In the summers, Sam, his wife Charlotte and their three children live in the guide’s cabin at the club. Charlotte and the two girls do the housekeeping and cook the meals, and Sam and his son look after the boats, generator and water pump. Sam also works as a guide. They’ve even saved enough to buy a second-hand pickup truck.

The Club du Rosaire is huge. It includes at least twenty lakes and the rivers that connect them. Sam is responsible for six boats, the big main camp and the three little camps that they call guest houses. Algonquin aren’t allowed on the property, except for Sam, of course, but he can only be there to work. He’s not allowed to hunt or even kill a partridge for food. There are two game wardens who constantly patrol the logging roads, and they keep a special eye on him. Charlotte says that the wardens even check their ice box when they’re away. One of them once said it was because Indians have hunting in their blood.

It’s almost night when we hear Sam’s pickup approaching. He hardly ever comes at this time of year and now here he is with his whole family. Usually Charlotte or one of the kids stays at the club in case the tourists need something.

Did he have a fight with his bosses? Has he lost his job? Is someone hurt, or sick?

Manie goes to meet the pickup. Sam stops when he sees his sister. Through the open window, he just says, “I’ve got a moose in the back. Let’s have a makoucham for everyone.”

“I’ll see to it,” Manie says, but I can see that she knows something is wrong.

In the winter, our families are spread out over the land where they trap, hunt and fish. But in the summer all the Algonquin gather here at Lac Cabonga, so news of Sam’s arrival spreads quickly from one tent to another.

There’s a gathering place where we all get together when something important happens. There are pits for smoking meat and fish, a big campfire surrounded by stones and logs to sit on, and a stack of firewood at the foot of a big jackpine.

The families arrive quietly. There are murmurs in the air, little muffled laughs. The fire is stoked up. The flames dance, the dry wood crackles and the sparks fly up to the sky like thousands of bright butterflies. Quarters of meat are hung from the biggest pine branch. Manie and the women lift long thin fillets of dark red meat that they have been roasting on racks hanging over the bed of coals. Water for tea is already boiling in the big bashed-up kettle sitting on the fire. The women arrive with plump golden bannock folded in their aprons. They place the bread on the flat stones facing the fire to warm.