“The Summer We Found Ourselves in Nelson: A Tale of Student Teachers, Salmon, and the Spirit of the Valley." by Adrien Leduc

Chapter 1. I didn’t expect to find a cave on a street of Bakers, but there it was—wedged between a sourdough studio and a coin treasury. The cave yawned wide above and below, with impressive stone walls that arched like cathedral ceilings. Light poured in through windows set high above, while below in the Chamber of Scholarship, a quiet nook provided respite from the Kootenay sun.

As I entered the Chamber of Scholarship for the first time, I walked with wonder into the lecture theatre. Dozens of other young student-teachers milled about and chatted in that way that people do when meeting for the first time.

“What’s your name?"

"Where are you from?"

"Wow, it’s so nice to meet someone else from Vanderhoof!” You know, casual conversation. And then…he entered. Boots first—long, gleaming, stitched from golden fabric and dove-white thread, with a tiny star symbol at the heels. He stood at least seven feet tall. Both his height and elfish smile he bore immediately gave him away as belonging to that group of mythical beings that so many of us associate with education, learning and the natural world: elves. "Friends!" he said in a loud greeting voice.

“Frolleagues!” You can call me…Reyton! Not Ray. Not Ton. But Reyton. Reyton the Fast.” From his satchel—deep and stylish—he yanked out a book bound in bark and leaves, and as he opened it, he leapt up onto a table.

“Frolleagues!” he shouted. “I bring a story.” Some of those among us rolled their eyes. Others clapped and cheered and hooted and hollered.

“This is a story about place…and place is something that we’re going to be learning a lot about over the next few weeks—and even longer—because place is an integral part of identity and story. Your identity and your story. Place is woven into the very fabric of who you are, just as the roots of a mighty cedar are woven into the soil it calls home. It shapes your perspectives, influences your experiences, and provides the backdrop against which your personal narrative unfolds. Understanding place, truly understanding it, is like finding a key to unlock deeper truths about yourselves and the world around you. So, let us begin this journey of discovery, not just of Nelson, but of the places that have made you, and the places that will yet shape the stories you are destined to tell. Laurel Croza’s beautiful story, "I Know Here," paints a vivid picture using descriptions of her childhood home, land, people, and how they all contribute to her deep sense of belonging and understanding of self. Like Croza, we too will explore how our surroundings, the very ground beneath our feet, imbue us with knowledge and a unique way of seeing the world. This connection to place, as "I Know Here" so eloquently illustrates, is a powerful foundation for learning and growth."

As he read, his voice rose and fell, thunderous then hushed, like the wind moving between mountains and meadows. His eyebrows danced wildly, and his white beard glistened in the pale light that came from the chamber’s small windows. Throughout the story, he would stop or pace, jump or pause, and with hands over his heart, he’d whisper as if he held secrets made of stardust, modelling to us the many elements that go into oral storytelling.

The story Reyton the Fast told wasn’t only a tale—it was a teaching about the importance of place.

Through the speed and twists of his narrative, I managed to wrangle my quill in time to catch the intended messages he portrayed. He introduced us to how stories work— but not just the workings, but how they’re a living thing. They breathe meaning as our lungs match the storyteller’s pace.  They glow when we see a representation of ourselves that connects with us. Lastly, they grow. Every time a story is retold and shared, the meanings and connections become stronger.

Through the haze of bewilderment and emotion, my quill flew.

• Ask before you tell.

• Model gently.

• Play with words—break old patterns.

• Let students guess, wonder, and reach.

• Make room for rhythm—feeling—grammar born from song.

• Let oral language rise before decoding drags it down.

• Honour their stories. Their families. Their homes. Their communities.

• Bring out what they already carry. Honour the knowledge they bring. 

  
  

By the end, everyone had a teethy, gid-ish smile. Except those shedding a few tears - I myself had a close call. Leaning forward, we watched as Reyton closed the book. A thud echoed in the chamber. 

“My friends,” he said, now quiet, eyes bright. “You are not just student-teachers. You are keepers of voice. Protectors of the unspoken. Tell the stories—and let your students tell you theirs.”

Then he vanished, or maybe just walked out. I’m still not sure. The haze and thrill still glazed my eyes as I blinked. Grounding myself, I thought of Reyton. And his star boots that took him on many adventures through story.

As I exited the Chamber, the feeling of experience washed over me. I was different departing now than I was when I entered. Finally, stepping forth from the wedged cave entrance, it hit me - the hot and blinding Sun of Nelson in August.

Chapter 2. Ni-maa (“guide” in the Blackfoot language) moved like a story being told slowly, measured, deliberate, and rich with meaning between the words. A quiet soul, his presence never needed volume to be felt. The scent of sweet tobacco clung faintly to the leather pouch at his side, one he wore always, like memory stitched to a belt loop.

His laugh, when it came, cracked open the air like a cedar branch snapping in a sacred fire: unexpected, warm, alive. Ni-maa taught with art, with movement, with old stories passed down from his mother’s people - the Piikani - like sacred heirlooms—not just told but shared, with pauses that gave room for the echoes of his ancestors to fill in the spaces. Ni-maa believed that truth didn’t need to be loud, only honest. He carried traditions like they were seeds, and he planted them gently in the minds of those willing to learn.

Though Ni-maa rarely spoke at length, his clothing held bold statements of love and acceptance for the two-spirited, colourful shirts and wide-brimmed hats emblazoned with rainbow feathers. Wherever he appeared in classrooms, corners of community halls, or even once, curiously, on a map so large it took an entire floor to display—he was unmistakably himself.

For the sake of this story, though, I found him in a circle of colleagues at Itkwah Park, Itkwah being the word for “black camas” in the Ktunaxa language.

On that transformational day, on a grassy plain overlooking the cleansing waters of the Kootenay and Columbia Rivers, the teacher candidates gathered in the morning sun for a sacred smudge. This was our initiation as we embarked on this auspicious quest, surrounded by towering trees and the hum of anticipation. One by one, Ni-maa, with the help of paahpi (Metis for laugh, as paahpi’s smile and laugh could brighten any room), smudged us with sacred sage and sweetgrass, the smoke curling around us like an ancient blessing. It was a cleansing, a preparation, a way to clear our minds and open our hearts to the learning that lay ahead. Each wisp of smoke seemed to carry away doubts and anxieties, leaving a feeling of peace and readiness in its wake. We stood together, a new community, bound by the shared intention of this profound moment.

Soon after, in quiet, contemplative reflection, I followed the group as we walked in single file, crossing a bridge that spanned the past and present. Our steps led us to a series of pit houses, carved deep into the earth. Here, my fellow student-teachers and I crouched low, imagining the warmth and wisdom of the generations that came before us. The stories told in that place were not just about survival—they were about connection, place, and identity. Everyone had a way in—through the scenery, the motion, the rhythm, or the feeling of being there.

Down a winding trail, the forest opened to reveal two powerful rivers: the Kootenay and Columbia. Here, at this sacred site, is where these two great rivers converge and become one. And here, we gathered rocks, clacking them together with intention, pausing to offer gratitude to the salmon that had co-existed with the Syilx, Sinixt, and Ktunaxa for millennia.

Under a shaded grove, we shared lunch, while crows overhead taught their young, mimicking calls and learning through imitation—the same way oral stories teach. 

Afterward, our hands began to weave pine-needle baskets. These pine needles come from the “sah - aht - kipa”, ponderosa pine in the Syilx language. Each motion held history. Each pattern told a story. Without formal scripts, language grew: vocabulary, syntax, and gesture. Collegial collaboration, weaving baskets from pine needles, took us back in time as we participated in this activity that had occurred on this land long ago.

What began as a field trip became a layered lesson of story and history:

• Storytelling is accessible, meeting students through voice, image, motion, and feeling.

• It honours cultural ways of knowing through shared experience and symbolism.

• It creates space for diverse language learners to listen, speak, and feel a sense of belonging.

• It gives meaningful, contextual exposure to learning outside the walls of a classroom and, more importantly, helped me learn to value the languages and traditions of the Indigenous nations who had walked these lands in the past and who continue to walk these lands in the present 

• And it builds not only language, but community, memory, and place.

  
  

In the end, we hadn’t just learned how to teach through stories. We had become part of one.

Chapter 3. Two weeks later, I found myself standing beneath the soft canopy of trees at the Nikkei Internment Memorial Centre, where the palpable silence told its own kind of story. We followed a path of leaves, which was not an actual path but a tale of warning about shameful events not so distant in our province’s past. We walked on winding, shaded paths where gentle sunlight crept through the canopy to cast light on darkness, past statues, carefully tended gardens, and empty ponds that held a quiet representation of a culture that was nearly hollowed or silenced void of water or fish, but somehow had lived on. We felt the weight of sorrow in our chests.

We stood before the photographs, the letters, the rooms that once held children who looked like us, families who had done nothing wrong but were uprooted and imprisoned. Silence sat heavy on our shoulders. Here was a lesson we couldn’t find in textbooks: that injustice is often polite at first, but then devastating in its quiet efficiency. As future educators, we understood that our work would require both memory and vigilance and that we would need to embrace disruption as a way of resisting oppressive and unjust practices. We met survivors’ voices not in person, but in spirit: etched into plaques, preserved in photographs, held in the gentle reverence of the space heavy in culture and spirituality. We were invited—not pushed—to witness.

Through the lens of oral storytelling, the Centre’s guide walked us through stories written by wise elders but meant for the young, not to shield us from the truth, but to show how resilience is born, taught and lived, how sorrow can be shaped into cautionary tales passed down beneath an arch. These weren’t just museum exhibits; they were memories made legible. The experience reminded us that storytelling doesn’t require literacy—it requires presence. It creates space for grief, for healing, for empathy. It gives language to pain that might otherwise go unspoken. And in doing so, it calls us to teach with both clarity and compassion.

The End.