Nearly 150 years after the Indigenous Peoples of Saskatchewan lost their land to a treaty, the return of the bison herds to the plains of Wanuskewin signals a new dawn, as their stories are finally told

Words Lyn Hughes

“Our ancestors are here. They’ll walk with us today,” said Darlene Brander of the Red Earth Cree Nation and CEO of Wanuskewin Heritage Park, where we were gathered. “You’re all here for a reason,” she added, looking at the assembled international visitors. It was only my first full day in Saskatchewan, but it had already been a stimulating and perplexing one.

I was in Saskatoon for a tourism conference; however, despite several visits to Canada, I realised that I knew very little about its past. On arrival, for example, visitors had been welcomed to ‘Treaty 6’. One journalist looked puzzled and turned to me: “What do they mean by that?” I couldn’t really answer.

After years spent exploring Canada’s wildernesses, this gap in knowledge was an open invitation to learn more about the country’s heritage. And I was in the perfect location. It is believed that Wanuskewin was a significant place for the Indigenous Peoples of the Northern Plains for over 6,000 years.

“This is because it had what humans needed: water, food, shelter, plus a lot of plants and wildlife,” said one of the guides showing me around. “People were drawn here because of all these things, but it also had something more. Something powerful.”

Situated above the Opimihaw Creek and the South Saskatchewan River, Wanuskewin isn’t as flat as the rest of the featureless prairie, and its folds hide secrets. The First Nations who used this land were migratory, staying a few weeks at a time, and maybe for the winter. One of the Wanuskewin team, Andrew McDonald, told me that it is believed that this was Canada’s first Indigenous corridor – a well-trod throughway for nomadic peoples.

“There are lots of things here in close proximity: the most northerly medicine wheel in the world, petroglyphs, bison jumps. All are within a few minutes’ walk. This is not just where Cree came… the other Nations were here too. It was centrally located, and commerce would also have happened.”

The plains people relied heavily on bison to survive. In autumn, they would carry out a major push to get supplies for the winter. The hunters would find a herd, which might be of between 75 and 150 bison, mostly females and calves. They would then funnel them towards a drop, driving them over. The bison are front-heavy, so they can’t stop once they go over a steep edge. They fall, breaking their necks or legs; thereafter, the hunters close in. These drops are known as ‘bison jumps’.

But by the late 19th century, the numbers of bison here had plummeted from 30 million to around 1,000. In fact, some claim they went down to just 325 individuals. For the people of the plains, who were so reliant on them, it meant the end of a way of life.

Wanuskewin has reintroduced bison to its grasslands, with 33 now grazing the prairies. I went to view them, and any question around whether they were thriving was answered when the dominant male mounted a female in front of me. The first calves have already been born, with more expected this year.

Building a park

To find out more about the importance of the bison historically, I joined volunteer guide Jennie. But before we did anything else, she insisted that we cook bannocks over an open fire. This type of unleavened bread originated from Scotland; it was adopted by the First Nations after bison meat had become scarce and they had moved onto the reservations.

I had spotted a tipi behind us, and Jennie took the opportunity to give me a quick cultural lesson while our bannocks cooked. She explained that each of the 15 poles that held it together was accompanied by a teaching, which was given by the women because they were the ones who put up the tipi, maintained it, took it down and were responsible for its transportation.

“The ‘canvas’ would originally have been bison hides, with bison sinew used to sew them together,” she told me, turning her gaze to where the large tipi stood behind us. “In the past, they would not have been so big – just eight to ten feet (2.5–3m), as dogs had to pull everything when sites were moved.”

Having eaten, Jennie led the way on a trail walk. Dappled patches of autumnal sun lit up the wide array of native plants and trees, and she pointed out wild roses, wolf willow bush, hawthorn and more – all either edible or medicinal in some way. We passed the bottom of a bison jump and entered a grassy meadow where these animals would have been processed, with nothing being wasted.

There was little to see now except for some holes in the ground. “Gophers!” said Jennie when I queried what had created them. “They are nature’s archaeologists; they unearth bones and artefacts.”

The next person I met was also no stranger to digging in the dirt. Dr Ernie Walker was pivotal in understanding the value of Wanuskewin, back when the archaeologist first arrived here more than 40 years ago. He ensured that it became recognised and protected, and still spends much of his time here. I asked him how he had first come across the site.

“Its medicine wheel had been known about since 1932, and I really wanted to see it. But the rumour around the community was that the landowner was a very difficult person to deal with; he lived by himself and was a curmudgeon. These are qualities I highly value, and he became a really good friend of mine. I worked for him for two years, helping with his cattle. There was really no place that I could go on the property where I wouldn’t find artefacts: stone tools, pottery, bones, charcoal – the detritus of pre-Contact life on the plains.”

Ernie soon went off to study, but the landowner later contacted him to say that he wanted to sell the land.

“A lot of prominent Saskatoon lawyers, business people and wealthy folk got together and we started trying to raise money. At the same time, we were trying to work with the government at different levels on legislation that could be put in place to protect the land. And ultimately, in 1983, the province designated this a Provincial Heritage Property.”

It was far from easy to get the support needed. Ernie reminisced about a meeting between the mayor and city councillors in 1982 in which he was told that “no one cares about a load of old bones”. But he stuck to his guns and told any official who would listen that the site was linked to the First Nations.

“It’s about their culture and history, and they should be a part of it. That was pretty radical thinking in the early 1980s,” he told me. Elders from the Indigenous community were consulted, and they were in agreement.

“There are several stories here,” continued Ernie. “First of all, it’s about the most endangered biome in North America: the prairies. The second story is about the bison. How do you go from 30 million bison in 1872 to 1,000? It was just wanton destruction. There were difficulties with the Indigenous Peoples out west, and so the idea was to kill all of the bison knowing that it was their main economy. The third part is Indigenous cultural history. Wanuskewin is small, and it’s packed with these archaeological sites of every description. It’s like looking through a window into pre-Contact times.”

Four petroglyphs have since been found in the park, and Ernie revealed that this was only down to the reintroduced bison. During the animal’s frequent dust baths, in which they roll on the ground, one had exposed a boulder with a groove running across it. On taking a closer look, Ernie realised that it was in fact a petroglyph – an unusual find on the plains. Previously, an Elder had predicted that the bison would bring gifts. And so they did.

A deal with the devil

I was curious to learn more about the link between Wanuskewin and the much-referenced Treaty 6. I was told to talk to Jordan Daniels, a member of the Mistawasis Nêhiyawak (Cree) Nation and the archaeology interpreter at the park. He took me to a glass cabinet in the exhibit room and pointed inside.

“In Canada, we have a number of treaties – 1 to 11 – spanning from eastern Ontario all the way up into the Northwest Territories. The number is just the order that they were signed in. Geographically, we are located in Treaty 6. This,” he gestured to the cabinet, “is an original copy of the document. It is the only one that is known to exist today.”

The controversial treaty covers a large area of Saskatchewan and Manitoba, and was signed in 1876. There have been disagreements ever since about whether the Indigenous bands – who were struggling after the bison numbers plummeted – had been misled into ceding their rights, and whether they truly understood what it would mean to be moved onto the reservations.

“When our people signed these agreements,” said Jordan, “we were never told that we were surrendering or giving up anything. Our intent was that we would share the land and coexist peacefully and equitably here. One of these lines says that the Indians hereby cede, surrender and relinquish any legal title to the land they have given. But that was never communicated to our people.”

The agreement was signed by several chiefs. Most notable in the initial negotiations were Chiefs Mistawasis and Ahtahkakoop. Those stood in Wanuskewin’s Visitor Centre gathered around as Jordan spoke with passion about the Treaty, before revealing his own deeply personal connection to it.

“This has come full circle for me because Chief Mistawasis was my seventh great-grandfather. So, seven generations later, I’m still here, and I’m able to tell a story and explain who we are as a people. I’m able to look out and see bison genetically close to the ones that he would have seen in his lifetime.”

Jordan’s words had deeply moved me. But, as he had explained, his people weren’t the only ones to be affected by the treaties. Rampant Canadian expansion in the 19th century had set in motion discontent that would soon spill across the grasslands. My next stop was a particularly important site for another of Canada’s Indigenous groups: the Métis.

In 1885, less than a decade after the signing of Treaty 6, the Métis rebelled against the Canadian authorities and established their own provisional government, prompted by rising concerns over their land rights and survival. Its climax came at Batoche.

“A lot of people think of this as just a battleground,” said Adam Matheson at the Batoche National Historic Site, “but we also celebrate the Métis people. This is living history. The site is politically important to the Métis, and they are involved too.”

The word Métis comes from the French word for ‘person of mixed parentage’, and it was given to the offspring of the union between fur traders (mainly French and Scottish) and First Nations women in the 18th century. Over time, they developed their own distinct culture and way of life.

The Métis settlement of Batoche was created in 1872, with each family allotted land along the South Saskatchewan river. By then, western Canada was a place of expansion, but its Indigenous Peoples were already established here. Treaties were offered to the First Nations that resulted in most of them being confined to reserves, but the majority of Métis would not sign away their land.

“The authorities didn’t know how to deal with them. Were they First Nations or not?” explained Adam. “The Métis started petitioning to keep their land, their language, their way of life, their rights… So, in 1885, the Canadian authorities sent an army here.”

We took a shuttle to the site’s whitewashed Roman Catholic church and rectory, both dating back to 1882. Stepping inside the church was like strolling back in time.

“What’s here is either restored or a replica,” said Adam. “Most Métis are Catholic, and mass is still occasionally held here.”

If the church was a glimpse of another age, the rectory doubled down. Pocked with bullet holes on the exterior; inside, it was furnished with period fittings and examples of Métis sashes decorated with beadwork. Despite its modest size, it was more than simply a priest’s home. This building was once integral to the community. People would seek medical help here, kids would be taught, and it also acted as the post office – though very few could read or write.

“The army came along the river,” said Adam. “They fired warning shots so that the families ran away from their houses, which the soldiers then set on fire. When army reached here, the priest, Father Moulin, came out and negotiated that they be saved.” The church was used as a field hospital by the government soldiers.

The resistance was led by Louis Riel, political leader of the Métis nation, and Gabriel Dumont, who has also gone down in folklore as a Métis leader. The battle ended three days after it began on 12 May when the Métis ran out of ammo. Whereas Riel was captured and hanged for treason, Dumont escaped over the border to the USA, where he joined Buffalo Bill’s circus and regularly re-enacted this famous battle. In 1886, he was offered amnesty and eventually returned to Canada; and after he passed away, he was buried in a cemetery in Batoche.

Today, more than half a million people in Canada identify as Métis. Michif, one of their prime languages, is down to fewer than 300 speakers, but there are now moves to bring it back as a living language. “It is all part of the reconciliation,” said Adam.

Recognising loss

Discussion of reconciliation dominated the conversation at my next stop too, as I met up with Kevin Seesequasis of Pêmiska Tourism outside the Duck Lake Interpretive Centre. He was eager for me to experience a brand-new tourism initiative.
“Welcome to Treaty 6 territory,” he said. “The town is Duck Lake.

The community is Beardy’s and Okemasis Cree Nation, and it owns Pêmiska Tourism. The word Pêmiska is Cree and means ‘come and find it’.” By now, I was curious as to just what ‘it’ was.
A line of quad bikes was waiting for us, so we doubled up and set off along the quiet roads. Our first stop was the site of the former St Michael’s Indian Residential School. This had operated from 1894 to 1996, accommodating Indigenous children from around the country. It had burnt down years ago, and there was little to see now – just a grassy field with a white tipi in the centre.

Roy Petit, an elder and former chief, was waiting, and performed a smudging ceremony to welcome us into the community. He explained that it was “like washing yourself” in order to open your heart. In practice, we stood in a circle as Roy moved in a clockwise direction, bringing each of us in turn the bowl of smoking buffalo sage. We each drew the smoke over our eyes, ears and chest.

The intention of the residential schools had been to eradicate Indigenous culture and language. Roy’s mother had gone here, and he described how she’d been able to see her brother across the hallway but wasn’t allowed to speak to him. When the children finished their schooling, they realised they didn’t really belong to one culture or another.

But there was an even more tragic story to be told here. I spied a line of children’s toys leading to a tipi. At one end fluttered an orange flag bearing the message ‘Every Child Matters’. Kevin explained: “Before we have reconciliation, we have to have knowledge and truth. There are 101 documented deaths here. We don’t know how many undocumented. This is a memorial to the little souls who never got to go home.”

In 1910, a man named McArthur – an ‘Indian agent’ authorised to interact with the Nations on behalf of the government – wrote to the Department of Indian Affairs: ‘The Department should realise that… about one-half of the children who are sent to the Duck Lake Boarding school die before the age of 19 or very shortly afterwards.’

“We’ve held ceremonies to release some of the grief and anger,” Kevin added. “150 years ago it was not OK to be Indigenous. We want people to come, hear and feel.”

We remounted the quad bikes and headed on, passing a sparkling lake with hundreds of wading birds on its shores; it was nature at its most beautiful after the pain and poignancy of the school visit. The next stop was within the reservation itself. Kevin pointed to where a boundary marker would have signified the limit of where residents could go without a pass from the Indian agent designated to them.

“They couldn’t go out to sell their crops without permission, and the Indian agent would take a part of their earnings. You had to have permission to make money. It’s only been in the past 30 years that we have started to develop an economy.”

Part of the economy for the Beardy’s and Okemasis now involves offering tourism experiences. It was early evening by the time we arrived at Fort Carlton, a site with a pivotal role in the region’s history. The former Hudson’s Bay Company trading post and mail depot was where Treaty 6 was first negotiated in 1876. The fort was destroyed by fire during the 1885 resistance; it has since been partially reconstructed, and the surrounding land designated a provincial park.

A row of new A-frame lodges was set along the meadow facing the fort. They were just awaiting plumbing and electricity before they could be offered by Pêmiska Tourism year-round as visitor accommodation.

“It’s the first time that a First Nation has leased land in a Provincial Park,” said Kevin proudly. “Imagine waking up here in the morning and seeing a bear and other wildlife!” Fat bikes, cross-country skis, snowshoes and kayaks were sitting invitingly and just begging to be used on the surrounding trails.

We made our way into an open pavilion inside the fort. At one end was a replica of a Treaty 6 medal – given to those at the signing. We had been promised a programme of entertainment. Kevin and the other members of the community form a troupe called the Creeland Dancers, Canada’s longest-serving Indigenous dance group. To my surprise, the first performance was a Métis jig. Kevin’s dance partner, Amy, explained: “ Us Cree have a strong connection to the Métis. We gifted each other dance. It’s not just about entertainment; it’s an opportunity for cultural enrichment.”

The following dances were a mix of First Nations and Métis styles, old and new. I sat back and took in the fancy shawl dance, the grass dance, the jingle dance, various warrior dances and the dizzying orange blossom dance – the fastest moves in the province.

When they had finished, we made our way outside to a crackling fire. The night was clear and cold, the sky heavy with stars. Coyotes howled a timeless soundtrack as we snuggled into blankets, drank hot chocolate and ate bannocks while hearing tales of years gone by. Before we left, we were gifted orange T-shirts, the significance of which I would soon learn.

By total coincidence, the next day was the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation – originally, and still colloquially, known as Orange Shirt Day. It was created by Phyllis Webstad, a survivor of the residential school system, who told the story of how her personal clothing, including a new orange shirt, was taken from her on her first day at the school. This shirt symbolises how the residential school system attempted to take away the Indigenous identities of the children.

I joined a commemoration walk through Saskatoon, the streets a sea of orange as thousands of people defied the drizzle, marching to the banks of the South Saskatchewan river. There, a ring of former residential school survivors, middle aged and elderly, sat proudly on reserved seats. Schoolchildren had been invited to make birthday cards, in honour of the fact that birthdays were not celebrated in the residential schools, and they distributed them to the survivors.

We all joined in on a traditional ‘round dance’. A small child clasped my hand tight on one side, a shy woman held my other as we moved sideways in a clockwise circle. Dance over, and smiles all round, performers then took to the stage, recreating Métis jigs before encouraging people to join them, whether young or old. It was joyous and inclusive.

However, the day’s festivities were not over. Saskatoon Tribal Council’s ‘Every Child Matters’ powwow was taking place over the weekend at the city’s SaskTel Centre. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Arriving at the stadium venue, which holds 13,000 people, I watched as cars and coaches disgorged families into the car park, some of them dressed in traditional First Nations clothing.

We arrived in time for the ‘Grand Entry’, with the audience standing as drums and singers started and hundreds of dancers paraded into the arena – young and old, male and female. The audience was welcomed and the afternoon soon filled with different dance competitions. I watched a young man sitting nearby as he keenly observed the performances. Dressed in full regalia, he looked proud, confident in his identity. I thought back to the poignant sight of the teddies and other children’s toys commemorating those who had been lost, their lives unfulfilled.

I had earlier caught a local news programme in which Tribal Chief Mark Arcand had been interviewed about the powwow. He said: “This is an opportunity to celebrate our culture, our language, our songs, our drum. If you don’t know anything about First Nations people, this is a great opportunity to come and learn; to bear witness to a beautiful culture.”

I had witnessed aspects of the remarkable cultures of Saskatchewan, yet there was still much for me to understand. Then I thought back to Darlene Brander’s words on my first day here and realised all that didn’t matter. The reason that I was here was so that I could tell the important story of what I had learnt.