The Pilgrimage
In the summer of 1999, I drove a thousand miles to the birthplace of my Cree grandmother. She was born amidst the open stretching plains of Spirit River, Alberta, under all that sky. Though she had passed away long ago when I was just a girl, I had recently heard her singing to me in dreams in a language that I did not understand. In these dreams, I would follow her voice through a heavy mist, always becoming lost before waking. I was increasingly unsettled by these dreams, seemingly related to a critical juncture in my life at that time. She was calling to me and I needed to find her. So one day I just packed my truck and drove. I drove through alpine meadows in the rain, surrounded by the towering Rocky Mountains. I ventured along winding, deeply forested, single-lane highways on clear sunny days. I stopped to explore waterfalls and scenic trails, and made chilli on my truck tailgate while parked in an old forest grove. I photographed vast fields stained yellow wit...