Strangers to the land

In 1996, I disappeared into the northern Ontario bush for 10 days with a dozen young, Indigenous leaders from across Canada and a tiny film crew. They were on a leadership journey with Outward Bound and had graciously invited me and my team to record the experience.

While I expected our wilderness adventure to be physically demanding, I had no idea that it would change us all forever.

Outward Bound has been in the leadership business forever, using outdoor activities like canoe trips and rock climbing as a way to help people work through inner challenges and discover hidden strengths. This trip took a similar approach - except that our guides would be three Indigenous leaders, who brought a beautiful combination of technical, spiritual and emotional skills to the quest.

Our job was to try to capture what happened, with the goal of making a video that Outward Bound could use to promote the program in the future. I'd worked on many video projects with First Nations before, to tackle tough challenges like addiction, suicide, health and fire prevention in their communities. And I thought I knew a bit about what it meant to grow up Indigenous in Canada. But spending time immersed in the stories of these incredible people showed how ignorant I was.

We spent the first week canoeing and portaging through a chain of bug-infested lakes. Though the scenery was spectacular, we had no time to enjoy it. My crew and I faced a double challenge on this project - we had to do everything the group did - only faster because we had to get ahead of them and set up the shots before they got there. Remember, these were the good old days - so we didn't have drones or go-pro cameras. Our kit included a heavy Betacam package and a Hi-8 video camera that I mounted on a tiny tripod and duct-taped to a helmet on my head to get some point-of-view footage.

Each day started with a morning circle, where the group sat together and took turns sharing whatever was on their mind. That ranged from how they were feeling after several days of not smoking (no cigarettes or alcohol allowed) to how much they missed their families to how nervous they were about the upcoming whitewater descent.

It was in these circles that my education began.

As they grew more comfortable with each other, they shared stories of their past and dreams for the future.

I learned about Agatha, who was Inuit. It took her 3 days to get to us, and when she arrived, we discovered that she didn't know much English. So could only communicate with one other man in Inuktitut. Facing those kinds of barriers to do this kind of trip takes guts. But I soon discovered that the super shy and gentle woman was one of the most courageous people I'd ever meet. Agatha had recently lost her 5 children and husband in a house fire. She came on this trip to explore a new path to the future. As we prepared to launch the canoes the first day, we discovered that she couldn't swim, yet was undeterred about voyaging out onto the wind-whipped lake. In fact, by the end of the trip, Agatha had become so comfortable that she led the group through the whitewater in her canoe with the biggest smile I've ever seen.

I learned about Peter, from the wet coast, who had raised his younger brothers and sisters on his own, while his parents battled addiction. As a young child, he almost drowned and had a deep fear of the water. Yet, during the expedition, he found the courage to ask for help and ended up running the whitewater river in a kayak, as his new friends whooped and hollered encouragement for him for two solid hours, all the way down.

I learned about Joe, who was a firefighter from the west. Strong, handsome, full of life and laughter, he became a friend to all. Yet, in our final circle, his laughter turned to tears, as he confessed the dread he felt at having to leave the safety of our group and return to the pain and chaos of trying to raise a young family amid violence and poverty.

And I learned about Terry, who was almost my age and had been taken from her family in the Sixties Scoop. That was the first I'd heard of this unimaginable horror and I was immediately shocked and ashamed. Not just because it happened, but also because nobody was talking about it. A wise healer and natural leader, Terry was our physical and spiritual guide on the trip. Watching her connect with the group, I began to understand what it means to listen without judgement, to hold space, to love and accept others unconditionally. And she did it all with joy and laughter.

During our ten days together, we struggled with physical challenges like 45-degree heat, treacherous, kilometre-long portages and drinking water shortages. We climbed rock faces, rappelled down cliffs and kayaked endless whitewater. Every night, my crew and I squeezed into our tiny tent and spent 20 minutes with a flashlight hunting and killing all the mosquitoes inside so that we could sleep.

But the moments that stay with me are the ones of deep emotional courage, where the group learned that it's easier to walk through fear when we do it together.

On the last night, we held our final circle, crammed inside a tiny hut to escape the bugs. It was too dark to see much with the video camera, but we recorded what we could. For three hours, I was privileged to listen to the group share their stories - what they loved about their time together, what they hoped for in the future, what they feared most about returning to "real life". Waves of laughter and tears washed over us all, cleansing and healing us, as the safety of the circle allowed us to open our hearts to each other and the possibility of change.

The next day, as we waited around for the trucks to take us to the airport, Sharon, who was Mohawk from Quebec, asked me what Nation I was from. When I told her I was just a white girl, born in Toronto, her eyebrows shot up. "Really?", she said. "I'm surprised. You seem like one of us."

It was the best compliment I've ever had.

The final documentary aired on CBC, under the title Strangers to the Land. (You can watch it on Vimeo here).

And while I tried to be as respectful and authentic as I could with the story, I struggled with the ethics of it. I'd spent over a decade telling Indigenous stories and had finally realized that they were not my stories to tell. Yet, I felt a responsibility to use my skills and access to the media to help the rest of the world hear Indigenous voices that had been silent for too long.

These days, I think I've found a middle ground, as a story coach. I'm able to use what I've learned to help others who want to tell their own stories, supporting and encouraging them in their journeys to share their truth.

And I'm grateful to Terry and the others who invited me on that adventure all those years ago, for helping me find my own truth and begin to learn to walk through my own fears. Because that's what it will take for us to create change, for good.