Smoke, Trout, and Bear Blood: A Return to My Roots

Some stories don’t ask permission. They split you open in the middle of your life, get your hands dirty, and stitch you back together with sinew and pine.

A few weeks ago, I harvested my first bear.

He had been struck and killed on the highway—still fresh, a sacred opportunity not to be wasted. After we put down tobacco and prayed for a safe journey for this beautiful Makwa, I didn’t plan to be the one to field dress him. I was wearing a dress and strappy sandals, had no knife, and absolutely no experience with bear harvesting. The help I was expecting was running late and if the bear wasn't field dressed quickly in the heat, the meat would go to waste. So there I was, beside a powerful, still-warm creature of the woods, with traffic rushing past and a DNR officer handing me a dull knife and standing silently by. My girl was right there with me—curious, grounded, and steady. Tough as the land she walks on.

And I did it. Hands shaking, sweat rolling, I figured it out. I honored that bear with everything I had. I spoke to him. I didn’t flinch. I just did the thing that needed doing. And when it was done, I had blood in my hair and a deep, resounding pride in my bones that I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Now there’s a freezer full of beautiful bear meat. A hide drying with care. A story I’ll tell for the rest of my life.

And maybe it had to happen that way—before what came next.

Not long after, I went camping and trout fishing near Isabella, Minnesota—where my grandparents once lived, and where so many of my family’s roots still drink from the land. There’s something about that place. You can feel it in your chest, like the land is remembering you. The loons call, the trees lean in, and even the air smells like memory.

This time, I wasn’t alone. I brought my five-year-old daughter—my fierce, funny, forest-loving girl. She may be little, but she’s already just as tough as me. She helped process that bear with her own two tiny hands. She’s a master at taking fish off the hook. She sleeps better in a tent than most grown-ups I know. Watching her out there—barefoot in the ferns, curious and wild-eyed—felt like watching the next generation of resilience taking root.

I got to spend time with a cousin I hadn’t seen in years, too. We’re so much alike, and being with him reminded me that family bonds don’t wear out. We picked up right where we left off, and the woods held us like no time had passed. The trout were biting, the fire crackled, and everything felt stitched together just right.

And then—just when I thought the circle was already complete—I got the news:

I’m eligible for tribal enrollment.

After 51 years of seeking, wondering, aching to belong in a way that was both soul-deep and legal, the answer finally came. I belong. The records say it now, but my bones always knew.

So much has happened this season—some of it gritty and raw, some of it tender and quiet, all of it sacred. A bear. A fire. A trout stream. A cousin. A child with strong little hands and fearless eyes. A name reclaimed.

This isn’t just a chapter. It’s a beginning.

On Wednesday, July 30th, my storyteller update episode will be released on "Trauma/Bonded". I'm so excited to listen and I hope you are, too. I'll share a link as soon as it is released.

Till then,

Sending Good Vibes!!

Naazh