June 22, 2024
National Indigenous Peoples Day is observed on June 21. It is a time to recognize and honour the cultures, histories, and contributions of the First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples of Canada.
Our group for the day numbered eight—engineers, foresters, and advocates for wood construction. We arrived with open minds, but with limited direct exposure to Indigenous life, history, and worldview.
The morning began with a tour of the Weyerhaeuser LSL plant northeast of Kenora. The wood supply for this facility comes from lands managed by a local First Nations–owned resource management company, Miisun. Seeing First Nations actively directing how their traditional territories are stewarded and protected was both encouraging and instructive. It felt like a foundation for a relationship built on mutual respect.
Our guide for the day was Matt Wilkie, Weyerhaeuser’s local Purchase Wood & Systems Leader. Matt brings people together easily, with warmth and curiosity. He invited us to experience one of the places closest to his heart: a healing centre on Bug Lake called Gamikaan Bimaadiziwin, Ojibwe for “I will find my life again.”
For people caught in cycles of harm or despair, the need for healing often runs deeper than what conventional Western clinical models can reach. While diagnosis and therapy can help, they do not always address the profound disconnection—from culture, land, and identity—that underlies much Indigenous suffering.
Five years ago, Elder Langford Ogemah envisioned a place where people seeking recovery could reconnect with culture, learn practical skills, participate in ceremony, and draw strength from the land. The program at Bug Lake is voluntary and open-ended, shaped around each person’s journey. Reflecting Anishinaabe generosity, the centre welcomes everyone, Indigenous or not.
The road into Bug Lake is winding and rough. When we arrive, we are greeted by Jackie Marcine and Dave Lindsay. Jackie, a healing guide, carries a calm and grounded presence. Dave, a Fish & Wildlife Officer for Treaty 3, feels like the kind of teacher you want beside you in the bush—knowledgeable, kind, and quietly strong.
They show us around the site. We visit the log yard, where a horizontal bandsaw mill will soon be housed beneath a roof spanning double-stacked sea containers. The mill supplies construction lumber for the camp and provides participants with hands-on skills they can carry forward.
Three 12’×20’ cabins, a ceremony lodge, and a central roundhouse are nearing completion. Architectural renderings displayed inside one of the cabins show a future campus designed to support 25–30 participants and staff. As the tour continues, the smell of food drifting from the roundhouse signals that lunch is close.
Big Kevin, a friend of the centre, is preparing freshly caught walleye. Fillets move steadily through a pan of hot oil, filling the air with a smell that makes conversation briefly secondary.
With plates in hand—walleye, wild rice salad, bannock, and greens—we gather inside the roundhouse. Just before we begin, two elders arrive to join us for the meal: Ogichidaa Francis and Betty Kavanaugh of Treaty #3.
Ogichidaa Francis was selected as Grand Chief through traditional discernment and has devoted 45 years to serving the Anishinaabe Nation of Treaty #3. It is a privilege to share the table with him and with Betty, whose warmth and humour fill the room.
As we eat, stories are shared—of history, of struggle, of resilience, and of the responsibility to care for land and one another. The Anishinaabe of Treaty #3 live across 28 communities spanning more than 142,000 square kilometres in northwestern Ontario—an area larger than many countries.
What stays with me is a sense of people reclaiming agency and standing as equals, offering insights that speak directly to the broader challenges we all face. The message is simple and profound: we must live in right relationship—with one another and with the land—guided by reciprocity, responsibility, and respect.
We have much to learn. Leaving Bug Lake, I felt grateful—for the generosity of our hosts, for the lessons shared, and for the hope that comes from listening well.
