The last week seems more like a month; the last month, more like a whole season. A time of change. So many of you I had the great privilege of connecting with at the Hoop Path Retreat just two and a half weeks ago—it seems impossible! Only two weeks ago this morning I was saying the last goodbyes to Sparks and Jessica as they left to drive back down to Florida. Hard to believe. Since coming up here to the far Northwest of this continent, I feel I’ve walked through a long and transforming dream, just barely having awoken from the magic of our retreat weekend.

The delicious electric activity of the retreat weekend fuzzed into a few days of pure exhaustion—nothing but catching up on sleep and food---and then immediately shot into high gear again. The Sunday after the retreat I was up early, driving the 5 hours to DC to enjoy a spur-of-the-moment hoop jam in a local park (courtesy, Surprise! Thank you so much, girl--) before a quick night’s sleep (thanks again to Surprise!) and up at 7 to get in line for same-day passport renewal at the DC branch of the US Passport Service—an undertaking I fully expected to expose me to the most extreme forms of bureaucratic tedium. I was not disappointed. A jocular security guard from Oxford, NC, did his best to entertain me, and I enjoyed some friendly hobnobbing with fellow passport sufferers. During the 3-hour break when my passport was being prepared, I wandered around the neighborhood, marveling at the meticulously landscaped rows of embassies and diplomatic residences. I have never quite enjoyed DC in the past, having firmly established my New York snobbery when I was in school there (“It’s all right—but it’s not New York f*ckn City!”)—however, the excellent hoop jam (to 30 or 40 live drums! Incredible!) and the surprisingly pleasant afternoon I spent dealing with the federal government gave me a fresh view of the place.

I got back from DC just in time for Monday night hoop class—still distracted by the need to finish some hoops (which I never finished), pack, and leave the following noon for another long day of travel. Wasn’t quite relaxed until the next night around 7 or 8pm, at the Toronto airport, when I finally finished some paperwork from my other job, The Sun Magazine. Kimo and I had a 5-hour layover there but it flew past—we were already walking into the next dream.

We arrived in Edmonton after 2am (4am our time) and caught a cab ride to our hotel, a downtown Days Inn. We got in so late we couldn’t pick up our rental car til the next morning. We finally got into bed by 3am (5am our time) and slept well for just a few hours—had to pop up early to check out and grab the car. On that overcast Wednesday morning I got my first solo taste of Edmonton.

Leaving Kimo at the hotel, I walked the four blocks to pick up the rental car. I immediately noticed the cleanliness of the sidewalks and streets (something Baxter and I had also noticed in Vancouver last summer) and an appealing kind of plainness to the features of the city. Buildings of gray & brown, lacking ornamentation, but this absence of obvious beauty was tempered by the sense of purposefulness behind the design. Nothing was there that didn’t need to be there. This was one of the many ways I felt I saw the Canadian character reflected in my surroundings—a friendly and inoffensive pragmatism governed so much of my experience, which I noticed all the more, almost constantly needing to avail myself of services.

Once I got our snappy little Toyota Yaris, we were mobile, and this is where The Food began. For many years Kimo had waxed rhapsodic about several Edmonton restaurants, two in particular. One was the Cheap Chinese (not its real name), the other was the Than Than Noodle House. Our first stop was the Cheap Chinese, whose specialty is the Long Donut, an unappetizingly-named culinary wonder. I was too afraid to order one myself, but once Kimo’s arrived I ate as much of it as he would allow. It’s a strange dish made of fried bread wrapped in a silken rice noodle and served with a strong broth. It was the first of many astonishing flavors I was gifted throughout the week.

We had to more or less kill time the rest of the afternoon in order to ensure a supper at Than Than, which is only open Tuesday through Thursday. Apparently it’s so popular it can dictate its own weird hours. In a few days the restaurant will close for its annual five-week summer break. Incredible, no? The dish-to-die-for there was the Red Soup (again, not its real name). This soup is so important to Kimo that he greeted it and thanked it when it arrived. It was a tremendously beautiful sight—the bright crimson broth in the white bowl, sprinkled with chopped fresh spring onions. I had to take mine to go because I had not recovered from lunch yet!

We began our drive into the great countryside of Alberta that evening around 7. The sunlight stretched long in the sky—so far north, the sun only touches the horizon around 10 and is fully set by 11. The sky and the land opened in every direction around us. The colors blue, green, white, gray, and gold made a painting that we were in. Deer of a much warmer reddish-gold color than the drab deer we see at home leapt at intervals in the reserves we passed, wisely placed a safe distance from the highway, wire fencing keeping the animals from leaping into the road. I appreciated the civility and kindness shown in this government planning. It struck me as very Canadian.

We dragged in to Cold Lake First Nations Reserve around 11:30, too late and dark we felt to join the rest of Kimo’s family at the campsite they had set up down by the lake. Instead we were offered the chance to spend the night at his cousin Conrad’s house, where another couple and their teenaged son were also staying. Conrad and his family were all already at the lake about 10 miles away.

I felt lucky to have the chance to get one night’s uninterrupted sleep in a real bed before we went to roughing it for 3 days and nights. My feeling of luck, however, ran dry the next morning when I felt a slight heat on my face, looked in the mirror and saw a nasty red rash all over my neck and cheeks. WTF?!? I quickly ascertained that it had to be the misleadingly soft, plush airport pillow I had impulse-purchased in Raleigh. I hadn’t used it on the plane, but figured it was the perfect thing for my night at Conrad’s, since they had taken their pillows with them. I had been poisoned by a reprehensible Toxic Pillow. It turned my stomach to think how I had snuggled into it, loving the light nap of its cover. Now I knew it to be filled with something about as innocent and yummy as radium.

The Toxic Pillow Disfigurement proved to be a primary feature of my weekend. My face remained tomato-red through the whole Treaty Days celebration, as well as swelling up one day so that my whole face went off-center, finally resolving into a red, cracked hardpan that made me look like I’d been riding through the desert for weeks without water. Today my entire face (except the forehead) continues to slough itself off in a kind of Accutane nightmare. It feels much better though—no longer burning hot, and no pain or itching. K and I trashed the pillow at a gas station. I thought about sending it in and demanding a refund, but as the saga went on, more than anything I just wanted the pillow out of my life forever.

My disfigurement, however, could not override the joy I experienced finally meeting Kimowan’s family and spending time within that warm circle. We met Conrad, who is best described in the Southern way as “a hoot,” the next morning when he came with his wife Michelle and baby Landon to pick up more supplies. When Conrad has the stage, which he most often does if he’s around, he has you laughing about every 90 seconds. I imagine his smile hasn’t changed a bit since he was 10 years old—it shines with a child’s brightness and hilarity. I loved him instantly.

We made our way to the camp that afternoon and I was finally able to meet Kimowan’s Auntie Lee and his mother Ada. Two sisters, Lee’s expansive presence is complemented by Ada’s sweet, shy shadow. Within minutes we were all sitting around the fire (which at the family camp is going around the clock) listening to stories and trading jokes. I found it remarkably easy to catch onto the family rhythm, which surprised me since it was so different from what I’m accustomed to. Instead of questions and answers, or abstract debates, conversations were braided together out of observations of the immediate, affectionate jokes, and old stories. All these modes of communion came together to further establish a primary focus on common history, which was of course what the weekend was about. The Treaty Day celebration, as far as I was able to understand it (an effort which was midwifed dramatically by many conversations with Kimo) is a yearly occasion of marking another chapter in the tribe’s (or, as they might say, band’s) history. Folks who now might live in Toronto, Winnipeg, or Eastern Canada (or even North Carolina ; > ), come home to re-inhabit their space in the unfolding story of this people—in some sense, to remain in the story.

Here we lived chapter two of The Food. Kimo’s Auntie Lee, aided by Ada and cousin Molly, cooked 3 meals daily over the open fire, usually for about 25 people. We ate boiled eggs and fresh sausage, deer and beef stew, fried bannock (Indian quick bread), steaks, boiled potatoes (it’s incredible how delicious a simple boiled potato can be…), as well as your classic roasted marshmallows (we cooked those for ourselves) and the most succulent fruit plate I have ever enjoyed. I sat by the fire and feasted, with my sore face, for three straight days.

Every morning I made my way down to the shore of Cold Lake, the 13-mile-wide deep crystal-clear lake that straddles two provinces, Alberta and Saskatchewan. Bright sunlight coated the quiet surface of the water like a layer of liquid metal, or a precious oil. I was told to greet the lake by facing it and throwing a stick into the water. Then, the lake would know I was there. I had said hello. Though I mistakenly dunked my feet in the water before properly greeting the lake, I think it forgave me.

I submerged myself as long as I could stand it (something in the neighborhood of two to four seconds) each morning, letting the frigid water start my blood racing. I’d go under two or three times and then stride desperately through the water to a dry towel. Wrapped in the scratchy, homeworn towel, I felt true warmth.

Nights we would gather around the fire and just jaw. I mostly just listened. That is the overriding memory now—sitting around the fire, listening to the voices. I immediately adopted a noticeable Canadian accent and set of verbal cues: “Cohen-rad’s goht to goh set up the hahndgames, hey.” It just came out of my mouth without any kind of plan set up by me. It was like a voice had been waiting around there for me to pick it up, and it was simply available when I reached for it.

There were many games and customs ritually engaged in throughout the weekend, many of which I was able to witness. I relished every second of my role as background observer. I felt greatly relaxed in the mix of people, though I was one of the only non-Indians and probably the only American there. It reminded me of my early twenties, when all I did was walk around New York and watch people.

But I digress. Just to describe a few of the games and practices I got to see: the annual dance (the cover band played nothing but classic country and fiddle tunes—by far the most popular music in the area and I am NOT KIDDING). Couples shuffled around doing variations on the Texas Two-Step and the basic clogging steps. A few times an old gramma would dance with a younger female relative. It was such a sweet thing.

I also got to see (and play) the handgames, teams of five seated across from one another, trying to guess who’s holding which “bone”—the blank or the striped—in which hand. The “bones” are often made of wood but used to be made of moose bone. The team that is holding the bones sings and beats small handheld drums. The plaintive song against the strong and fast beat makes a deeply soothing sound. I fell asleep to it each night.

Another really fun ritual is the Tea- and Bannock-Making Contest. Teams of two race to build a fire, boil a pot of tea, make bannock dough and bake it in a skillet over the open fire. One couple finished their goods far ahead of the others—it struck me how watching the race made me hanker for a piece of the bread and a slurp of the tea. We had to leave before the contest was quite over, though, to partake in another of Auntie Lee’s feasts. It’s not advised to be late for supper, or god forbid, miss the meal. That would constitute a deep insult to those cooking for you. I obliged happily.

Our time there seemed like an age—when we left Sunday morning, both Kimo and I had to hold back tears. Yet, when we got back on the open road, all was well. We were headed for Food: Chapter Three—Dim Sum in the City!

We were blessed to meet up with our hoop brother Geoffrey and his partner Kyle for this meal. They drove all the way from Calgary (three hours!) just to spend the day with us! It was a joy and an honor. Our dim sum choices were delightfully varied: squid in curry sauce, barbecued pork buns, large savory meatballs, fried rice wrapped in a banana leaf, steamed shrimp dumplings. With a cup of black tea and a glass of water, it was a perfect Sunday meal.

In the afternoon, we stopped through a street festival. K suddenly got tired and we realized that we were standing right across from a sort of cheapo-fleabag-but-also-nugget-of-history hotel, which had a bar downstairs and a youth hostel kind of vibe. It wasn’t fancy living by any stretch, but at only $70 a night we felt we could do little better. Seems like the hotel and its companion bar had been going for many, many years. Kimo remembered it from his college days back in the 80s. We slept just fine there.

My power supply is getting dangerously low here on the plane, and I feel moved to wrap things up. I’ll just mention a few more moments: hooping in the park with Geoffrey and Kyle, breakfast at Albert’s, the best Tom Kai Gai I have ever tasted, and another series of glances at the city of Edmonton—a city I had never heard of until Kimowan and I became friends some six years ago. It was a journey on every imaginable level. And I thank you, Kimo, my friend, for bringing me into this rich experience.