My first sweat lodge

Imagine the most beautiful spot in the mountains – miles away from everything – no phone signal, no paved roads, no signs of human existence. A group of Elders and pipe holders from the Stoney Nakoda Nation had invited me to a sweat lodge to be held on the banks of the Ghost River, where the floods of 2013 had changed the shoreline beyond recognition. 

We arrived at the site after a good hour's drive on treacherous gravel roads that disappeared into the eroded banks of the nearly dry riverbed. The Ghost owes its name to the fact that, in some portions of its course and when it’s not run-off season, it “disappears” from sight and runs below the rocky surface of its bed.

The willow frame that formed the upside-down basket-like structure of the lodge had already been put together, and a roaring bonfire was heating up the stones we’d be using later.

Knowing I wouldn't be able to take photos, I stared at the structure as if trying to imprint it in my memory. While the layers of the lodge were being built, one of the Elders took the time to brief me on the protocol. “Once the lodge is finished, the Elders will go in first, then the pipe holders, and finally the rest of the people." - the Elder said - "But only when they call you. It’ll be completely dark inside. You won’t see anything.”

It all happened as the Elder had explained. During the three hours that we spent together before arriving at the site, the conversation had all been in traditional Stoney language. Only after we were all sitting inside the lodge ready to start, did one of the pipe holders address me in English for the first time. He said, “the Elders want to know how they can pray for you.” I can recall very few instances in my life where I didn't know what to say - this moment was one of them.

It's amazing how humbling being honoured can be.

It's amazing how humbling being honoured can be. The ceremony began and the place got pitch black. All I managed to see, after my eyes adapted to the darkness, was the faint glow coming from the rocks.

I knew some of the members of the group had adopted the Christian faith because once in a while, I could hear “In Nomine Patris” or “In Jesus Name” interwoven in their Stoney phrases… or perhaps, the unbearably high heat was getting to me.

After two long hours, the flap was opened for the last time. One of the Elders let me know through a translator that they too were honoured by my presence there: “it’s nice when white people show respect for our traditions.” At first, I wanted to point out that I wasn’t Caucasian. But then I realized he wasn’t talking about the color of my skin.

Once the four rounds were done, one of the helpers leaned over and whispered that the Elders couldn’t leave the lodge until I did. I could barely crawl my way out, and when I finally reached the open air, my nostrils were flooded by the incredible aroma of the bannock and the moose stew the wife of one of the Elders had prepared for us on the open fire. The sun was setting behind the Rockies and the cool October air made me shiver. 

The ride back to the parking lot where I had left my car was filled with fantastic stories. I felt included.