When I was told my preconceived notions about Saskatchewan would be blown away, I didn’t realize it would be this literal. The wind out here doesn’t mess around — it tangles your hair, dries out your lips, and makes your face feel like it’s been kissed by a blowtorch. I thought wind only howled across the Atlantic or tore through Ontario farm fields. But Saskatchewan? Turns out, she’s got something to say. And so do the people who’ve lived here for generations.
My journey took me from Saskatoon into the heart of the boreal forest, where I spent time at kâniyâsihk Culture Camps on Ministikwan Lake Cree Nation. This isn’t your average getaway; this is a hands-on, land-based Cree teaching in Treaty 6 Territory. It’s fish nets (not the kind you wear on your legs) and brain-tanned hides. It’s bear skulls, beaver glands that smell like sweet jam, and eating elk fajitas under a setting sun. It’s an Indigenous experience that reminded me that in nature, nothing is wasted and everything has a story.
Depart for kâniyâsihk Culture Camps
We left Saskatoon with bellies full and lunch in hand. Our convoy rolled out in two vehicles, and in mine, I was lucky to ride shotgun. In the backseat: Chris Rudder of Rudderless Travel and Kevin Wagar from Wandering Wagars. How lucky was I to be on this journey with two of my best friends? Behind the wheel: the calm and capable Jodi Holliday from Tourism Saskatchewan, who not only drove but acted as tour guide and took turns on the Saskatchewan highways like a pro.
Curious to read about adventures in Saskatoon? Check out Saskatoon: Bridges, Booze, and Biking Through the Paris of the Prairies here!
About four hours on the road took us northwest through fields and patches of boreal beauty. We stopped for lunch in Paradise Hills, where the name was ironic because by then, the Saskatchewan wind had come out to play — and she does not play nice. Lips chapped, hair tangled, face scorched, so this is Saskatchewan.
Where is kâniyâsihk Culture Camps
kâniyâsihk Culture Camps is located on Ministikwan Lake Cree Nation, about 80 km west of Meadow Lake, in the traditional territory of Treaty 6. This isn’t just a remote place on a map — it’s Indigenous land, rich with Cree history, language, and tradition.
All cell service dropped as we turned off Highway 21 and hit a long stretch of dirt road, and we took it to the end. When we stopped, I thought we were lost. Kids were running around, and a woman was cooking under what looked like a car tarp shelter. Random structures were scattered across the clearing, including a large tipi in the centre. Nothing about it screamed “organized camp”. It looked like we had stumbled onto someone’s yard.
The whole camp is a family affair, not in some curated way, but in the most natural, unscripted way. Darla and Carmen, sisters, met us early on. Their kids, and the other kids on the land, were living: running, playing, helping, laughing. It wasn’t a performance of Indigenous life — it was just life. We got to witness it and participate in it.
The camp was founded on traditional Cree territory out of urgency and love, in fear that the traditional Cree ways of fishing, hunting, living, and speaking were slipping away. This place is about keeping those teachings alive for the next generation and sharing them with those ready to receive them with respect.
The Welcome: Bear Skulls & Beaver Balls
There’s nothing like being handed a bear skull by a guy who looks like he could wrestle a bear and win — before you’ve even figured out where the bathroom is. No ceremony, just reality. “Here — hold this.” And we did.
That guy? His name is Zack, and he’s one of those unforgettable characters who doesn’t just live off the land; he embodies it.
Barrel-chested, tough as nails, and sharp-witted, Zack is the kind of person you’d put money on in a survivalist contest. And he knows it. Right from the jump, he wanted to gauge our reactions, to jolt us out of our comfort zones and into a new way of thinking.
We weren’t gathered inside a lodge or seated in rows for orientation, because there isn’t a lodge. Aside from the tipi and sleeping cabins, everything at kâniyâsihk is outdoors. Zack welcomed us while leading us on a walk through the land.
Then he passed around beaver balls. Yes, the infamous castor sacs, fresh-ish from a beaver skinned a couple of weeks earlier. They looked… well, exactly like something you’d expect a gland to look. We sniffed them… Because when Zack says to sniff something, you sniff. At first, nothing. But then he directed us to a specific part of the gland, and surprise! It smelled like sweet jam.
Turns out that scent is how beavers identify one another. Wild, right? Nature’s perfume. And there’s more to it than that. Elders will use these in the ceremonies.
That moment taught us more than anatomy or biology; it reminded us to get close to the uncomfortable, to stop assuming we know what something will be like just by looking at it.
This was just the beginning.
As we walked further in, we saw the guest cabins—four tiny homes that looked brand new, each able to comfortably sleep four (five if you like to spoon). Outhouses lined the walking path nearby. It was rustic, sure, but thoughtfully set up—a place designed for connection to the land, not detachment from it.
In between the teaching, Carmen pointed out a concrete foundation, past the sleeping bunkies, the early stage of a community building they hope to finish once funding comes through. We also saw a tiny house being built for Kevin, the camp founder (and brother to Carmen and Darla). Every structure told a story of growth, vision, and deep connection to this place. A lot of dreams of what this can become.
Getting to Work: Immersive Learning by Doing
This wasn’t a “watch and learn” experience — it was “grab that net, we’re going fishing.”
Not long after we arrived at kâniyâsihk Culture Camps, we were put to work. First, we untangled the fishing nets — a meditative, tangled kind of task that required more patience and teamwork than I expected. It was a whole group activity that required many hands and organization.
Then, Ashlyn (from the Lost Girl’s Guide To Finding The World) and I went out on the boat with William and Zack to drop those nets in the lake. The water was calm, but the work? Not passive. This was a lesson in skill, patience, and knowing how and where the water flowed.
The next morning, we went out again to haul the nets in. We caught whitefish, walleye, suckers and maria — we put 11 fish in the boat – enough for lunch and then dropped the nets back down.
After that came the gutting, descaling, deboning, and filleting. Nothing went to waste. Even the whitefish scales were saved — they’re used for making jewelry. Everything has a purpose here.
Later, we moved to the hide. A large elk hide was tied up for scraping, and that was real physical work. Serious scraping, not a little token effort. Throw a victim of narcissistic abuse at a physical task who needs to get out some frustration, and we will take it to the end because we don’t have “the quit” in us (I need an anonymous substack to recount what I’ve been through). Then came the tanning process using… moose brains. Moose brain boiled with water and Sunlight dish detergent – the soap bars. We rubbed the solution into the hide and folded it. A hide that was once part of a majestic creature was to become soft, usable leather.
No machines, no shortcuts. Just us, the materials, the tools their ancestors designed and the knowledge shared by Darla, Kevin, Zack and William. There was a lot of laughter in between — the kind that makes your sides hurt. These folks are funny, grounded, and clearly passionate about what they do.
Food as Culture
In the food shelter — a setup under a car tarp that served as the kitchen — Zack handed out knives like we were prepping for a survival show. Elk fajitas were on the menu, and the meat needed slicing. We’re not observing, we are doing.
The elk was cooked fresh, tender, flavourful, and no fuss. We plated up on regular house-style dishes, nothing fancy, just what you’d use at home. Then we spread out — some of us tucked into the tipi, some gathered around the fire, others stood around chatting with whoever was nearby. No assigned seating, no formal dining. Just good food and better company.
The next day, after all our work with the fishing nets, we were rewarded with a feast of our own making: whitefish and walleye, cooked over the fire and served with bannock. We had a quiet, shared understanding of where our meal had come from and what it took to get it on the plate.
The Tipi: Proof That Women Should Be in Charge
One of the most powerful teachings of Cree tradition was standing tall right in front of us: the tipi.
In Cree tradition, the tipi isn’t just a structure — it’s a symbol of matriarchy. The tipi represents a woman — her shape, her strength, her role as the heart of the home and the keeper of knowledge. Everything about it is rooted in her giving life and love, from how it’s constructed to how it holds space.
It’s a reminder that women are the leaders of Cree society. Women have been running things behind the scenes forever. In Cree culture, they’re not hidden. They’re honoured.
Inside the tipi, you feel the warmth. It’s about community. You eat together, talk together, and learn together. It’s not a Pinterest glamping vibe — it’s the real deal. And it’s built on the belief that when women lead, everyone is held, fed, and taught well.
Imagine if Kamala were elected and the whole world operated like that right now.
Connection to the Land & People
On a cold sunset pontoon boat ride, Kevin — the camp founder — shared a story that wasn’t just folklore. It was teaching. It was warning. It was Cree knowledge being passed down, the way it always has been, through storytelling.
He told us about the merman of Potato Island — a being so beautiful and powerful, he lured a young woman who had ignored the warnings of her elders. The tale wound through time, crossing between the human and spirit worlds, reminding us of the consequences of disrespecting teachings. And of the importance of listening — to elders, to the land, to the water.
Kevin made one thing clear: these aren’t just bedtime stories. They’re protective, keep kids safe, carry history, and make you pay attention. They protect and care for their waters because their relatives live on in them.
And now, as Kevin said, the responsibility to keep telling these stories is on us, too.
This wasn’t about observing a culture. It was about being invited in. Not just to the teachings, but to the rhythm of life at the camp. The kids ran around playing games as they went. Darla and Carmen — the sisters — welcomed us into their circle like we belonged there. Zack was always in motion, always with a joke. William brought calm leadership. Kevin invited us to join him in the tipi for a pipe ceremony. Every person — and every piece of land — was part of the teaching.
It wasn’t about “them” showing “us” their way. It was just all of us being human together.
Nature’s Classroom
Saskatchewan surprised me. I came in expecting dusty plains and endless flatness — but what we got here instead was a boreal forest blanketed around a cold, clear lake, framed by the kind of sunset that stops you. It was cold enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
From the very beginning, we weren’t guests. We were learners. And the best lessons come when you get your hands (and nose) into it. No whiteboards or lesson plans, just a lived curriculum in nature’s classroom. kâniyâsihk Culture Camps isn’t a sterilized wilderness experience for tourists. It’s not curated for your comfort or designed to impress. It’s an invitation into a way of life, one that’s rooted in land, language, family, and tradition. It’s for anyone with an open mind and open heart, someone willing to get their hands dirty, pitch in, and learn by doing.
There were moments when we were asked not to film or photograph, and those requests were non-negotiable. Not everything sacred is meant to be posted. Some things are meant to be witnessed, felt, and remembered.
kâniyâsihk Culture Camps is a living lesson in Indigenous knowledge, culture, and connection. It doesn’t matter your race, religion or gender. If you’re ready to go beyond the brochure and learn in a way no classroom can offer, this place will welcome you.
