Grassy Narrows Indigenous Land Protection Team

10/16/2026

A Dime and a Road of Gold

You know, when I was a boy, I was very poor. I was about 10 years old. I never really had any money of my own. There was no such thing as having a few dollars in my pocket. If I had a dime, that was something. That was a big deal.

Sometimes I would find a dime when I was walking around on the Rez. I do not know where those dimes came from. Maybe somebody dropped one. Maybe it fell out of a pocket, or rolled out of a car. But when I found one, I would pick it up and hold it in my hand, and I would feel lucky.

A dime was enough to buy candy at the Hudson’s Bay store. That store was about a mile and a half down the road. Now, that sounds like a long way for a little boy to walk just for candy. And it was. But when you have a dime in your pocket, you do not mind walking.

It was late fall when I remember it best. The leaves were coming down and covering the road. They were all different colours—yellow, orange, brown, some still green. Every once in a while a car would go by, and the wind from that car would blow the leaves all over the road. They would swirl around my feet and gather along the sides, in little piles.

And even though I was dirt poor, I would imagine I was rich.

Those leaves looked like gold coins to me. I would look down at the road and see money everywhere. I would think, “Look at all that gold.” I could just pick it up. I could fill my pockets with it. I could fill my hands, my jacket, maybe even a bag. In my mind, I was a rich boy.

I would imagine going into that store with pockets full of gold coins. I would buy whatever I wanted. Candy, pop, toys, new clothes, good boots—anything. All the things I could only imagine. I would buy things for my family too. That is how a boy dreams when he does not have much.

But when I got to the store, I still only had my one real dime.

I would buy a Wagon Wheel for five cents. Then, with the other five cents, I would buy five one-cent gums. That was it. A Wagon Wheel and five gums. That was my whole fortune.

But you know something? I felt rich walking out of that store. I had my candy. I had my gums. I had walked all that way, and I had something that was mine.

Then I would start walking back home. The road was still covered with leaves. The wind would still blow them around. And I would look down at them again and see my gold coins. I would pick them up in my mind and fill my pockets all over again.

I was a poor boy walking home with a Wagon Wheel and five gums. But in my mind, I was walking on a road of gold.

I still carry that memory after many years. When I see the leaves falling now, I think about that road. I think about the wind blowing the leaves across my path. I think about that dime, the Wagon Wheel, and those five little gums.

And I think about that boy. He did not have much, but he had something. He had a good imagination. He could look at a poor road covered with leaves and see wealth everywhere.

Maybe that was the real riches—not the dime, not the candy, but the way he could dream. The way he could make something beautiful out of very little.

Those leaves are still gold to me. They always will be.

10/14/2026

Notice

10/06/2026

Indigenous Elders have not gone quiet because they have nothing left to share. Many have grown tired of speaking when their words are dismissed, questioned, or mocked.

They carry memories, teachings, stories, and knowledge passed down through generations—knowledge about the land, the people, and what happened before many written records existed. Yet too often they are asked, “How could you know what happened in the past?” as if history only matters when it has been written down by someone else.

When Elders are ridiculed for sharing their stories, the loss is not theirs alone. The whole community loses an opportunity to learn, understand, and heal. Listening to an Elder does not mean accepting every detail without thought; it means showing enough respect to hear them before judging them.

If we want these teachings to continue, we must make room for them—with patience, humility, and respect. Once people learn that their words will be mocked or ignored, silence becomes safer than sharing. And when an Elder goes silent, a piece of living history may go with them.

09/30/2026

The Prophet of Grassy Narrows

Long before the ink dried on Treaty 3, a heavy silence fell over the leader Sakatcheway. The people of Grassy Narrows watched him, their concern growing with each passing day. The lightness had gone from his eyes, replaced by a deep and troubled current. The elders, sensing a great weight on his spirit, finally approached him. "What is it, Sakatcheway " they asked. "What troubles your heart?"

Sakatcheway looked through them, as if seeing a time not yet born. He told them to gather everyone, for a vision had been given to him, and it was a hard truth to share.

When the community was assembled, his voice, usually strong and clear, was thick with sorrow. He spoke not of the present, but of a future that was rushing toward them like a flood. "A new kind of people are coming," he began, and a chill fell over the gathering. "They will not come as we do, with respect for the land. They will arrive on a trail made of steel, an iron snake that carries them in numbers we cannot fathom."

He described a people who would not see the forest as a relative, but as a resource. They would not hear the river as a song, but as a tool. "They will poison the land and our water," he continued, his words painting a devastating picture. "They will cut down the trees as they expand, and we will not be free to travel in our own land as we always have."

A great sadness settled upon the people, a collective mourning for a future they could not yet see but now felt in their bones. He spoke of sickness that would follow the newcomers, a sickness that would take many of their people. They wept with him, for they knew Sakatcheway was a man of truth, and his vision was not a dream, but a prophecy.

Yet, in the depths of that sorrow, a purpose was born.

Some years later, when the British Crown called for negotiations, Sakatcheway was chosen to represent the Anishinaabe of Lac Seul and Grassy Narrows. He went to the treaty table not as a man who was blind to the threat, but as one who had already seen its face. While other leaders negotiated for the present, Sakatcheway was fighting for a future he knew was coming. He had seen the storm, and he was determined to build the strongest shelter he could.

His vision of the coming destruction made him a fierce and uncompromising advocate. He was not fooled by smooth words or empty promises. He knew what was at stake—not just the land, but a way of life. Because he had seen the future of poison and loss, he fought tenaciously for the rights that might protect his people when that future arrived. He negotiated for the right to hunt and fish, for the preservation of their territory, for the very things he knew would be threatened. The good things he secured in Treaty 3 were not just diplomatic victories; they were the tools his people would need to survive the prophecy he had been given.

Sakatcheway returned from the negotiations a changed man. He had done his duty, but he carried the burden of his vision. He lived among his people, a constant reminder of the resilience required to face what was to come. And for generations, his words were remembered. They were not just a story of a sad prophecy, but a testament to the wisdom of a leader who saw the storm on the horizon and did everything in his power to prepare his people. The story of Sakatcheway is the story of the Anishinaabe: a people who have faced the poisoned water and the stolen land, but who have also, through wisdom and strength, continued to fight for the world he tried so hard to protect.

09/19/2026

I want to share this story before it’s forgotten …

The Wabigoon Mermaid

The spring air, thick with the scent of thawing earth and pine, carried the familiar song of the Wabigoon River. For generations, the family had travelled this route, a winding waterway that led to their trapline. This year, however, the canoe held a new weight—their thirteen-year-old daughter, her eyes wide with the wonder of her first spring journey to the falls.

They paddled with the practiced rhythm of a people who knew the river as they knew their own hearts. The laughter of the girl and the excited yips of the two puppies mingled with the gurgle of the water. But as they neared the thunderous roar of Wabigoon Falls, a hush fell over them. This was the domain of Mishipishiw, the great underwater lynx, the guardian of the rapids. Their elders had spoken of it, a legendary cat with a serpent's tail and scales like a fish, whose power resided in the churning, misty waters.

They landed at the ancient portage, a rocky path that allowed them to bypass the thundering cascade. "Stay here with the puppies," her mother said, her voice soft but firm. "We will be back soon." The girl nodded, settling onto a mossy rock, the puppies tumbling playfully at her feet.

The walk over the portage took fifteen minutes. The parents, burdened with packs and traps, focused on the familiar trail. They returned for the remaining gear, their minds on the journey ahead. But when they reached the landing spot, their world shattered.

The puppies were there, whimpering and confused. But the rock where their daughter had sat was empty. The girl was gone.

"Where are you?" her father called out, his voice cracking against the roar of the falls. Silence. Only the eternal thunder of the water answered them. They searched the bush, their calls growing more desperate as the sun began to dip below the treeline. Hope curdled into a cold, creeping dread. Two agonizing days passed, and still, there was no sign of her. With heavy, broken hearts, and the crushing weight of despair, they knew they had to continue on. The trapline would not wait, and the forest was a harsh, unforgiving place.

Two more days passed. They were preparing to break camp when they reached the portage site once more. As they approached, a sight stopped them cold.

There, on a large, flat rock that jutted out over the churning pool at the base of the falls, sat a girl. Her long black hair, wet and shimmering, fell like a curtain as she stroked it, her back to them. It was their daughter.

A desperate cry of joy burst from their lips. "We are here! We have found you!"

At the sound of their voices, the girl on the rock paused. She turned her head, and for a fleeting moment, they caught a glimpse of a familiar face, but it was distant, touched by an otherworldly calm. She did not smile. She did not run to them. Instead, she simply glanced back, and with a fluid, silent movement, she dove into the frothing water below.

The parents rushed to the edge. They saw her form disappear into the emerald depths, but before she vanished completely, a powerful tail, shimmering like the scales of a great fish, broke the surface and slapped the water before it, too, was gone.

They knew then. Their daughter was no longer a girl of the land. She had been taken by the river, transformed by the spirit of the falls, and belonged now to Mishipishiw, the guardian of the rapids.

The story is still told by the people of Grassy Narrows. To this day, some who travel near Wabigoon Falls on a quiet evening claim to see a girl with long, dark hair sitting on a rock, her eyes reflecting the deep, cold water. That is why our people hold a deep and sacred rule: never leave a girl alone at any waterfall. For Mishipishiw watches carefully, and his domain is not to be trifled with. The legends are not just stories; they are warnings, etched into the very stones and the rushing water.

07/24/2026

Pin cherries used to be abundant around Grassy Narrows, but now they seem to be disappearing in many places. Seven years without berries in the backyard is not something to ignore. It may not mean panic, but it does mean we should pay attention.
When berries disappear, it can be a sign that the land is changing — maybe the soil, water, shade, or other environmental stress is affecting what grows there. And when the berries go, it can affect birds, animals, medicines, and the knowledge passed down through generations.
We need to ask hard questions, watch the changes closely, and protect what remains before more is lost.

07/23/2026

Charting the lake and river system around Grassy Narrows is another great project that’s happening.

07/18/2026

For two years, we have been urging the Ministry of Natural Resources (MNR) to reduce the number of moose tags and licenses issued near Grassy Narrows. For two years, the response has been the same: "We cannot do it this year, but we can discuss this further." This cycle of delay is unacceptable. Moose populations in our territory have been mismanaged for decades, yet harvest levels are decided unilaterally by the Ministry without meaningful input from our community . We demand that the MNR move beyond discussion and take immediate action to reduce tags, respecting the sustainability of the moose population and the rights of our people.

07/11/2026

To the people of Grassy Narrows and Area Hunters

For many years, we have watched the moose disappear from our landscape. What was once a common sight became a rare glimpse. This loss has been felt deeply—not just in our hunting traditions, but in the very health of our forests and our spirits.

We are writing today with cautious hope: we are finally seeing a return of a healthy moose population in our area. This is a fragile gift, and how we respond right now will determine whether these animals stay on the land for our children and grandchildren.

We are asking everyone to voluntarily take only what you truly need—and nothing more.

This means pausing before you harvest and asking honestly: Does my family need this meat to get through the winter, or is this out of habit, convenience, or sport? If you have enough, leave the moose for the elder, the single parent, or the family who has none. If you do take one, take it cleanly, use it fully, and waste nothing.

After so many years of loss, the herd cannot sustain the pressure it once could. Taking more than we need is what contributed to their decline. We now have the power to choose differently.

This is not about blame. This is about stewardship. By taking only what sustains us, we give the herd room to grow—so that in the years ahead, there will be moose for everyone, every season.

Let's prove that our strength lies not in how much we take, but in how well we care for what we have.

05/20/2026