As the mercury rises so does the frenzy over the upcoming goose hunt, and the level of excitement is hard to appreciate unless you are Cree or have lived among our people. But the emphasis we place on the annual spring harvest does unfortunately overshadow other traditions and wonders of early spring.
As a child I remember feeling like winter was a magical time. Aside from the obvious enchantment of thousands of decorative holiday lights, I’ve always felt that the long winter nights were as responsible, if not more, for the feeling. So as the snow blanketed the land and provided playful opportunities to a young child, it was watching the snowflakes sail under the yellow street lamp at night that most captivated my youthful sentiments. I would lay in the snow and watch the snowflakes approach, unmoved by the cold or the darkness around. But soon even those would become a distant memory as the days warmed and lengthened and my snow forts collapsed. But the winter snow would lend itself to magic one last time before becoming schoolyard snowballs. Its surface would melt under the sun and then freeze at night, repeatedly. What would then pass unnoticed to a city dwelling child was to me an amazing time of the year – a time when I could stand, walk, and run over the snowscape without sinking. This is what we call wateyâw in Cree.
This transitory character of early spring snow does not go unnoticed by people living out on the land – it is awaited and exploited. For while the average human is sufficiently light to be supported on the snow’s crust, a moose is not. Our ability to quickly travel long distances without snowshoes is a marked advantage over the incapacitated beast, for whom every fleeing step would be a sinking one that would painfully bring its legs into sideways contact with the icy surface of the snow. The hunter therefore benefits from this short window in time to effectively feed the numerous people that depend on him.
Given the evanescence of spring snow, those of us who harvest the land on our time off from the office tend to take it as a reminder of the upcoming goose hunt when most communities effectively shut down for two weeks. But that shouldn’t preclude our enjoyment of this particular time of the year. This morning my seven-year-old son and I walked over the surface of the snow and harvested some ptarmigans. As I plucked our chickens I overheard my son giggling as he appreciated his ability to run back and forth without sinking and without wearing his snowshoes. I can only hope that he feels as enchanted by the winter as I did as a child and that he cherishes these precious moments with his father, as I do my moments with him.
Mental Soundboard 