STORY FROM THE YAKOUN No.3 ISLANDS SPIRIT RISING GWAII SGAANAWAAY SIIGAA IJAA YAKOUN CAMP, DAY 21 Over the last three weeks I have visited the Yakoun Camp and checkpoint on a regular basis. Some days have been cold and wet. Others were brilliantly sunny. But no visit was ever boring and I always came away having learned something. I always came home feeling good about the people I met, feeling full of hope for the future. Life’s never boring at Yakoun Camp. Donated materials and donated labour have aided in the construction of a cookhouse which provides welcome relief during those nasty storms. Complete with kitchen counter, a honking big stove and a series of bunkbeds, it is not just comfortable, it also stands as proof to the commitment of the crew at the checkpoint. Gathered around the stove, fresh fried bread and coffee in hand, it is hard at times to break away and venture outside. Not that nothing is happening outside. One day Yakoun Camp is visited by an honest to goodness health inspector. And here you thought the provincial government wasn’t paying attention. Or perhaps you thought that the lack of a health clinic in Port Clements showed the government didn’t care. Au contraire, my friend, this protest camp will now be clean and healthy. Next up: property assessors and a building inspector…. On other days people are creating art. In camp, a totem pole is slowly taking shape while at the checkpoint people pass the time carving masks, argillite or are making cedar bark ornaments. Of course, as in any camp, chores are never ending and there’s always a need for more firewood, fresh water or clean dishes. Most importantly, there are the shifts at the checkpoint, where the days, and nights can be very long indeed. But there are distractions. Visitors from off-Island come to take snapshots. Locals come to say hi or sit at the fire for a visit. And then there are the cars to be noted and checked. After a few weeks, most vehicles and their operators have become familiar and are passed through the checkpoint without much fuss. Stormy days are tough. It’s tough to stay warm, even tougher to stay dry. At least I get to go home after a while, but some of the people in the camp have stayed for days, even weeks. Yet during all my visits I have yet to hear a complaint about the weather, hear someone bemoan the wind or rain. The conditions are taken in stride, accepted for what they are, not able to lessen the resolve. On sunny days, life in Yakoun Camp gets downright giddy. People regain a bounce in their step and joy in their hearts. The puddles get a chance to dry as do the sleeping bags and tents. Visitors abound, bringing news and supplies, moral support and lots of food. Oh, the food. Thanks to the generosity of Islanders, the people in camp eat well. They also share their food with those who visit. At first I decline the offer, not wanting to lessen the camp supplies, but after being told it is rude to refuse such an offer, I dig in. Wouldn’t want to offend, now would I? Pass the smoked salmon. Please! One fine night a few people gather around the campfire. Many have gone to sleep, tired from the long shifts and from keeping the camp operational. It is one of those magical nights. A clear sky, millions of stars, a roaring fire, the crackling of frost creeping up behind us. The rhythmic heartbeat of a drum, a clear, delicate voice chanting an ancient Haida song. I ask what the song is about and am told it’s an old song about a steamship, and an outbreak of smallpox from which only one person returns. Other songs follow, sung with passion and a deep conviction. I’m a bit jealous, I must admit. Jealous I’ll never have this connection, never have the ties to the land. But the feeling passes and in the end I’m thrilled that I am able to share this moment on this land called Haida Gwaii.