Pop 89: The Walk Home

By Madonna Hamel

Isn't a pilgrimage supposed to be religious? That's a question I got asked a lot when I talked about the life-changing historic walks I made with pilgrimage prof Matthew Anderson and folk historian Hugh Henry. Myself and my fellow pilgrims - ranging from a handful to a dozen on any given day - retraced the historical trails made by both early settlers and Indigenous inhabitants of Saskatchewan, trails imbued with memory, blood, sweat and tears. Trails that defined us admirably and shamefully, and if we listen with complete openness, spoke in the voices of ancestors through the stones and grasses. 

Last night, I had the opportunity to revisit those walks at the launch of Matthew Anderson's new book, The Good Walk. (I'll talk More about the book itself after I've read it.) Sitting in my chair at the Swift Current Museum, I felt a rush of happiness to be around my fellow walkers, who, along with me, had nursed sore feet, glugged welcome gifts of cold water, shared bags of nuts, and shared our emerging discoveries and impressions.

I cannot speak for the others, but I can say that speaking with them about their beliefs, smudging and being smudged, praying both Indigenous and Christian prayers, and above all, being taught by red-wing hawks and ancient stones, made the walks deeply religious. My own participation in the Wood Mountain to Fort Walsh and Humboldt to Fort Carleton walks can only be described as religious, considering the etymological meaning of religion- "religio '- is "to relink." They were psychic links between people-past and present, between land and feet, between the inescapable heaven and earth of the prairie. 

Matthew began his reading by saying: "This is a group project, not a heroic journey. And while there is nothing wrong with a heroic journey, the pilgrimage is done together. "Yes, I say under my breath, reminded of a line that came to me when I was writing Mother's Apron and the young woman is faced with a Jesuit who asks her if she goes to church anymore. She replies: "No. I don't know what I believe in anymore. I guess I believe in humanity."

And the Jesuit says: "It's one thing to love humanity. It's another thing to love the next person who walks through that door." And then to have to sit next to them. Walk alongside them.

Later, when Matthew says, jokingly, "Ok. Madonna. You can speak now" (referring, I suppose, to my overactive imagination wanting to express itself all the time about everything all at once.) I say: "We were a roving congregation. We had no choice but to get along." Thrown together we do that like every group must in order to survive. 

And we did that by sharing stories. I can't help refer again to Harold Johnson who knew what power lay in stories. If we have strayed from the power of stories into the contentious realm of the story of power, we can can return to stories through walking. There is plenty of time on a long day walk to tell, listen, reflect and tell deeper, listen deeper.

I had the privilege of talking about books with Don Bolen. The archbishop in his hiking shorts and ball cap, confessed about a day he called in sick in seminary school because he wanted to finish the latest Chaim Potok novel. Oh man, I said, he was my favourite author too. Later that day, Sister Reann told me about her work in reconciliation and her own family history. A year later, she visited Val Marie, and we encountered a rattlesnake. She wanted to get closer; I had to pull her away. The snake metaphor did not escape her, and she riffed on it for the rest of the day. Other days I, talked installation art with Hugh, poetry with Louise, desert mothers and fathers with Matthew. At the end of each day, we whined to Laurent, our guardian angel driver,  about our thirst and sore feet, while he offered water and an ear.

Stories rose from the land like mist in the morning, revealing gifts. Once, a welcome cold swimming pool in a park made famous by a Connie Kaldour song. And at the end of another hot, dusty day - a cozy bar with ice cold beer, several baskets of home fries and a jukebox full of classic country tunes. That night, we were given an entire primary school to sleep in. The showers seemed tiny, we had to bend to get water on our heads, but we were happy for hot water. Clean bodies make for better sleeps. Do you mind sleeping in the library, Reann and I were asked. Do we mind? Are you kidding? The last night at the end of the epic Carlton trail hike, after rubbing my hands along the felt pool table once stolen from Gabriel Dumont, I slept in my car because of a noise in the woods.

Matthew reminded us we wrote haikus along our walks, and Hugh recited a few. I remember one day after I witnessed a circle of wild horses watch me share a humbling, transformative moment with a lodge ring before we walked under a foreboding sky, I fashioned this one: "Giant clouds cast whale/ shadows floating over the/empty Bear Paw Sea." 

Near the end of his talk Matthew spoke of how we no longer talk about distance in miles but in hours. But I have a theory that the two collapse into each other: That, out here, time and space wear the same face. After the talk I wanted to share my theory, and a couple other pithy insights, with him and his lovely wife Sarah. But they were surrounded by fans. And I had said enough. 

I crept away and headed home.  Crossing the dark and empty sea, driving home alone, I thought of my family's hard year. Then turned my thoughts to tomorrow's long walk, while sending out prayers into the close and holy dark road ahead.