by Nadine Neema
Praise for Journal of a Travelling Girl
“Journal of a Travelling Girl is a story filled with Tłı˛cho˛ traditions, customs, beliefs, and ways of being. It is a wonderful account, told through the eyes of a young girl, of our people’s ways of doing things today, guided by our strong history. The experience of travelling the Trails of Our Ancestors changes Jules, as it has many others before her, and leaves a lasting, profound impression of accomplishment, personal growth, and much hope for the future.”
Tammy Steinwand, Director, Department of Culture and Lands Protection, Tłı˛cho˛ Government
“Nadine Neema honours the customs and culture of the Wekweèti community in this exquisitely told story about finding strength, healing, and acceptance. The vivid sensory details allow the reader to touch, taste, and feel the unique aspects of this journey to Behchokò˛. This is a must read for young readers!”
Tina Athaide, author of Orange for the Sunsets
“What a delightful read. Jules is a young girl from the south, coming of age, learning respect and responsibility, growing stronger in every way. Her relationships with the Tłı˛cho˛ People, the sky, the land, the waters, and all things living and non-living give a glimpse of the gentle but insistent powers she encounters. With a foreword by a respected Elder from the community, Joseph Judas, the reader enters Jules’s world feeling confident that here are lessons for all who strive to be in good relation with each other in this contemporary and complex world.”
Celia Haig-Brown, PhD, author of Resistance and Renewal: Surviving the Indian Residential School
“Journal of a Travelling Girl is not only about people who generously welcome a young girl to share in a special journey, but it introduces readers to an important moment of history.”
Kathy Lowinger, co-author (with Eldon Yellowhorn) of What the Eagle Sees and Turtle Island
In the Footsteps of the Ancestors
Journal of a Travelling Girl
Nadine Neema
Illustrations by Archie Beaverho
To Jules, my joy and inspiration
To the People of Wekweètì, my second sèotı˛
And to my parents
And all of our ancestors for paving the way
May we protect the gifts you’ve given us
And pass them on to our children
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Map of Tłı˛cho˛ Communities
Foreword
Day 1: The Departure
Day 1, Later: The Secret Branch
Day 2: No Fun at All
Day 3: Working Together
Day 4 : Hand Games
Day 5: The Abandoned Cabin
Day 6: The Old Grave
Day 7, Early Morning: The Dream
Day 7, Later: Our Tipi
Day 8: The Big Animal
Day 9: Where the Water Does Not Freeze
Day 10 : Behchoko
Day 11: The Effective Date
Day 14: Flying Home
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Photo Section
Foreword
The community of Wekweètì is a very small Tłı˛cho˛i community of fewer than two hundred people. We settled here in the last fifty years. Prior to that we were hunting and trapping in that area since time immemorial.
We required managers to come work in our communities to look after our corporate interests and manage our programs, to help strengthen who we are as a people. One of the managers that we hired in the late ’90s was Nadine Neema. She spent a couple of years living in the community, taking part in our activities and celebrations, and coming out on the land with us. She picked up a few Tłı˛cho˛ words as she got to know the Elders. She really embraced the community and learned as much as she could while she was here. We learned from her too.
We keep inviting her back and she keeps returning and sharing her skills with the community and the youth at the school through things like storytelling, music, and photography. I was the Chief of the community while Nadine was the band manager. I have known her for over twenty years. She has become like part of the community from a distance.
Nadine remains very engaged with the community after all these years. She has participated in the Tłı˛cho˛ annual canoe trip, retracing the trails of our ancestors several times. Her observations from these trips come through in this story. She gives a modern look at an ancient tradition of going to the barren lands by canoe, harvesting, and engaging in our way of life.
We welcome this story. It helps document and preserve our oral history and way of life to be shared with further generations.
Joseph Judas, respected Elder and former Chief of Wekweètì
Day 1:
The Departure
“I don’t want to go!” I yelled at my mom this morning, after she told me to hurry up and get dressed.
“You say that now, but you’ll see. It’ll do you good.” She’s been saying that for weeks, and I’m sick of hearing it.
She’s making me go on this canoe trip. She says I’ve been spending too much time moping around the house and staring at screens. But I don’t feel like spending ten days disconnected from everything.
I finished getting ready and followed Mom up the road and down the long wooden steps to the dock, dragging my feet the whole way. I was cold and tired. It’s the middle of summer, but I had to wear a sweatshirt and rain jacket. Thick clouds filled the sky as far as I could see. Twelve canoes lined the shores of the vast Snare Lake.
People were packing the canoes with ever-big bags of clothes, tents, and enough food to last us the trip. The whole town had come down to wish us well. About a hundred people gathered around the shore.
“This is a very important journey you’ll be taking,” said Mom. She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned down to look at me. She has these sparkling bluish-green eyes. I’ve never seen a colour quite like them. When she looks at me, it feels like she’s peering into my soul. “Layla’s grandparents will guide the way. Listen and watch carefully, and you’ll learn a lot. You will be travelling the trails of the Tłı˛cho˛ ancestors. The trails they’ve walked and paddled for thousands of years. They say if you listen carefully you might still hear them singing, Hine’e he’e, he ho hine’e ha, hine’e he’e.”
I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to care. I wanted to stay mad at my mom and walk away without saying goodbye. I wanted her to feel bad. I wanted to stay home watching movies, not be out here in the cold.
But I’m going to miss her. And deep down, I know she just wants what’s best for me. So I hugged her tightly, burying my face in her long wavy hair and taking in her scent. Her skin is so soft. Her arms wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Then I suddenly pulled away when I felt tears coming. This will be my first time away from my mom for so long—and my first time sleeping out on the land since Uncle Joe died.
Before I continue about where we’re going and why, I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Julia, but no one calls me that, except my mom when she’s angry with me. Everyone else just calls me Jules.
She gave me this journal, probably to make me feel more excited about going on the trip. She knows I love keeping a record of my travels through drawing and storytelling. Even though I’m still not happy about going, I’ll try writing a little every day.
I live with my mom in a tiny Tłı˛cho˛ community in the far north of Canada called Wekweètì. The Tłı˛cho˛ People are descendants of the Dene, an Athabaskan Indigenous People of the Northwest Territories. The community is so small
and remote, you have to take a little plane from Yellowknife to get there because there’s no road leading to town.
Mom and I moved there from down south when I was five. I’m eleven now. We moved because Mom got a job as the community administrator. It took a little while to get used to Wekweètì—Mom called it culture shock—but it’s home now. I know almost everyone. They’re like family to me. I call a lot of the grownups “Auntie” and “Uncle,” even though we’re not related. And I have two best friends, Layla and Alice. They’re also going on the trip, so at least I’ll have good company.
After all the bags were placed in the canoes, we gathered together beside the dock where the Chief led the prayer. He has a round face, dimples, and long black silky hair. The right corner of his mouth always curls up when he talks. He prayed that we be safe on the journey, that we be guided and protected.
“I remember growing up, travelling with my parents,” he said. “We were following the caribou and living in tents. Then, over the years, we settled in Wekweètì. These trails of our ancestors have existed for thousands of years. We are walking in their footsteps.”
After he finished, the community stood in a line that became a circle because it was so long, and we shook everybody’s hands. It’s a tradition to wish the travellers a safe trip like that. I shook almost a hundred hands!
Then it was time to get in our canoes, and I was suddenly gripped with fear.
I reached for the hand of Layla’s grandfather, who was right beside me. My own was trembling. “I’m scared,” I admitted to him, and he helped me into the boat.
“You shouldn’t be scared,” he said. “Just pay attention, put on your life jacket, and be careful.”
Layla’s grandpa is a strong, no-nonsense man. He has dark skin and shoulder-length black-and-white hair, which is often covered by his red cap. He always wears the mukluks that Layla’s grandma sewed for him, protected by black rubbers. He mostly speaks in Tłı˛cho˛, except when he wants to make sure we understand.
Most of the canoes have six people. But some, with kids like me, have seven. Our canoe has Layla’s grandma and grandpa, her auntie, her two uncles, one of her cousins from the community of Behchokò˛, and me. Layla and Alice are in different canoes, so the only time we’ll get to hang together is when we stop for lunch or when we set up our camps in the evenings. And during portages. That’s when people walk on the trails, carrying their bags and canoes across the land, from one lake to the other.
As the canoes left the shore, people stood on the dock waving at us for a while. Mom was right at the front. My stomach felt tight as I watched her get smaller and smaller while our canoe moved farther and farther away. She couldn’t come on the trip because she has too much work to do to prepare for the annual gathering happening in Behchokò˛, which is where we’re headed.
After about an hour of paddling, we made our first stop at the Wekweètì graveyard. There are about a dozen gravesites there, each one with a rectangular picket fence a little higher than my waist. A few of them are really intricate, with little crosses or circles carved at the top of each plank. Many are painted white and blue. Some are pink or just white. Some of them look newly painted, and others look like they’ve been there for a long time.
Layla’s great-grandpa and great-grandma are buried there. And Uncle Joe is buried there too, under a newer blue and white fence. He was the first person we really got to know when we moved to Wekweètì. He and Mom became good friends, and over the years he was like a dad to me. I never met my biological father, but I can’t imagine a better one than Uncle Joe. He used to take me fishing, and he was always bringing us caribou or moose meat after hunting trips.
Uncle Joe often called me his little Tłı˛cho˛. Anyone can see I’m not Tłı˛cho˛. My skin is quite fair, and my hair is very light and curls more than any Tłı˛cho˛ I know. But I know what he meant. I could feel it in my heart. Uncle Joe went on a lot of these canoe trips over the years. My first one was supposed to be with him. Now I don’t feel like doing much of anything. I just miss him.
Alice and Layla’s canoes arrived at the graveyard before ours did. They were in the gazebo waving with Layla’s little cousin Kyle when I saw them. I walked over.
I met Layla and Alice in kindergarten and we have been inseparable ever since. We sat arm in arm, leaning on each other.
“I’m excited to be here,” Layla said, hugging me. “Are you okay? It must be weird without your mom.”
Layla is gorgeous. She has soft black hair, high cheekbones, big dark eyes, and a contagious smile. You might think someone so beautiful would be stuck up, but she’s the most caring person I know. She always makes sure no one feels hurt or left out. When we first became friends, she’d come to my house regularly to ask if I could go play. When I told her I missed my grandparents, she asked hers to be mine too. Now I even call them “Grandpa” and “Grandma.” I’ve gotten really attached. Mom’s parents have come to visit a couple of times, and we’ve visited them a few times too. I just wish I saw them more often.
“I’m glad Mom’s not here,” I answered. “She’s always telling me what to do, like she knows everything. I don’t need her.” I crossed my fingers inside my jacket pocket, hoping they couldn’t tell I was terrified. I always felt safe when Uncle Joe was around. It doesn’t feel right taking this trip without him.
“Yeah, parents will do that,” Alice said, rolling her eyes. We all laughed. Alice is the tallest of the three of us and has the longest hair, which she usually keeps in a ponytail. She always makes me laugh. Especially in class. She gets in trouble for talking too much, but she’s also very smart so it’s hard for the teacher to know how to deal with her. When Alice gets moved to the front of the class, she often ends up making the quiet people talk too. I can see how frustrating that must be for the teacher, but I find it funny. When the three of us are together, she’s usually the one initiating our games.
In the middle of the graveyard is the Prophet’s Grave. In the centre is a tree surrounded by an unstained wooden fence the same height as the others. The pickets of the fence are thin and circular instead of rectangular like the others. Behind each of them are round rocks almost as big as soccer balls. We were standing around the grave when Layla started talking. I could tell it was an interesting story, but before she could go on everyone gathered around to pray.
The Chief talked for a while in Tłı˛cho˛. Then he began the rosary and everyone joined in. That went on for a bit, the Chief praying and everyone responding. It’s so musical the way they pray.
Then everybody went quiet and bowed their heads. I’m not sure what people say in these silent prayers.
Layla started whispering. “My mother told me that years ago there was a man who helped a lot of people around here.” Alice and I huddled in closer. “They say the man had visions of a rosary long before the priests came and converted our people. They say he used to sing and his wife would dance, and that his singing made the stars dance too.” She motioned to the tree at the centre of the grave. “You see how the bottom branches are tiny?”
Alice and I looked at the bottom of the tree, then we looked up to the top and back down. We both nodded.
“The top of the tree looks like a pretty Christmas tree,” whispered Alice, “but the bottom looks like a small upside-down, awkward one.”
“Yeah, the tree almost looks like a cross,” I said, staring at it with my head tilted sideways.
“Sshhh!” I felt someone tapping my shoulder. It was Layla’s grandma. Everyone else still had their heads down. “Prayer,” she said, then bowed her head again. We put our heads down too. I wish I could hear what people are thinking in these moments. After about a minute, I looked up at Layla, really wanting to know the end of the story. She shook her head. I’d have to wait.
Finally, the prayer was over, and we all started walking towards t
he canoes. I was just about to ask Layla to finish her story when Alice turned to Layla’s grandma.
“Can you tell us the story of how Wekweètì became a community?” she asked.
What! I thought. What are you asking that for? I groaned inwardly. Alice knows a lot about a lot of things. And if she doesn’t know, she asks. I’ve learned a good deal thanks to her questions, but sometimes the answers take forever. And I was much more interested in Layla’s story about why the bottom branches of the tree are so small.
Grandma smiled at Alice. “A long time ago, our people used to travel by boat and dog teams. We followed the caribou in the wintertime, and then we travelled back to Behchokò˛ in the spring, just like our ancestors. We would travel to the end of the lake to hunt, and when we realized the caribou were always around there, we kept coming back. That’s why some of us settled in Wekweètì. And in the 1960s, we started building houses.
“It was a similar thing for the other outlying communities of Gamètì and Whatì. People discovered those were good places to fish, and so they built their houses there.
“Now, every year there is a regional Assembly in one of the four communities. Most people from the other communities fly to the Assembly, but a few hundred of us paddle. The trails we take retrace the same trails our ancestors took. In ten days, we will all meet in Behchokò˛ for this year’s annual gathering. We will visit family and celebrate with each other. There will be a big Assembly—drum dances, feasts, hand games, and feeding the fire.”
By the time Grandma had finished her story we were almost back at the boats. Layla motioned to Alice and me to come in closer. “Listen,” she whispered, her eyes full of excitement. “They say that the branches of the Prophet’s Tree can heal you, can make miracles happen.” Her eyes opened wider, and her eyebrows went way up. She looks funny when she does that, kind of like a clown. I think she thinks it creates suspense.
