedom like I used to dream about.

These are moments I don’t have to dream about any more, because they are right there before my eyes. Soon the sunset was taken over by the stars and Northern Lights, and I journeyed back home. But I took one final look at the sky and there, slowly gliding with the wind, was a seagull.

– Ken Noskye