We're driving along a dirt path that separates swaying wheat from a canola crop. It's getting towards sunset and nervous thoughts are creeping around in my head. Am I going to be able to do this?
My boyfriend and I are on our way to a Sundance.
And yes, it did sound a little crazy when I explained it to some of my friends. Drive a couple hundred miles in the blurry heat of summer with a bag of clothes and pitch a tent. Spend a few days without eating or drinking a drop of water, dancing in the prairie sun from sunrise to sunset. Oh, and no sunscreen allowed.
What people sometimes don't realize is it's a religious ceremony -- much like a Christian christening or a Jewish bris. For thousands of years, the Sundance has been the ultimate spiritual experience of the plains people.
We've made it to Chief Piapot's land in Saskatchewan's Qu'Appelle Valley. This is the lush reserve land Piapot fought hard for more than 100 years ago so that his people wouldn't have to worry about starving anymore.
Piapot never gave up the Sundance, even when the government outlawed it and tried to overthrow his leadership because of it.
I'm no traditionalist, but I've tried to prepare for this tough ceremony. I've even memorized my Indian name in Ojibway -- musko-day-pis-e-kay-kway/Buffalo Woman -- for this ceremony.
We pass a makeshift sign and drive into a grassy field. A couple of tents and an RV have been set up. We can see the Sundance grounds and a teepee in the distance. This is it. I get out of the car wearing the required long skirt -- women aren't allowed to wear pants here.
I get introduced to the Sundance leader, Willie, who tells me he's been fasting for 40 days. He's a big man with braids on either side of his dark eyes, and a sharp wit. He looks at me hard when I tell him I want to dance.
He warns me there's no quitting once I start. He stares at me hard again and I try not to look nervous. He tells me to think about how many days I can commit to. After a quick visit with Willie, we also realize we've shown up a day early.
It's Saturday and the ceremony doesn't start until Sunday night. We have no food, so neighbouring campers kindly share their dinner with us. That night, lightning, rain and strong winds threaten to collapse our tent. It's a restless sleep, but eventually the storm fades.
The doubts return the next day.
In the morning, we head to the closest town -- Southey -- for bacon and eggs and fresh coffee. I can't help but finish everything on my plate, thinking this may well be my last meal for a few days. I also visit the bathroom three times, relishing the plumbing, sink and mirror. They are little luxuries I'm going to miss.
When we get back to the campsite, we find out we've missed a trip to pick sage to make crowns. Uh-oh. I'm starting to feel like missing out on things means we shouldn't be here.
I decide to volunteer at the busy makeshift cook shack put up to feed the people.
I help cut up watermelon, husk corn and then I'm asked to dump some potatoes into a huge vat of boiling water on a propane burner. Everything's going great until I smell something burning. I look down. My skirt has caught fire!
There's no room to "stop, drop and roll." The flames are small enough that I can pull the fabric and shake it out. Holly, the head cook, makes sure I'm OK and tells me to sit down.
Willie checks to see if I'm OK, too. He tells me, "I owe you a skirt."
I'm beginning to think this isn't meant to be. My now burnt skirt with holes in it is the only one I've brought to wear and dance in.
My boyfriend and I take a walk to the hill where the Sundance arbour is. It's huge -- about a 200-foot-wide circle, open to the sun. The other ceremonies I've been to are of the Nehiyaw (Cree) and Anishinabe (Saulteaux/Ojibway) people. The lodges are smaller and there's some shade from a wall of saplings around the exterior.
This is going to be tough. The family sponsoring this ceremony are mixed Cree and Sioux. They're experienced. They really know how to Sundance. Can I really do this?
We get back to camp and find out it's time to get the tree of life, which will be placed at the centre of the arbour. We jump in the car and follow. As we all stand together to give our thanks for the tree, I remember the meaning of all this.
A young girl named Moonlight, whose family has driven from British Columbia, has been chosen to make the first cut with the axe because she is pure. After that, each person takes a swing. When the tree -- taller than my two-storey house -- is ready to fall it is gently let down to the ground. We all carry it onto the back of a flatbed trailer.
We drive slowly back like a wedding procession. Life is about experiences; how can I turn back now? I'll do three days.
Next Monday column: Three-day dance
colleen.simard@gmail.com
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