But I also know there are barriers between us. I’ll have to sort that out when I get back to the reserve. I know that things don’t necessarily turn out the way we want in life. There are always grains of sand in the gears.

We come to the foot of a stream that tumbles down from the mountain. This is where we’ll begin the portage that will take us to Tom’s cabin.

The sun is already high. The mosquitoes have come out in the heat, and they are tormenting us, sticking to our damp skin.

The climb ahead is steep, rocky, broken by big twisted roots. Sam and I are carrying the packs on our backs. Tom has grabbed the gunwales. With a twist of his back he lifts up the canoe, flips it over and rests it on his shoulders. We’re on our way.

We slowly climb up, following the stream. The walk warms my muscles. I have to watch that I don’t lose my footing. This time Tom leads the way. Once we reach the plateau, the path is easier. We zigzag through a grove of white birch.

Tom stops and puts down the canoe. His face is red with sweat and effort. We take a break, sitting on big rectangular rocks. He wipes his forehead with the polka-dot handkerchief that he wears around his neck. The breeze chases away the mosquitoes.

He smiles, looks around and says, “This birch forest is the prettiest in the whole area. Look how straight and smooth they are. This is where we get the bark to make our canoes and baskets. Kitchimanitou gave us the birch to make our lives easier. It is a good gift.”

We carry on along the path. It’s wide, well beaten down. We are on the other side of the mountain. I realize that this route has been walked by thousands of my ancestors — men, women, children — just like Tom, Sam and I are doing today.

We go down into the bottom of the valley. We must be getting near the end. The day is almost over.

Tom hurries on, his eyes focused on the spot in front of his feet. His head is buried in the belly of the canoe. The old man is flying, he knows the way so well. He is at home here. Before long he’s way ahead of us, down below.

Sam and I are up high, so we can see a long way.

And what we see is so strange that we stop short, in utter shock.

“Tom!” we both say at the same time.

Tom has realized that something is wrong. He stops in the middle of the swamp and raises the bow of the canoe. We hurry to join him while he puts down his load.

His old face is tight and drawn. His lips begin to tremble.