Writing-on-Stone: Hoodoos & Don'ts

Writing-on-Stone Provincial Park sits only eight-and-a-half kilometres north of the U.S. border, and you can see Montana's Sweetgrass Hills clearly as you drive up to the park.

The campground and a significant chunk of the park kind of sneak up on you, nestled in a large coulee below the horizon line until you are almost on top of it. The coulee was formed by glacial movement and not the lazy Milk River that runs through it, and the hoodoos that surround the area have been carved out by ages of wind erosion.

Demand for campsites has been high this summer, as camping is an ideal way to get away from home while still maintaining a degree of physical distancing, and not needing to wear a mask while outdoors or around one's own cohort. We had to apply this philosophy in another way, however, when one of Fenya's and Bobby's friends discovered that he had been in contact with someone who tested positive for COVID-19. 

Fenya initially took the position of "We aren't coming with you," which was sweet and thoughtful and appropriate, and Audrey and I tried to get tested on Thursday as well. In the end, given all the uncertainty and in weighing the possible physical damage of the virus as opposed to the certain emotional damage of a wrecked vacation, we agreed that they could come but a) in a separate vehicle and b) staying in their own tent instead of the Bride of Frankentrailer. This way, if their friend's new test came back positive, they could take the car back and self-isolate as soon as they heard the results.

As it happens, his test came back negative anyhow, as did the ones we all got in Lethbridge on Tuesday, but I'm still glad we took the precautions we did.

The only real impact on our camping was the fact that the shower building would only permit up to 4 individuals or cohorts at any one time, meaning you might have to wait in a line to use indoor plumbing or wash your hands in hot water. Even these lineups were infrequent though. 

The Writing-on-Stone campsite is well treed and, as mentioned, has the Milk River running right through it, with a large sandy beach that we saw a number of people lounging on or playing in. Even without the astonishing geography and amazing cultural elements, it is a campground I would be happy to return to. Our own site was wide enough to allow both the Flex and Corolla to park, and deep enough to pitch the tent on grass instead of gravel. (Note to self: try to get site 63 next time - spacious and secluded, plus a bit closer to the washrooms (but not too close)) My only complaint was the extraordinary amount of aggressive wasps, which even the parks staff thought was unusually pervasive. I got stung on the bottom of my arm while cooking breakfast one morning, a first for me.

Sunday was our first full day in the park so we went to the visitor's centre. It is a wonderfully well-done little museum that bears the Blackfoot name of the area - Áísínai'pi - under which it became a UNESCO World Heritage site just last year. The museum covers both the Blackfoot history of the place as well as settler perspectives but also has a lot of geographical information about the forces that created such an amazing oasis here on the prairies.

After getting a head full of context and meaning from the visitor's centre, we were anxious to see some more of what the park had to offer, so we made our way to the Davis Coulee Viewpoint and prepared to make our way down into the hoodoos to view one of the petroglyphs that give the park its name.

A family was making their way up the trail as we were preparing to descend and their boy said, "There is a rattlesnake just off the trail by the bench."

"Did you see him?" we asked, but he had not.

Sure enough, we had taken just a few steps past the bench beside the gravel trail, when we heard it: an eerie, buzzing rattle that froze us all in our tracks. (We had read that sometimes the snakes will rattle when someone has passed them, and people who jump backwards instinctively are sometimes bitten before they land.)

A lifetime of hearing that ominous sound in shows ranging from classic westerns to mWonderful World of Disney had not adequately prepared me for hearing it in real life, knowing I was potentially in striking distance of the province's largest venomous creature, but I was as excited as I was apprehensive. 

It was difficult to pinpoint where the rattling was coming from precisely, but looking carefully we were unable to see it, and believed it to under an overhang of rock. We proceeded to continue down the trail and sure enough, the buzzing subsided, and I kicked myself for not having the presence of mind to record it.

The Battle Scene petroglyph is about a kilometre's walk, but in the 29 degree heat it felt further. It was worth the walk and the sweat though, even if they require a security fence and camera to prevent vandalism. 

Still, it is amazing to see a frank depiction of post-contact combat as rendered by a member of the Blackfoot Confederacy. You have to look carefully to see them in places, as they are hundreds of years old and the sandstone they are inscribed in is subject to the mercies of erosion, but once spying them, they offer a stunningly visceral connection to the past.

And again, we are grateful for the context and guidance provided by nearby signage!

It is only about 1.5 km back to the campgrounds from here on the Hoodoo Trail, and had it been cooler we might have attempted it. As it was, the walk back to the road and viewpoint was yet another opportunity to marvel at the astonishing topography, especially the hoodoos.

Bobby and Fenya took a quick side-hike to the river, where she found a set of large animal bones that, as she said, "looked like they had just been dropped there."  She reported them to the park staff and an interpreter wrote back to let her know they would be catalogued (along with the 100+ other bones sitting under her desk).

We saw a lot on our first day at Writing-on-Stone,  but we had only scratched the surface of this amazing place.

Fireside Chats

Tuesday night we tried to teach Fenya and Bobby how to play crib, but it got too dark to read the cards. Instead we sat around the campfire talking until after 11:00.

It occurs to me that fire may be the most compelling of the ancient elements. The rolling swell of the ocean has a captivating majesty of its own, but there doesn't seem to be anything to match fire as a a gathering point, the warmth and shifting light compelling both attraction and conversation.

The four of us covered some heavy ground, topically: childrearing, relationships, our own family histories and childhood recollections. There was some deep sharing done and new insights gained.

Fenya theorized that disclosure may come easier because you are not able to make eye contact as easily, between the darkness and the flames or embers demanding our attention. You are not as focused on the reactions of the other listeners and needn't fear the raising of eyebrows or the rolling of eyes the way you might when face-to-face in broad daylight.

It makes sense, and made me wonder: is this why we sometimes prefer to have difficult conversations on the telephone? Is this why Roosevelt gave his insightful and inspiring talks from the fireside?

How ironic that the fire early humans domesticated for protection from the elements and predators can also provoke a vulnerability and openness that we embrace so willingly, even unknowingly.

The difference in context, as I write this at a picnic table in broad daylight at noon, shaded by a tree, makes recalling that evening even more difficult. It gives my memories an orange glow that fixes the feeling in my memory while also adding a patina that obscures details.

Getting a brief respite from the wasps that have plagued our campsite this week and the relief that brought may have also loosened our tongues, but whatever the reason, I was grateful for a chance to participate in such a conversation. And I recognize it probably wouldn't have happened without the fire.

Unforgiving Heat, Unforgettable Vistas

We arrived at our campsite at Writing-On-Stone Provincial Park last night around 6 pm. Today we explored in the 29 degree heat and saw many amazing things (and heard a rattlesnake in the wild for the first time - chilling!) but the views are among the most astounding.

More to follow, pending internet access!

Tusk - Family Prehistory

When Mum passed, some of the jewelry she had from her mother came into our household for Audrey and the girls, with other pieces going to Tara.

Audrey is often good at guessing what such things are made of, but a necklace and a set of earrings left her baffled. It didn't look like any sort of stone but didn't resemble any bone or horn she had seen either. 

Since she had business with them anyways, she brought the pieces with her to Fine-Line Jewellers on 124th street. They have done a ton of repairs for us and for Audrey's parents as well, and have a real wealth of experience in their family-owned business.

When Audrey returned to pick up the 100-year-old clock her parents were having repaired, Kim told her that she was right, after a fashion; the pieces were not made from bone, but from mammoth tusk.

Mum's Aunt Ruby lived in Alaska and Nan had visited there a few times as I recall, coming back with a number of carvings that at one time we had feared might be ivory. As it was explained to us, Indigenous peoples in Alaska are actually given a dispensation to harvest, work with and sell this ancient ivory, but there are still restrictions on where it can be sold.

In Siberia, Russian tusk-hunters race out every spring to find mammoth skeletons and tusks left exposed by the dwindling permafrost, often selling them directly to buyers from China. 

To the best of my knowledge, Nan's pieces came from small markets in Alaska, sometimes directly from the carver. She added them to her collections of crystal sculptures and unique pieces of jewelry.

It's fascinating to look at something so small and dainty and realize it came from the tusk of one of the largest land mammals of all time (although not the largest!) and which died out after the Pleistocene, over a quarter-million years ago. And that's to say nothing of the craftsmanship of the carving itself.

Family jewelry should always have a tie to the past, whether through legacy or nostalgia, but a connection to prehistory makes these pieces especially significant to our history-loving household.

No Beating This Bush

We are fortunate enough to have a raspberry patch in our backyard - it is our second one, actually, the first got removed when we put up our fence. But Audrey planted a replacement a few years back and this year it has really come into its own in terms of fruit, producing at least a cereal bowl worth of juicy bounty every day.

It's a good thing Nitti's rope does not extend as far as the raspberries, which rest along the fence just west of the garage corner. He could reach the original patch, which was closer to the house, and would daintily nibble off the berries without using his teeth - no mean feat for an animal lacking facile lips.

With Audrey at work this afternoon, I was tasked with picking today's crop. I had been advised to wear a glove in order to hold back the thorny branches, facilitating pain-free picking, but it was hardly necessary. I sat on the ground beside the bush, enabling me to gaze up under the leafy cover and see the fruit more clearly.

I was out picking shortly after noon and looking up at the red and white berries standing in stark contrast to the sun-dappled emerald leaves presented an amazing tableau. My crude picture does the scene absolutely no justice, but I wanted a reminder of how impactful a simple change in perspective can be. The fruit, nearly invisible while standing, practically begged to be plucked from my vantage point on the ground. In truth, most are so ripe that if you brush them with your fingertips, they will roll into your palm in the most obliging fashion.

Taking only the ripest berries, I still had a bowlful in under ten minutes' time. 

It's a simple thing, a raspberry patch; easy to plant and difficult to kill, and next season it will be bigger still. And yet it is such a privilege, such a blessing, to have a living thing so bountiful in one's backyard, in a climate we do not normally associate with sweet things, that it cannot help but be a wonder as well.

Hard Rockin' Maori Teens - Alien Weaponry

When I was 17, my family visited the Polynesian Cultural Centre in Hawai'i. There were lots of neat things to see and fascinating people to interact with, wrapping up with a spectacular fire dance, but what stuck with me the most was the Maori exhibit from New Zealand. The humour expressed by our guide, the brief demonstration of the haka, and the spearheads depicting a grimacing face whose outthrust tongue made up the blade made quite an impression upon me.

So when YouTube's autoplay teed up a video depicting Maori history sung in their indigenous language, te reo, it got my attention.

The video is called Kai Tangata and uses text in the opening to set an ominous scene:

“In 1820, the great Northern War Chief Hongi Hika departed New Zealand for England. On his return, he brought with him the word of God and hundreds of muskets. Things would never be the same again …”

It is unquestionably metal, both crunching chords and powerful vocals invoking the relentlessness and adrenaline of clashing warriors, even with one side horribly outmatched. It's an immense wall of sound generated by three young men (in their teens at the time) who actually have Maori ancestry.

They call themselves Alien Weaponry, which I thought was a clever allusion to the muskets referenced in Kai Tangata that upset the balance of power between the northern and central Maori tribes of New Zealand. It turns out that the name was actually inspired by the viewing of the movie District 9 by the two founding De Jong brothers shortly before starting the band  - when they were 10 and 8 years old.

Listening to more tracks by AW, like Rū Ana Te Whenua, I was intrigued by how impactful the music could be, even when I didn't understand the lyrics. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; after all, Rammstein is one of my favourite bands despite the fact I don't speak German. But knowing that the music is in a once-threatened indigenous language that is now making a resurgence gives it an even sharper edge.

I ended up downloading their album Tū through my YouTube music subscription, and while not every track landed with me the same way as the first two, more did than didn't. It is also nice to be able to sing along with the English lyrics in songs like Holding My Breath which will likely resonate with fans of nu-metal bands like Linkin Park:

To be completely honest, I am probably far too old, pudgy and white to be singing along with lyrics that contain so much teen angst or righteous cultural indignation, but I can't help it. Lead singer and guitarist Lewis de Jong has a clear and powerful voice that demands immediate attention and respect whether it is howling in English or chanting in te reo Maori. And despite being considered a thrash metal outfit, brother Henry's drumming is almost restrained by modern metal standards, complementing the percussion of the power chords instead of outracing or overwhelming them.

Sure, metal is not to everyone's taste, but consider broadening your musical palate with at least a bite of this spicy export from the other side of the globe - especially if you are going to be pulling up tree stumps or chopping logs.

For my part, I will be keeping an eye out for Alien Weaponry playing a gig anywhere within driving distance of me in the post-pandemic future.