A Lively Old Merriment

This is a personal story that I must tell. Or to least, put into words for someone else to read one day. Plain and simple: It is a most startling account of my first experiences while field researching into my Indigenous-American blood lineage.

I’ll go ahead and start with saying that it all began with a trip that I put together for myself in hopes of further understanding my ancestral roots. Canada was originally my only intended destination, Alberta and British Columbia. Last minute planning had me ultimately incorporate the northern American state of Alaska into my overseas expedition. It was my reading and studies on the Na-Dene Peoples of the Pacific Northwest that had me so enthralled about the state of Alaska. I supposed that I would start there, then make my way southeastward through the Rocky Mountains until I finally arrived to the plains region of my lineage; The Blackfoot, or Niitsitapi.

Even though I was born and raised in the great and noble country of England, as aforementioned, I have Blackfoot blood coursing through my veins. It all stems from my great-grandfather. Great-grandfather was a brave man, hailing from an area called, Bullhorn, of the Blood Tribe. Great-grandfather, like his fellow chaps, decided that they would find excitement and adventure in a Great War, off in faraway land. Exciting undertakings that reserve life couldn’t administer was awaiting them if they enlisted in the Canadian Expeditionary Force, fighting boldly in the trenches of the Western Front. So, he and others from the Blood Tribe willingly enlisted. Before ultimately being sent to the front lines, grandfather spent a wee bit of time posted in England; where the CEF was based, along with the British expeditionary forces. It was in a small Manchester pub where great-grandfather had met great-grandmother. And well, the rest is history, as they would say. Three generations later, and here I am.

I worked like a wild rabbit making babies for myself to be allotted the time off I required for my journey to Canada. Two months is what I had asked for. And my boss gladly permitted it, seeing what with all the work I had done in a matter of a year with zero time off.

My initial stop and the first leg of my journey began in the town of Juneau, Alaska. I found it very disheartening that I didn’t happen upon any local Indigenous peoples. I became a regular at some of the local hot spot pubs for the three days I spent in Juneau. I then came across a brown skinned fellow whom I was sure to be of Indigenous descent. No luck there with the lad. He was of Mexican-American descent, who had moved from Houston, Texas not some two years prior. Damn, so close, I thought to myself. But not close enough.

Prior to my trip and with careful planning, I had also spent time studying the exploits of one Chris McCandless. You may recognize him easily enough as the young man from the movie (and book), Into the Wild. His last stop was ultimately the unforgiving wilderness of Alaska, where he eventually lost his life due to starvation and the region’s climate extremities. I gravely didn’t want to end up like that poor chap, so I decided to make my journey during the summer months of July and August.

Following Juneau, I made my way south, island hopping across the Alexander Archipelago. I was quite blissful, to say the least, when I finally came across some of the local, Tlingit peoples scattered amongst the islands. They found my own king’s tongue and dialect to be quite splendid, as I too in the manner of their keen accents. Their manner of speech was unlike any other Caucasian Americans I had come across thus far. I decided to stay a week when I found a family willing to take me under their wing and to live in their dwellings. I was taught and lived in their traditional ways of life. Just like us Brits, they too loved their seafood. I had me a jolly good and unforgettable time. Along with my timely departure, came the gift of a magnificently fabricated Chilkat blanket, a gift that would come in most handy in the days to follow. I was very saddened to leave my Tlingit hosts.

Next up was Canada. It was easily enough to access, the cluster of islands connecting to the continental mainland, and then the Canada/US borderline carving through it. I ferried from Alaska to British Columbia and hitchhiked my way to the small city of Prince Rupert. I stayed for the night in a modest hotel to gather myself and plan out the rest of my southeast journey down through the mountainous woodlands of British Columbia—BC as the locals and the country as a whole call it.

While enjoying a pint by myself in the hotel’s lounge, a young beauty of a woman approached me. Her flowing scarlet hair alleged she of was English ancestry herself. She had me enticed.

“Not from around here, are you?” she said in her simple Canadian accent.

“How did you figure?” I politely asked.

She pointed to my tall glass of murky stout. “No one from around here ever orders Guinness,” she snickered. “That and the fact that you’re also wearing hiking boots. An article of footwear fashion that locals don’t tend to wear on the regular around here. Usually.”

“You got me there,” I said, extending my hand in greeting. “Pleasure to meet you, I am Paxton.”

She hesitated for a moment and studied me like a fretted fox. At last, she let her guard down and took my rugged hand into her silky palms. “It’s nice to meet you too, my name is Heidi. You are from London, I presume?” she said bluntly.

“Oooh, sorry Miss Heidi, I’m afraid you’re quite off by a longshot.”

“Okay, okay, no I got this, I’m good with this kind of stuff,” she speedily recited. “Let’s see, you’re from. . . I’m going to say, Manchester.”

“Ahh, now I’m most impressed. Please, will you join me?” I dismounted from my barstool and pulled out a sturdy back ended stool tucked beneath the bar top. “Let me buy you a drink. Please, it’s the least I can do.”

She happily coincided and plopped down into the barstool beside me. “I’ll take a Kokanee, please,” she politely demanded of the appropriately dressed bartender.

“So, what brings you here?” asked Heidi with a smile.

“Vacation, you could say,” I said.

“Welcome to the club. Or at least once upon a time ago.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, my bad. I’m actually from the States. Arizona to be exact. I hate the constant dry heat, so I came here for a visit, came back again, and just sorta never left.”

“Ahh, that sounds most splendid.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” she said playfully.

I had made my first lady friend (excluding my Tlingit hosts wife), and then from there, we had gotten ourselves pissed drunk like two college students on vacation. I had finally tried my first ever Kokanee, and I could say it was quite a delight.

I awoke the next day on my hotel bed with an eradicator of a headache. It felt as though the whole of London Tower had come undone right on top of my head. My first Canadian hangover. I glanced around. There were absolutely no signs that I even had a lady guest spend the night. I shrugged off the notion and decided I should carry on with my original intentions. I washed up, rehydrated my body with sustenance and proceeded back on my hitchhiking excursion.

I am an avid outdoorsman, so the mountainous BC landscape was of no intimidation to me. My countless years spent hiking, climbing and camping out on the Swiss Alps played a major role in my survival to come of the trek between Prince Rupert and ultimately, Calgary, Alberta. The crisp mountain air was like inhaling the breath of the Almighty. Nothing at all like the air I breathe living in downtown Manchester.

While trekking down the side of the highway, I perceived the not too familiar sound of hissing brakes and blow off pressure valves of an enormous semi-truck from behind me. The massive truck nearly jackknifed to a stop right in my path, making me have to run afoot into the deep grassy ditch. I took the offer and climbed aboard.

The truck driver’s appearance was quite gruffy, to say the least. With his shaggy beard, beer keg for a belly and hard-pressed teeth, I thought him to be one of the men straight out of the American horror movies. But no, he was quite a charming young lad. It turns out he was only 28 years young. Michael was his name. He was the one to inform me of the Highway of Tears, the road on which we were currently travelling upon.

The Highway of Tears derived its name in relation to the numerous women—mostly Indigenous—who had gone missing or murdered on that lonely, desolate stretch of backwoods road.

It was coming on night, the sun slowly sinking beyond the westerly peaks of the towering mountains, the last tints of yellow and gold lingering above the mountain crests like Heaven’s halos. I peered outside my window at the infinite array of rapidly passing evergreen trees, their shades of green growing darker and darker with every fading shift into the distance. That was when Michael brought it upon himself to voice to me some of the eerie tales in reference to the highway. Michael must have had a knack for telling his ghost stories to roadside ramblers he happily gave rides to. One such story made my arms break out into gooseflesh. He lowered his voice and increased it at times, when necessary, just like the professional narrators from the audiobook recordings.

A young hitchhiking tourist, like myself, was left isolated on the side of the deserted highway. It was getting late, and therefore was no other choice but for him to set up camp for the night. He decided not to set up too far from the highway (but he also didn’t want to be too close in case a semi was to have an accident), so that he may flag down an approaching vehicle if the fortunate chance arose. It was late in the cool, damp evening, with the westerly skies of rose-gold illumination barely poking through the thickness of the dense green canopy. He was busy setting up his tent when he glanced up just in time to see a woman stumbling from the dense scrubland’s remote darkness like she was in trouble. He dropped what he was doing and scurried towards the woman to see into her well-being. He stopped dead once he was about thirty feet, or so, from her. It was at that distance that he could perceive her deathlike conditions effortlessly. Even in the fading daylight. Where her eyes should have been, were only empty sockets as black as char. Her ashen skin was aglow in a desiccated tint of green with sullied blood vessels protruding on the forearms. Her dark red, oozing mouth was open, but no sound escaped. Fear overpowered him as his legs involuntarily rushed him back to the lonely highway, where he trekked wearily down the meridian for hours in the dark until a willing motorist picked him up. He never dared bother to go back to the site to retrieve his abandoned gear.

“That’s got to be an old wives’ tale, or whatever you folks call them around here?” I said. Although I was furtively praying to the Lord that we didn’t break down in the middle of that highway’s remote blackness.

“I shit’cha not. Happened to a friend of a friend of mine. A friend who just happened to be the one to pick up that anguished man.” Michael slowly swivelled his face toward me, a look of firm steadfastness draped over his expression.

“So your friend picked up this traveller, then?” I asked.

“Yup. And boy if you could have seen that hitcher’s appearance, you’d sure believe me then. Hell, I believe it, what with all the women that have been killed in such ruthless ways on this road. Ya know what some people say. That if someone is killed in an unnatural way, then their spirit is cursed to roam the lands until they find their peace.”

“You know, in England, our beliefs aren’t much different from your Ameri—sorry, Canadian beliefs.”

“That sounds true enough. I mean England is sorta the motherland of this great nation, wouldn’t ya say?”

“You can say that, mate. But not when it comes to the Indigeno—”

“Oh shit,” cut in Michael. “Speak of the devil.” He turned up his truck stereo, forgetting our conversation, and we cruised through the remote night to the sounds of AC-DC’s, Highway to Hell.

“Charming, mate,” I whispered to myself. “Charming.”

The remaining stretch of the late-night road journey was filled with the brash sounds of Classic Rock. Before I knew it, I drifted off into slumber land while perched on top of the very comfortable passenger seat.

I awoke alone in the dead silence of the semi truck’s cabin. The still air hummed with the scent of cherries from the air freshener dangling below the passenger visor. I raked my head around in search of Michael. The overly large parking lot was dimly lit with the black pavement radiating a wet glow.

As I searched, moving my head carefully, the silence was suddenly broken by the loud squealing of the driver side door. “Well shit the bed, sleeping beauty’s awake. Ya hungry?” said Michael.

“Where are we now?” I groggily asked, half jumped out of my shaken wits.

“Houston. But not the Texas kind. We’re about half ways to Prince George.”

“How long until Prince George, then?”

“Still a was. Here, you look hungry.” He tossed me a warm silver lined packaging. “Grilled cheese and fries, on me.”

“I can pay you b—”

“No, no. This one’s on me, my friend. I’m just relieved to have had some company. Trust me when I say, it gets lonely—and way too scary—on that desolate highway.”

“Well thank you, mate. I certainly appreciate it,” I said and commenced in chowing down the mouth-watering truck stop food.

“You’re very welcome,” Michael said with a smile.

That night, we chipped in on an old roadside motel and carried on with our road trip as soon as we awoke.

The remaining trip was alive with the tales and adventures of Mr. Michael Hodges. And he was sure to not leave out anymore of his campfire ghost stories.

Prince George is where Michael and I parted ways. I gave him a firm handshake before climbing out of his big rig. I waited until he was well out of the parking lot, and that I could only perceive the fading sounds of his truck switching gears. Once again, I was on my own to carry out with my expedition.

It was the dead of night; the motel lobby I had barged into was small with the scents of disinfectant and cigarette smoke staining the air. A small, cracked leather couch was perched in the far corner of the room with an old beat up wooden bench operating as a makeshift coffee table. At the forward of the small square waiting room was an even older TV blaring away some old timer movie.

“Hello, sir, may I be of some assistance?” asked a small, round counter clerk with a trimmed beard on his even rounder face. His thick wireframe glasses dug deep into his dwarf like nose.

“Yes. I would like to get a room for the night, please,” I said.

“Pretty late to be out and about, isn’t it?” asked the counter clerk.

I gazed down at his rectangular name tag. It read: Benson.

“Hello, Mr. Benson. Yes, it is rather late, so I would like to hit the hay as soon as possible,” I said with a forced smile.

“By all means, my good sir. Let’s get you settled right in, shall we?”

The shabby motel room was to the very least bit, comfortable. It reeked of years’ worth of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol. The faded, checker tiled carpet perfectly matched the just as worn-out blanketing of the bed. I wasn’t the one to complain, so I immediately climbed in the bed and closed my eyes.

Michael’s tales were still well on my mind even as I slept. That night I dreamt that I was back with Michael on foot in the secluded BC wilderness. We were surrounded by nothing but an impenetrable enclosure of trees, trees and more trees, their skeletal figures seeming to creep in on us. The light from the sun barely pierced through the tree canopy, giving the ground all around me the appearance of a ceaseless evening. Fear immediately arose and pulsated through my nerves.

“We should camp soon, shouldn’t we?” asked Michael, his face concealed and dark like the shadows decorated all around us. I would’ve rather that we keep on walking. So, we did.

A few minutes inward, the tiny hairs on my neck stood on end, and my inner intellects sensed we were being watched. But all I could see was the wall of darkness caused by the eternally shadowed tree trunks.

“Let’s do set up camp, then. When we come to that high ground, over yonder,” I assured to him, pointing at the grassy elevation.

“You’re the boss,” Michael said.

We trekked further upwards until the bushy terrain finally began to clear and flatten out. We set up camp around a large tree trunk. Michael then emptied out his bag contents. All he had was a glimmering bottle of an unknown liquor. We drank.

After a few shots of the vile tasting spirit, my vision began to wobble and blur like I was drugged by an anaesthetic of some type.

“Are you doing okay, there buddy?” asked Michael with a snicker. I looked up at his fire illuminated face. It quivered sadistically in shades of unearthly reds and oranges.

“I—I—I don’t know, mate. I think it’s better that I get some slee—”

I was abruptly cut off by Michael’s ear-splitting shriek as he was ripped from his log seated position and dragged off into the darkness. I was on my feet and pursuing the sounds of his twig snapping, dragging body, and shrill cries for help. I kept my stride afoot until the campfire illumination faded from sight and I was surrounded by nothing but cold and empty blackness. I stopped and hopelessly listened in as my friend’s screams gradually disappeared into the infinite dark of the night enclosing me on all sides.

I awoke and rolled off my bed onto the floor, my arms and feet twisted up in the loose bed sheets. I could still hear Michael’s dying cries for help. Stumbling in the moonlit darkness of the motel room, I hastily searched for my cellphone, like it was a life-or-death situation. At last, finding it, I immediately dialed Michael’s number, not caring what hour it was.

“Hello. Mike here,” said the groggy voice, the sounds of a heavy motor enshrouding the background.

“Michael. It’s Paxton. Sorry about the late-night call, but I just had a terrible dream about you. I needed to know if you were doing alright.”

“Let me guess. Was it that damned Highway of Tears?” he said, his voice portraying no such fear such as mine.

“Yes, that is right. How did ya ever—”

Michael burst out in a laugh. “I knew my stories would getcha.”

I felt relieved that it was just my overactive imagination. “Alright mate. Good to know you’re okay, then. Look I better get back to sleep, and let you get back to the road. I’ll be in touch.”

“Alright my friend. Don’t dream so hard now. Be hearin’ from ya,” Michael said before hanging up.

I returned to my musty smelling bed and immediately closed my eyes and resumed to the land of sleep. No more dreams of that dreaded highway returned. I awoke the next day, had myself a somewhat good continental breakfast, and was back on the road.

The remaining trip was mostly uneventful. I had no problems at all finding rides until I finally entered Alberta. I didn’t even have to stick out my thumb. People must have noticed my big pack, and therefore decided they would give an old chap a chance.

“Well, my turn is right over here. I would recommend that you come and have yourself a gander at old Banff. It’s a pretty remarkable little town,” said Joseph, my Good Samaritan.

“Why thank you, mate. I appreciate the gesture, but perhaps it’s better that I keep on heading east before it gets too late.”

“I hear you on that one.” Joseph exited the turnpike and slowly pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. “Good luck, eh,” he said and extended his arm in a good-mannered gesture.

“Thank you, Joseph. I bid you adieu and best wishes to you,” I said as I shook his hand in appreciation. And just like that, another good-hearted Canadian was out of my life.

I waited until a few cars sped past me before I decided to cross the small two-lane road. Keeping good pace, I trekked down the grassy ditch of the turnpike, ultimately settling beneath an underpass to study my map and get out of the searing summer heat. I was doing my calculations on the length of time I would be upon the city of Calgary by foot, when a truck just as soon pulled over.

“Hey there, stranger. You need a lift?” yelled a man through his passenger window.

I looked up in utter surprise, astounded at how kind and trusting these Canadians were to me. “Why yes,” I said, “I could most definitely use a lift.” I climbed to my feet and jogged to the open and awaiting, passenger door.

“Good to meet ya,” I said with an extended, gratuitous hand. “I’m Paxton.”

“Holeh, an Englishman.” He gripped my hand tightly. “I’m Tyson. Go ahead and toss your bag in the back and let’s get a rollin’.”

“Right.” I unshouldered my pack in a haste, tossed it in the truck’s cargo box and boarded the raised truck.

“So, where y’off to, there, brother?” said Tyson as he placed the transmission to drive and peeled off the gravel laden shoulder. He verbalized with an accent similar to the Tlingit people I had stayed with.

“Well, I’d like to get to Calgary, if you’re heading that way?”

“Yes sir, I sure am—and some.”

“I beg your pardon, mate?”

“I’m just passing through Calgary. I’m actually heading down south.”

“South. You wouldn’t happen to be going through the Blood Tribe or close to it, would you?” I said eagerly.

“No shit? That’s exactly where I’m headed. That’s where I am from,” he said with a chuckle.

I was overcome with delight. His accent now made total sense to me. “Well I’ll be damned. It truly is a small world after all.”

“Sorry?” said Tyson.

“Hmm, where to start.” I pondered for a moment to overpower my tick of excitement. “I’ll just come and say it. I am headed to the Blood Tribe. You see, my great-grandfather hailed from there.”

Tyson shot me a sideward glance. “Well holy shit on a stick. Bet your glad I came along then, hey?”

“Very. Where are you coming from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Wedding in Banff—my sister’s wedding. I was in the lineup, and now just making my way home. Boy I’ll tell you what though, I’m sure as hell feeling the effects from last night.”

“Was it a traditional wedding?” I inquired.

“I dunno what your concept of a traditional wedding is. But yeah, you can say that there was some tradition. We had a drum group sing, and an Elder bless the ceremony. The booze part wasn’t quite as much tradition, though.”

“And the groom? Did he don some kind of a headdress or something?”

Tyson chuckled forcefully, nearly losing his grip around the steering wheel. He then faced me and asked, this time with more austerity in his tone, “Where did you say you were from, again?”

“I didn’t. I hail from the city of Manchester, England.”

“Well, that figures. I’ll tell you something right quick, though,” Tyson said. He eyed me and waited for me to acknowledge him. I acknowledged with an inquisitive nod. “Well first of all, not any regular Joe Schmoe Indian is allowed to sport a headdress. It must be gifted to them, or they would have to earn it. And not to mention, my sister married a napikwaan, so yeah, there you go, my good sir.”

“Sorry. A napee—”

“Napikwaan,” snickered Tyson, “it means Whiteman in Blackfoot.”

“Ahh, right. My first Blackfoot language lesson.”

“So, your great-grandfather? Let me guess. One of the few wars that Canada has been involved in?”

“That’s right,” I said, “World War One.” I stopped and waited for instructions for me to enlighten him furthermore. While waiting, I briefly examined Tyson. He didn’t look at all like the warriors from the black and white pictures I had studied in school. He was brawny like he was an avid patron at the gym. His chiselled jawline complimented his dark brown hair, which was cut short, and pomaded into a faded Caesar cut. Although he was light skinned, there was still some natural tan to him.

He abruptly looked at me, as in to say: carry on. And I did.

“My great-grandfather came from a place called Bullhorn—” I began.

“Gee, it just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? That’s the section of the rez where I’m from.” He tittered like a schoolboy. “Sorry, go on.”

I carried on with the story of how my Blackfoot forefather had yearned for adventure, and so decided to enlist in the Canadian forces with his brothers and fellowship. And then how it came to be that he met great-grandmother. It didn’t end there. Tyson was all too interested to know how I grew up. The differences between my coming of age and his rez upbringing (his own words), were substantial. I started from my toddler years, right up into my present status in life. The remaining leg of our flat, prairie land journey was filled with stories of myself and of Tyson’s. The differences between rez life, and of Manchester life. Blackfoot women versus English women. From Tyson’s hearsay, I desired in meeting a beautiful, caramel skinned Blackfoot woman with flowing, jet-black hair, and narrowed eyes which pierced the soul.

“Wow. The Rocky Mountains look even more so beautiful when we’re this far from them,” I said, staring on at the bedazzling sight of where the crimped, grey mountain slopes mingled into the indigo skyline.

“Yeah, eh? It means were just about home sweet home whenever I gaze upon those lusty mountains.”

“We’re about there, then? To the reservation?”

“Mmhmm, but around here, we just call it the rez, or reserve. But just one stop before we header, if you don’t mind? It’s more of a tradition for myself.”

“Right, then. What do you have in mind, mate?” I curiously asked.

“A beer,” Tyson brusquely said.

“Alright. I could use a pint.”

The bar was called, Queens. It was a local hotspot, being one of the only few bars in the crossroads town of Fort Macleod. It was unlike the pubs that I was so used to back home. I was accustomed to the usual set up of a sprawling bar table extending down a space that took up a quarter of the pub. And my local watering hole back home was underground, with an old timey medieval feeling to it. This Queens had a small dingy tabletop bar, with only a few vacant chairs. Most of the patrons were scattered about, sitting around small tables with high-top stools sucked into them. The tiny, square dance floor was void of any dancers as country music blared through the jukebox speakers. Tyson and I found ourselves an empty stall in the back, a few feet from the lone billiards table and coin operated jukebox.

“Ohh hey, Tyson. Good to see ya bro,” said a tall man on approach. He was adorned in tattered blue jeans, striped button up shirt, a black cowboy hat and a shiny buckled belt wrapped around his waist. A championship rodeo buckle.

“Ohh shit, if ain’t my favourite cowboy: Johnny Walker,” said Tyson, adding a rude snicker.

“Tsaa, as if, this guy. Don’t even start with that, hey,” said Johnny. “Mind if I take a seat?” Without a reply, he pulled out a chair and plopped himself down.

Tyson nodded with a smile and turned to me. “You know how he got the name, Johnny Walker?”

I smiled and shook my head.

“Because he spends more time walking in the corral than he does actually riding the damn bull,” laughed Tyson, giving the wobbly table a powerful smack.

I smiled and nodded courteously at Tyson’s comical remark. I really didn’t want to laugh crudely, for fear of angering this six-foot something, bull rider who just took a seat at our table. “Good evening, mate, I’m Paxton. Pleased to meet you,” I said with an outstretched arm.

“Oh yeah, this is Paxton. My apologies,” said Tyson, pausing to clear his throat.

“So, you’re an English feller, or something?” said Johnny. He snatched my hand in his and gave it a firm, twisting handshake.

“I am,” I said.

“You know, my great-great grandfather was from Ireland,” said Johnny. “Hell, lemme buy you a beer. Hope you English boys like real beer.” He arose from his seat and vanished toward the bar without taking in an answer from me.

“Charming lad,” I said to Tyson.

“Ahh don’t let his thickness get to ya. He’s just fell off a few too many bulls and horses is all. Hell, he’s prolly even been kicked by a few too many, too,” said Tyson.

“What do ya figure? A few beers then be back on our way?”

“You betcha. I just need a few jiggles of a leg to shake this damn hangover.”

There really is no such instance as a few beers. Even back home in England, the old saying is more jibber jabber, than fact. I wasn’t the one to complain that night though. In a matter of no time, our table was full of local Indian cowboys. And they were all more than delighted to buy the foreign Englishman a few rounds. So, I figured I would stay awhile and drink with these young lads and indulge into their own anecdotes of life being an Indian cowboy. But of course, the good times were never meant to last—especially when the alcohol was flowing freely. It wasn’t too far into our evening, when a fight broke out between Tyson and Johnny. And it was all over whom owned a more powerful truck. Silly, really.

Of course, we were barred.

“Come on, I know where there’s a party. It’s not far from here,” slurred Tyson, his breath stained with the reek of Budweiser and whiskey.

“I don’t think you’re good to drive, mate,” I articulated.

“Nooo, not even, bro. I’m wicked good to go. I just had a few beers is all. Peanuts. Now come on, these girls are waiting on us.”

“You know my cousin once got into a nasty car accident. He too thought that he had only drank himself a few and was good to drive. That wasn’t the case though. Now he’s in a wheelchair for life.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. You drive,” he said with a pointed finger, digging through his pockets with his other hand.

Even I knew, myself driving was a terrible notion. “Definitely not a good idea, mate. I had me a few too many, and besides, I don’t have a license to drive in this country.”

“Come on, bro, don’t be such a puss. We’ll back road it. Won’t even see no cops.”

“Still not a good idea,” I strongly asserted. But I clearly see that there would be no persuading him.

“Okay then, how about this. I’ll go and pick them up, and we’ll come back for you.”

“Your call, my good chap,” I said reluctantly. Although I knew that that moment in time would be the last I would ever see of this Tyson lad. A good hunch by all means.

“Alright bro. I’ll be right back, right quick.”

Shaking my head in disapproval, I watched as he drunkenly struggled to climb aboard his raised pickup truck, started it and revved it hard, making the motor growl like a wild animal. I then watched furthermore as a black police cruiser emerged from out of nowhere, pulled swiftly into the parking lot with a squeal of its tires, blocked him in and activated its cherries and blueberries.

As much as I felt bad for poor Tyson about to be arrested, I was just glad he didn’t get a chance to leave the parking lot behind the wheel—and in his state.

I carried on with my journey.

The night was cool, but the blacktop pavement trickled with the entire day’s full of absorbed summer heat. I headed eastward, strolling casually down what I would call, the town’s deserted Main Street. The roadside side businesses were all interconnected, looking just like the iconic buildings from the old Wild West movies. In less than thirty minutes, I was at the margins of the town, the illumination diminishing into blackness as the onslaught of the wild prairies emerged. I began to stroll when the sudden burst from a police siren from behind made me jump.

“Sir. If I may have a quick moment of your time,” said an unknown voice, his face concealed in the cabin’s shadows.

I slowly pivoted on the heels of my boots to face the police officer seated in his cruiser. “Yes, sir, you may.”

The police officer commended my smart actions not to get inside the truck with Tyson, as intoxicated as he was. He asked where I was headed. I informed him of my situation and my excursion to the Blood Tribe. The reserve was out of his direct jurisdiction, but he offered to drive me to the boundaries, where I could finish my trek, and even be upon the central town site of Standoff in a matter of hours. I happily obliged.

“Alrighty, Mr. Paxton. Just stay on this here road and you should be upon Standoff in no time. And if any cars pass by, take extra caution, please. I don’t want no fatalities, especially from a person not born of this country,” said Constable Patterson.

“Will do, Constable. Thank you again, I certainly appreciate the lift indeed,” I said as I closed the passenger door.

We said our cheerios, and the Constable departed with a polite honk of his horn, propelling back down the desolate roadway in which we came. I watched as his red taillights became one with the night like diminishing fireflies. I was once again alone in the darkened wilderness with nothing but the sounds of crickets chirping to keep me company.

I glanced at my wristwatch. 10:42 PM. July 16th, 2008.

Like I had said before. I had been on my own on more instances than I can recall. My fear of anything lurking beyond the cover of back country darkness had long since dissipated. Like a daring explorer, I marched on.

Not an hour into my walk and I badly wished that I had asked the policeman to make a pit stop at the Mac’s convenience store on the way out of the town. The intoxicating effects of my few hours at the bar had disintegrated and I was left with a searing headache along with intense cottonmouth. The dry air of the prairie surroundings didn’t help the matters either.

My paced boot stomps and the buzz of nocturnal critters echoed through the cool tinged air. Before long, the sweet embracing melody of music drifted through the open atmosphere and enclosed around my isolated senses. I stopped to have a listen. Still, I couldn’t grasp where it was coming from. In the flat, remote distance, were spread out specks of light, what I presumed were separate reserve dwellings and farm acreages. Excitement once again brewed from the pit of my stomach. Water was on my mind. I continued forward with my steady stride. The music gradually grew louder with each set of footstep crunches on the gravel road. I picked up my speed until I was almost at a full tilt run.

At last, I could see a set of lights emerging from the distance like a rising sun, my ears identifying the recognizable chatter of people. I smiled contently, slowed my breath and approached the party with full buoyancy in hopes for a smidge of water.

As I loomed in on the party, a group that was outside chatting suddenly fell in dead silence, my gravel crunching steps sounding eerie to my ears. The group’s pulsating cigarette cherries was my only indication of life abroad. Once again, I could only perceive the crickets chirping and the ambience of thumping music from within the building. On approach I could feel their cold gazes stabbing at me through the already cool of the night’s atmosphere.

I slowed my pace and observed my situation.

The lone building looked like an old fashioned church, a broad sized church. I couldn’t tell the colour scheme of the dwelling from the dimness of the night sky cloaking. Two tall streetlamp posts were positioned on each end of the gravel laden parking lot, their dull glow drowning the area in a gloomy orange tint. There were at least a dozen people or so standing about in small groups, drinking from bottles and smoking cigarettes. Messily parked cars littered the parking lot. Some looked too ancient to still be on the roads.

“Umm, hello there. I’m sort of lost—I think,” I said cautiously.

“Well, well, well. Would ya boys listen to that? Sounds like we got a Scotsman in our midst,” said one of the men. I couldn’t tell whom spoke from the shadows enshrouding their faces.

“Uhh yeah,” I giggled uncomfortably. I figured now wasn’t the time to correct the man, and perhaps upset him—and his group of chums.

“I take it you’re lost, hey?” said another man taking a leaping step from the group. “Well tellin’ by your accent, you’re wickedly lost.” He broke out in a fit of laughter. The remaining group of men soon followed his rude titter.

“I am,” I said.

They continued laughing coldly at me as I stood motionless.

“Geez you guys, can’t you see he’s lost and means us no harm. Now let’s show him some of our Southern Alberta hospitality,” said a woman. I hadn’t noticed her and still couldn’t see her face due to the glaring lamplight spraying at us from behind them.

“Ehh, were just teasin’ him is all,” blurted out another unknown man. He stepped out from the group and trotted toward me. At point-blank, he stopped to light up a cigarette. The illumination from the lighter flame revealed his facial features. He looked exactly as the Indian men from the historical books I had studied. Long black hair sailed past his powerful shoulders. He stared at me through beady black eyes that looked like they had seen their fair share of skirmishes. Battle scars, I assumed, carved across his left cheek down to his well-formed chin.

“Hello,” I said nervously.

“Oki, tsa niitapi?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

He broke out in a friendly chuckle. “I was just saying, hello, how are you?”

“Oh, okay. Another Blackfoot lesson, then. Jolly good.”

“Another?” he asked blankly. In the dim lamplight I could see his black eyebrows elevate.

“May I be so polite as to explain myself?” I said.

“Enlighten me,” he replied. I could finally feel the coldness departing from his voice.

“My great-grandfather hailed from this reserve.”

“Which one?” blurted out another man standing amongst the group.

“This is the Blood Tribe, yes?” I said.

“It is,” said the man standing in front of me. “My name is Arthur. That man who just spoke is Ramsey, he’s from Piikuni, our Blackfoot cousins to the west.”

“I am most pleased to meet you, Arthur,” I said with an open, extended hand.

“You drink?” asked Arthur. He clutched my hand tightly and gave me an unfamiliar hand clasp.

“I would fancy some water, if you would have me some?”

“There’s prolly some inside. But for now, here, take this,” said Ramsey. He shoved his way past the others and handed me a partially cold bottle of Budweiser. “I’m Ramsey by the way. Come on, let’s drink,” he said with a wide smile. “I’ve never drank me with no Scotsman.”

I felt that I had warmed up enough to these gentlemen to politely correct him. “Actually, it’s Ramsey. I hail from England.”

“Oh okay, my apologies. So you said your grandpa was from here? What was his name?” asked Ramsey. He too donned long black hair tied in a tidy ponytail.

In no time, I was acquainted with the group of people standing outside. I was surrounded like a pack of wolves closing in for the kill. Only this pack didn’t have eradication on their minds. They lined up and took turns stepping to me and graciously introducing themselves. Most of them had never once seen a foreign man step foot the reserve lands—let alone share a beer with one. I was the center of attention.

Following a few unfamiliar, odd tasting drinks, Ramsey offered to take me inside to meet more people and even some of their Elders. I was informed that the occasion for the gathering was a wedding, a lively old merriment.

The wide open, gymnasium like interior was dimly lit. Candle flames danced aglow, placed upright in the center of the arrangement of round tables. Colourful banners and traditional Indigenous designs adorned the four cornered walls. A lively band strummed their guitars and banged on a drum kit while the singer covered classic rock songs I was well familiarized with. Ramsey was the one to chaperone me around the different tables of guests. I met a handful of couples and relatives. Old and young alike. Each one was thrilled to hear that my great-grandfather was of their very own lineage. Some of the guests steered clear of me, gazing at me with rigidness like I was a foreign animal in their domain. In a way I was. I was aware of the hardships that were brought upon the Indigenous peoples as a result of French, then British colonization. I asked about kids and was told that there were no children in attendance due to the presence of alcohol. Fair enough.

Lastly, I was brought to the table reserved for the Elders. Some donned braids and others wore swanky fedoras and cowboy hats. I was most honoured to meet and greet such people who could trace their days back to the early, traditional ways of life. They were just as thrilled to meet me. One of the older men had even informed that he may have even fought in the same regiment as my great-grandfather. I was very privileged.

“Well, that should be about everybody, I’d say,” said Ramsey, showing me through to the brightly lit kitchen.

“I can’t begin to thank you enough for welcoming me in. This is definitely one of the highlights of my trip thus far,” I said.

“Man, don’t even worry about it. It’s our privilege, bro. Hell it’s not every day that we get to come across a real-life Englishman.”

I raised my glass and Ramsey lightly tapped it from top to bottom.

I carried on through the night, drinking my fair share of complimentary alcohol and exchanging stories with the people. My drinks from earlier that evening at the Queens bar was still thick in my blood stream. In no time, my mind slipped from my full grasp on perception and into the blackened world of over-intoxication.

. . .

I opened my eyes. I was in near total darkness, minus the strips of dusty sunlight piercing into the room through the cracked margins of the boarded-up windows. My blistered taste buds were swamped in a viscous taste of copper mingled with stale alcohol. Once again, I severely needed water.

I pushed off the stiff sofa I was sprawled across. A foul spray of dust and dirt immediately exploded and hovered in the air, making me erupt into a fit of coughing. I positioned myself into a sitting position to let my blurred eyes unite with my battered conscience. Wide awake, I raised off the sofa and was immediately knocked back with shock. The room I was in was old. Beyond old. It conveyed the look of countless years immersed in abandonment. The walls were tattered and broken, revealing the fragmented drywall and inner studs of rotting wood. The floor was swathed in layers of grime, mould and black muck.

I glanced at my watch. 11:07 AM. July 17th, 2008.

Had I dreamt my night of fun? I couldn’t have. I could still taste the sour traces of the potent liquor I had pounded back with my new friend, Ramsey.

I seen the open door to a darkened bathroom and lunged for it. I tried the faucets. They were tightly rusted in place, emitting a loud squeal as I twisted them with all my strength. Nothing came out. No water or any fluid source.

I tried the light. Nothing. Even the mirror I stared at was caked in years of soot and dust buildup.

Then I remembered my pack. I burst out of the bathroom and raked my head around the dusty, compressed room. It was nowhere to be seen. Panic arose in me like a gasoline doused fire. Besides the bathrooms and a boarded-up fire exit, there was a set of double doors situated in the room. The doors I suddenly remembered Ramsey ushering me through. I pushed my way past them. They swivelled strenuously on their creaky, rusted hinges.

Out of the backroom kitchen, I immediately recognized where I was. There were no more intricate Indigenous designs and decorative banners embellishing the interior. Only marred, brick constructed walls stood upright with smears of black char and other unknown filth. Neatly organized tables were no longer in existence, replaced by heaps of burnt rubble and furniture remains. The large, open ballroom was eternally dark. Beams of dust glittering light flowed in through the scores of holes in the dilapidated roof like mini spotlights. The air was thick with the choking aroma of burnt wood and aged char.

I wasted no time and sprinted across the grand room toward the front entrance. From behind I could still sense the coldness of unseen eyes gazing right through me. Like a crazed escapee, I burst out the front entrance doors and was immediately blinded by the downpour of the high-summer sun. Taking a few steps to safety, I shielded my eyes and scanned the flat, grassy horizon. In the distance of wind dancing grasses, I could see the movement of cars on a highway, progressing like small insects.

One last glance behind me, and I was off like a bat out of hell. The very sight of the charred remains of the building gave me gooseflesh. I ignored the searing desiccation in my throat and kept my kegs moving until I felt I was well and safe enough away from the forsaken building.

And then I seen it.

My eyes lit up like an explorer stumbling upon gold. There it was, my pack, sitting upright at the edge of the gravel road, half concealed by the tall stalks of prairie grass encircling it. I snatched it up without stopping and hurried toward the T-intersection where the gravel met the blacktop. Once my boots touched pavement, I stopped and unshouldered my pack. I always came prepared. Fishing through my pack, I seized my compass and carried on heading southeast. It wasn’t too long, I’ll say fifteen minutes, before another Good Samaritan pulled off onto the shoulder and politely tooted their horn.

“That thing looks heavy. Come on, you look like you can use a lift,” said the lively young man. I knew he was a local from his acute, and now much familiarized, accent and tanned skin.

I tossed my pack into the cargo box and climbed into the man’s truck. “Thank you so much, mate,” I said through a hoarse throat.

He gave me a once over before slamming on the accelerator. “What’d you camp out in the boonies or something?”

“It’s a long story. And you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said blandly.

“Try me,” he chuckled. “I’ve heard ‘em all.”

I disclosed my full story of the exciting night I had unexpectedly encountered. I left out no details of the alcohol I had consumed, and the tangible people I had graciously met. By the time I was done my story. Blaire (was his name) stared at me with his mouth fully agape. The tanned colour from his face dissipated into a milky whiteness.

“That old community hall. What I am about to tell you . . .” He paused to take a deep breath and exhale. “There was a fire there, some thirty years ago. It was supposed to be a grand celebration of two long time lovers finally tying the knot. And then a very stupid prank, by one of the bride’s younger brothers, went wrong. The fire killed many people that night.”

“Wait a minute. So what you’re saying is that I was having a merry old time . . . with a gathering of ghosts?” I said with my face twisting in repugnance.

Blaire averted his watch from the road and gazed at me with graveness reeling in his eyes. “Paxton, my friend, you’re not the first and almost certainly won’t be the last.”