Decolonizing the mountains: Meet the Indigenous guides of the Canadian Rockies

Land acknowledgment: I acknowledge I am on the traditional territories of many diverse First Nations, Métis and Inuit. I recognize with respect the traditional territories of Treaty 4, 6, 7, 8 and 10. I also acknowledge the homelands of the Otipemsiwak Métis Government, including the eight Métis Settlements, the 22 Métis Districts, and all Métis communities who call this land their home. I recognize this land is home to a unique and diverse range of Indigenous people of their own sovereignty. I am grateful for the traditional knowledge keepers and elders that are still with us today.

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It starts as a low thrumming, the beat growing more insistent as Matricia Bauer of Warrior Women begins to sing. Her voice swells and fills the surrounding woods, stretching towards the South Jasper Range of the Canadian Rockies. The birds begin to harmonize as she croons to the “cool lakes and rocky shores where [she] will return once more.”

As an Alberta local, I’m no stranger to Jasper National Park, but this is my first fireside with Bauer, a Cree woman and local guide who is ‘Indigenizing the world’ one song, one story, and one decolonizing conversation at a time. The Cree Nation forms Canada’s largest and most widely spread Indigenous peoples, with the Plains Cree (paskwâwiyiniwak or nehiyawak) making their home in the Prairies, while the Stoney Nakoda (îyârhe Nakodabi) live primarily in the Rocky Mountain foothills of Alberta.

While she sings, I envision the thumping heartbeat of Jasper: The incomparable Maligne Lake, where Spirit Island, a sacred space for the Stoney Nation, rests on the pristine, glacial-fed water.

Yet Mary Schaffer, an American Canadian explorer, is commonly credited with ‘discovering’ Maligne Lake in the early 20th century; not the Stoney Nakoda or the Cree Nation (who once used the lake for beaver trapping), and not Sampson Beaver, who drew Schaffer a map showing her the way. But things are changing, slowly but surely.

One of the Indigenous ways to describe Maligne Lake is to call it Chaba Imne, or Beaver Lake, but this is rarely acknowledged. In the same way that I grew up with the names of the immutable Swiss guides who came to Canada to conquer our unspoiled peaks, I never thought to question who the original, Indigenous guides were.

It’s clear to me now that I need to re-observe all the places that I love through an Indigenous lens; to take a step back, remove the prejudice and assumptions that have cloaked my experiences to date, and spend time with Indigenous guides in Alberta’s Rocky Mountains. Bauer, however, tells me that modern Indigenous-led tourism isn’t just about decolonizing the natural spaces that are draped across the province—I also need to decolonize who I am when I’m here.

Historically, the concept of ownership wasn’t part of the Indigenous world view. As Heather Black, an Indige-scapes hiking and cycling guide in Banff and Kananaskis Provincial Park, explains to me later that day. “We just want to share the land,” she says.

And yet, Indigenous people across Canada were historically forbidden from entering national parks like Jasper when the parks were first established, confined instead to reserves—the colonial practice of ‘reserving’ a tract of surrendered Indigenous traditional territory to Nations who had signed treaties—that only served to marginalize them further.

It’s a complex story that sits alongside the introduction of the Indian Act and the establishment of residential schools, a practice that lasted for 150 years (the last school closed in 1996) and saw over 150,000 First Nations, Inuit and Métis Nation children taken from families to attend schools far from home, many never returning.

The Indigenizing journey I’ve embarked on here in Jasper continues on a plant walk with Bauer, where we create a moisturizing balm of wild mint and lavender, something she quips is a “campfire cosmetic”. I dab it on my lips and cheeks as I attempt to absorb Bauer’s knowledge of the land, a knowledge that emanates from every inch of her being.

A couple of weeks later, I’m in Banff National Park on a medicine walk with Mahikan Trails, owned and operated by Brenda Holder, a Cree guide of the Kwarakwante people of Jasper, near the shoreline of Lake Minnewanka. I’m spending the morning wandering through the forest with Holder’s son and Cree guide, Jordan Ede.

I stroke spongy moss that can hold up to 20 times its weight in liquid and was used for diapers and rash prevention. I watch as a puff of Aspen powder—used to make bread and beer—is filtered through weak sunlight (populin, a chemical in the inner bark, is a natural pain reliever). And I nibble on Spruce tips, learning that chewing the sap can cure a sore throat.

Towards the end of our time together he explains that Minnewanka—located on traditional Stoney Nakoda land—was simply a description for the lake, meaning ‘water of the spirit,’ and that description could circumstantially shift to Minnestowe (long water) or Minnewakee (dark water). “Naming claims ownership,” he says. “The land doesn’t belong to us; we belong to the land.”

Historically, the concept of ownership isn’t part of the Indigenous world view. As Heather Black, a hiking and cycling guide from Buffalo Stone Women Indige-Scape Tours in Banff and Kananaskis Provincial Park, explains to me later that day. “We just want to share the land,” she says.

Black is bent over a small charcoal flame, preparing the smudge—a sacred First Nations cleansing ceremony—that I’m to partake in before cycling back to Banff. In front of her are the four sacred medicines of the Blood Tribe, of which Black—also known as Buffalo Stone Woman or Indigenous Adventure Girl—is part of. The Blood Tribe, or the Kainai Nation, resides mainly in Southern Alberta. The Tribe is part of the Blackfoot Confederacy (Siksikaitsitapi), which also includes the Siksika, Peigan-Piikani and Aamskapi Pikuni Nations.

Before feeding to the flame, she first passes the medicinal sweet grass, cedar, sage and sweet pine around the circle of our group. I inhale the smoky bouquet of charcoal infused with the woodsy, honeyed scent of the harvested plants. I feel instantly at peace.

“A smudge is a return to safety, a reset,” Black explains as she wafts the smoke over her body, murmuring a prayer to the land, to her people, to us. A reset is exactly what I need, and why I’m here, sitting in a bed of pine needles, in the middle of Sundance Canyon on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

I press my hands into the dirt, grasp a pinecone, then a rock, and feel the razor edges dig into the palm of my hand. I attempt to center myself, to unite with the land in a more holistic way. I think of my guides, Bauer, Black and Ede, harnessing tourism to keep their culture and traditions alive, and who have led me here, one step closer to more meaningful interaction with the land. It’s not the first time I’ve smudged, but the immediate calming effect of the sacred ceremony, which settles on me like a weighted blanket, never fails to amaze.

“We’re not historical artefacts. We do climb mountains, we hike, we ski. Indigenous people are not of the past we’re of today. We’re still here. We’re still guides.”

- Tim Patterson, hiking guide, Scw̓éxmx Nation

The next day, I find myself in a helicopter, flitting over mountain ridge after mountain ridge before descending into under-the-radar David Thompson Country in Central Alberta. My destination is the spectacular Cline Tarns where a backcountry alpine camp awaits.

My hope is to tag the summit of Mount Cline; an easy and accessible 11,000-foot peak that is on the climbing bucket list of most Canadian mountaineers.

I’ve always approached my time in the mountains this way: I have to reach a summit, a high point, a difficult to access and preferably under-the-radar destination. Like the Swiss guides that came before me, I need something to conquer, and I always return home disappointed if I feel that I failed.

I’m here under the guidance of Tim Taylor, a technical guide certified by the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides (ACMG) and owner and operator of Girth Hitch Guiding, and Tim Patterson, an ACMG hiking guide, glaciologist, and owner and operator of Zuc’min Guiding.

Taylor is also a “proud Métis man.” In Western Canada, Métis is a person of mixed Indigenous and European ancestry. He’s been guiding in these mountains for over a decade, but has only recently connected with Patterson, who is of the Scw̓éxmx Nation (a branch of the Nlaka’pamux), to form a partnership that provides an Indigenous lens to his heli-climbing tours. Patterson calls this type of experience “two-eyed seeing,” the practice of applying a modern scientific lens to traditional Indigenous knowledge.

“When people think of Indigenous guides, they think historically, in terms of people outfitting or taking explorers across the mountains,” Patterson tells me as we sit, ensconced in one of the most stunning natural amphitheatres I’ve ever seen, watching early-season avalanches cascade down the surrounding rock face, a stark reminder of the immense power of nature.

“We’re not historical artefacts,” he clarifies, “We do climb mountains, we hike, we ski. Indigenous people are not of the past. We’re of today. We’re still here. We’re still guides.”

This is not to say that there aren’t significant hurdles to overcome to establish an Indigenous presence in the adventure tourism landscape of Alberta. Currently, there are only five Indigenous technical guides certified under the ACMG, but Patterson and Taylor hope to change that. “It’s about recognizing that the original guides should be brought into this space,” Taylor tells me. “So how do we create opportunities to bring barriers down both in the technical and non-technical guiding world?”

Taylor and Patterson’s shared vision for the future of their partnership includes mentoring Indigenous youth by first creating momentum around hiking, then inviting them to develop the practical skills via technical guiding in the mountains.

“I want to see five Indigenous guides on the technical guiding side in the next five years,” says Taylor. A small step in the reclamation of the wild spaces the original guides have always called home.

Golden hour is now approaching. The peaks are beginning to bask in a soft light that blankets the camp and I feel that familiar pull towards the summits that surround me. As talk turns to our goals for the following day, I can’t help but blurt out that I need to summit Mount Cline.

It turns out that Taylor recognizes a piece of himself in this statement. He’s Métis, but he was raised as a settler—something he recognizes is a complicated legacy—and that initially informed how he engaged with the land.

“I originally moved to the mountains to consume the mountains,” he tells me. “We approach [mountaineering] goal-oriented, we do it for our own egos because we want to feel that we are worthy, and I have to try and shift that consumption mindset in order to truly connect with the land.”

Patterson begins our day of climbing with a blessing … The prayer is an acknowledgement. Patterson wants all the surrounding land to recognize his voice. “I thanked [the water] for my life, for what I’m doing, and I asked permission to be here,” he tells me.

I’m quickly learning that mountaineering for Taylor and Patterson is not about attempting to dominate the mountains, but instead, to fully experience the land through observation and presence. This is how they approach their guiding mindset as well. “Mountains are the great leveller,” Patterson states. “When you’re here, you’re not a settler, you’re not Indigenous, and you’re dealing with all the same things everyone else is.”

I press my hands again into the rock below me, attempting to absorb this perspective. I feel the rough surface scrape my calloused fingers. Am I present right now? Am I truly connected?

These questions tug at me when we set out the next morning, first stopping by a stream of icy, glacial water that is feeding the hungry but still partially frozen tarn that’s tucked below the ridgeline we are about to scale.

Patterson begins our day of climbing with a blessing. He straddles the rushing water and murmurs a prayer; I don’t understand the language, but I can sense its sacred strength. The prayer is an acknowledgement. Patterson wants all the surrounding land to recognize his voice. “I thanked [the water] for my life, for what I’m doing, and I asked permission to be here,” he tells me.

When I kneel, to give my own acknowledgement—to truly feel the bite of that glacial water, the downy tendrils of waving moss, and the smooth surface of the stones—I begin to recognize an intimacy in my actions, an acceptance that, as Ebe told me, I belong to the land, it doesn’t belong to me.

When, hours later, it becomes clear that the comfort level of the group will prevent us from summiting, I recall that feeling. I remind myself that this is the first uncomfortable step to refocusing the lens in which I view nature; to remember that I am not here to approach the land from a place of consumption, but from a place of humility. In this moment, instead of pushing forward with my wants and desires, I need to simply find peace in the process. To be present in this sacred space, even if it doesn’t look like I expected it to.

I turn around, away from the looming summit. I take a step. It’s a small step. But it’s a start.

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