Fort Ware

Yesterday, we flew into the tiny native middle-of-nowhere village of Fort Ware. To get there, you head out over the rockies and straight on til morning, or until this huge green valley appears out of nowhere in the middle of outlandishly snowy mountains. To lose altitude quickly enough to land, you have to dip into the smaller Kwadacha valley and ride it in. The first thing you see when you get out of the plane is the graveyard, where the dead are buried above ground in little houses. We met the snowmobile with the patient at the end of the strip, and got back in the air. On the way to Prince George, I learned a few things about Fort Ware life:

“So what do people do for a living in Fort Ware?”
“Hunting, bingo, camping, going to school, working.”

I asked about food:
“I do not like to eat beaver. I do not like to eat rabbit. But groundhog, moose, elk, deer, I like.”

I asked when a significant family event had happened last summer:
[Shrugging] “Oh I’m not sure. It was when the river was high… so I’m not sure.”

“What lake is that?”
“I forget the name. It’s a manmade lake. There’s a village under it somewhere. My grandparents used to dogsled along it to get supplies.” [Worth mentioning that this lake is about 150 km. long]

I also found out that most of the people in Fort Ware speak at least a little Sikanni, and there are a few elders who don’t speak anything else.