Sun Dance at Reindeer Lake

By Robert J. Yancey Jr PhD

Dr. Bob Thompson and three friends from Michigan travel to Moose Bay Lodge on Reindeer Lake in northern Saskatchewan, Canada, to fish for big northern pike and lake trout, having no idea they’re about to get caught up in a murder mystery.

The friends are assigned a First Nations Cree Indian fishing guide, Oliver Bear, who Thompson knows from previous trips to the lodge. Oliver leads them to the big fish.

Oliver has also discovered the location of a valuable secret on the lake – and he is cruelly tortured and murdered in a Sun Dance ceremony to reveal that secret. The First Nations warrior says nothing, forcing whoever killed him to find some other means to find what they seek.

Knowing that Thompson has assisted law enforcement agencies to solve and prosecute murder cases in Connecticut and Michigan, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police ask him to assist in the case.

Working with Canadian authorities, Thompson makes it his mission to find out what happened to Oliver and bring his killer – or killers – to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781489726247

Robert J. Yancey Jr PhD

Dr. Robert John Yancey was born in Austin, Texas. He received his PhD from the University of Texas at Austin in human medical microbiology. After graduating, Bob spent three years in postdoctoral positions at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical School at Dallas and the University of Missouri Medical School at Columbia. He joined The Upjohn Company in Kalamazoo, Michigan, in 1980. After working in the pharmaceutical industry for more than thirty years, he retired in 2012 to become a novelist and scientific consultant. Bob is the author of more than eighty-five publications in refereed scientific journals and books, author on more than 150 presentations at national and international meetings, and inventor on seven patents. He currently lives with his golden retriever, Sadie, at his house on Fine Lake in southwest Michigan.

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Copyright © 2019 Derringer Novels, LLC.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Cover design by Kimberley M. Yancey.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2622-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2623-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2624-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019919661

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 12/4/2019

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

The Adventure Begins

Fun toward MSP

On to Toon Town

A Day in Saskatoon

Sunday in Sunny Saskatoon

From Toon Town to La Ronge

On to Southend

Waiting for the Float Plane

The Flight to Moose Bay Lodge

The Lodge and the Routine

Fish Tales at the Lodge: Day Zero

The First Morning: Day One

On Reindeer Lake

Shore Lunch on Reindeer Lake

Let the Trout Fishing Begin

Back to Moose Bay: Day One

Fish Stories: Day One

Gaming and Fish Stories

Fishing Preparations: Day Two

Morning Two on the Water

A Moose Is a …

Back at the Lodge: Day Two

A Grizzly Find

The Scene of the Crime

Let the Interviews Begin

Back to the Crime Scene

Back to the Lodge

End of Day Four at MBL

Back to Southend

Back to the Lodge

Additional Interviews

A Few More Interesting Interviews

Back at Southend Again

More Discussions

Back to Moose Bay Lodge (Again)

One Down and a Few More to Go

Saskatoon Bound and Tagged

Interrogation of the Main Suspects (Again)

Back to MBL at Least One More Time

The Start of the Intervention

The Intervention

The Pursuit

The (Partial) Capture

That’s All, Folks

About the Author

In memoriam of

Elizabeth P. Yancey

and

Dr. Charles W. Ford

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Sandra Ford, Ann Wolfis, and Dr. Jeffrey L. Watts for their expert editorial assistance. I also thank my daughter, Kimberley M. Yancey, for the cover artwork and the photography.

PROLOGUE

L et’s tighten up our rain gear and get in the boat, guys, I said to Dr. Terry Murray and our guide, Oliver, but we were in no big hurry to hit the water on that cold, rainy morning in northern Saskatchewan. We would have been if we had known what would occur within the next forty-eight hours.

At that point, however, we expected to be fishing for three days and had no desire to catch every fish in the lake the first day. We loaded our gear into the bow of the boat, which was beached. I then assisted Terry up into the bow. She moved to the middle seat. Oliver and I pushed the boat from the sandy beach and then both quickly jumped into the boat. As usual, I got a shoe full of water—and that cool day was not the time to start an adventure with wet feet.

Oliver climbed over the gear and took his position at the stern with the outboard motor. I settled into the other chair on the middle bench next to Terry. Oliver gave one yank on the pull rope for the motor, and it started. We backed out of the shore area, turned, and motored slowly into the bay. I asked Oliver to wait a few seconds while we buttoned our rain suits and tightened the hoods. He was glad to oblige. He pulled out a pack of Gauloises cigarettes from his vest and lit one. Oliver was dressed for the upcoming rain in his chest waders and rain vest. As we finished suiting up and settled into our seats, I felt the first drops of rain. Oliver turned the accelerator handle, and we sped north into the main lake channel.

Terry and I started the trip facing forward, but the spray of lake water from the prow of the boat and the light rain pelting our faces soon made it a miserable ride. I made a thumbing motion to Terry, and we swiveled the chairs attached to the bench in the opposite direction to face Oliver, with our backs to the rain. The rain and spray did not seem to bother Oliver, who faced forward from his seat next to the motor. He simply puffed on his cigarette and squinted a bit.

The burgundy colored Lund moved easily over the light chop of the lake at around twenty knots, I guessed, based on the speed I got out of my rig at home. It seemed pretty fast for a forty-horsepower outboard motor pushing an eighteen-foot boat carrying three adult passengers. I yelled that thought to Oliver.

I keep this motor tuned good! he shouted. I have the fastest boat at the lodge. I can probably get another five knots out of her if the water is smooth and I am moving with the wind and not carrying too many big passengers or big fish in the box. I can get another ten knots when traveling by myself. He smiled as he lit another cigarette off the one he had been smoking.

Oliver, I know you don’t have to pay taxes on your smokes at the reserve, but even then they are over five dollars a pack, aren’t they? I said. You probably burn through your weekly paycheck pretty quickly at the rate you smoke.

Oh, Dale doesn’t pay me anything. I just guide for pleasure—and for the generous tips from people like you, Dr. Thompson. Those big tips pay for my smokes. Oliver winked.

Terry yelled, Bob should be a big tipper with all the money he makes at Pfizer and as a big-time crime consultant! Oliver, how far will we be going before we start fishing?

Oliver replied, We’ll travel about an hour up lake to a large island where I have had good luck catching big pike this year. The cove will be protected from this northwest wind. You ready to catch a monster, Dr. Bob?

Always! I shouted as I hunkered down in the seat, buttoned the top button on my rain suit, and pulled the drawstring even tighter on the hood. I stuffed my hands into my pockets. The rain was pelting us pretty hard, and the temperature seemed to be dropping. It felt really cold. I could swear I saw snowflakes mixed with the rain. Quit whinging, Thompson, I told myself.

We soon caught up with the two boats that had left before us as we all headed north in the main channel. We slowed a little to run alongside them. As we traveled over the water, I looked around at the hills forming the valley for the big lake. Even though it was a dreary day, the boreal forest bordering the water was beautiful. The conifers were small and close together, forming a dense thicket along the shore. About ten minutes later, I noticed a large barren area on the side of the hills. It must have covered several thousand acres. I pointed and shouted, Oliver, is that damage from fire?

Yes, a big one a couple years ago, Oliver replied. It’s all part of nature and important for the forest. Seems like there are fewer big fires today than when my grandfather was alive. He used to tell us stories of big fires that occurred almost every year when he was a boy.

We motored on, looking at the shoreline. I pointed out a moose that was grazing on the weeds in the shallows of one of the islands. Terry spotted a golden eagle flying overhead and alerted us to that sighting. A few minutes later, Oliver pointed to a bald eagle that swooped down onto the water to collect a dead fish. We later spotted a bear foraging along the shoreline. For Oliver, those sights were routine, but for me, even though I had spent a good deal of time camping and fishing and had been to this region before, seeing such a variety of magnificent animals in the wild in such a short period of time was exciting.

A few minutes before we slowed, I saw the boat carrying the group from Arkansas with Kevin Okemau as guide turn into the small bay of a large island. The boat carrying our fellow Michiganders, Charley and Jim, also slowed as it approached the island but went past it toward the next island north. Kevin directed his boat to the left, to the west side of the island. Oliver slowed our boat and went right, to the southeast of the island. He moved our boat into a shallow bay full of reeds and stopped.

I stepped onto the bench at the bow to give Terry more room for her casts from the middle seat. We untangled our rods, and I opened my tackle box to get a lure. Oliver suggested we use the largest Mepps lures we had. I put on a rainbow-striped Mepps Magnum Musky Killer. Terry asked me for something bigger than the number-five Mepps Trophy Spinner she had first picked. I handed her a white Magnum Musky Killer. Oliver started the motor, and we began a slow troll just outside the reedy area. Terry and I cast our lures on opposite sides of the boat toward the stern and let out plenty of line.

Within seconds, Terry got a strike on her large white lure. The fish immediately turned into the reeds. Terry kept the rod tip up and skillfully controlled the big fish, turning it back toward deeper water. Oliver stopped the boat so she could bring it in. I watched Terry struggle with the big fish while rapidly reeling in my own line to get it out of the way. While doing so, I also had a hard hit. I set the barbless treble hook in the mouth of the fish and began my own battle to control the other big critter.

The two fish headed in opposite directions, pulling off line against the drag of our reels. My fish moved toward the bow into deeper water. I could not turn it at first, but soon I got it under partial control when I tightened the drag on my reel slightly. I could not tighten the drag much since I was using only twelve-pound test line. This pike was definitely more than a twelve-pounder. My fish then decided to swim toward the boat. I reeled quickly to keep the line taut. The fish jumped out of the water, shaking its head, trying to throw the lure.

After a few minutes more, I had the fish within ten feet of the boat. Oliver had the catch net in his hand, ready to bring the fish into the boat. At that point, the big fish looked up at me. I thought it snarled, but Oliver said that was just my imagination. It was a nice northern pike well over forty inches in length. Oliver estimated it to be at least fifteen pounds. He said it was likely a female based on its girth. After seeing me, the big pike made another run toward deep water, pulling off at least twenty yards of line. I kept the line taut until I could feel her tiring. She then turned and went crosswise to the boat. I tried to keep the line taut but must have lost tension for a second, because the line went limp. The big female northern had gotten off my lure.

Oliver smiled and said, There will be more of them, Dr. Bob. That’s the price of fishing barbless. And not paying attention.

Terry was still fighting her fish. The fish kept trying to move into the reeds toward the stern, but Terry controlled it by turning it back toward us. Within a few minutes, she had the big pike up to the boat, where Oliver quickly netted it. Oliver grabbed the fish below the gills and easily removed the big barbless-hooked lure. He handed the big northern to Terry.

Oliver said, Nice catch, lady. Too big to keep, but it will make a good picture. It is about twelve pounds and thirty-eight inches long. I took a picture of Terry and her fish. She beamed as she held the pike up for the camera. Terry then bent down, holding the big spotted fish over the side of the boat. She placed it gently into the water and ran water through its gills by moving it backward and forward. She then released the fish into the water. The big northern swam off rapidly into the deep water, only slightly worse for wear.

THE ADVENTURE BEGINS

T he little Bombardier CRJ-200 taxied down the runway at Kalamazoo-Battle Creek International Airport that warm Saturday in July. My buddy Charley Cross and his son, Jim, filled one emergency-exit row of the little cattle car. Terry and I sat in the opposite row. It was the first flight of a three-leg trip to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Although the flights would be grueling for us old farts, as my godson, Jim, always called us, we were excited to be on our way for a weeklong fishing trip at Reindeer Lake in the wilds of northern Canada.

I said to Terry, who was new to the Kalamazoo area, "This little county-owned regional airport added International to its moniker in the 1980s, when the pharmaceutical company Upjohn and the big cereal companies in Battle Creek were in their prime. At one point, the airport had six airlines providing several flights a day directly to Canada—the international part. The Kalamazoo area has changed since the 1980s. Now there are only three airlines serving this airport. None of them fly directly outside the US. I’m not sure why they haven’t changed the name back to simply Kalamazoo County Airport. I suppose there’s too much web-page changing involved."

I looked at Charley across the aisle and gave him a thumbs-up. He and I have been best friends since our student days at The University of Texas at Austin in the ’70s. We’d gotten to know each other well in graduate school. We’d had many important debates over bottles of whiskey outside the lab and many packs of cigarettes and cups of coffee in the laboratory and classrooms. That had been back in the good ole days, when smoking was common for both students and faculty in the classrooms and even in the laboratories of universities.

One would have thought two reasonably intelligent guys would have had a little more common sense than to abuse our bodies the way we had. But schools did not award PhDs for common sense. We had been in our twenties and felt as if we would live forever—no problem. Charley and I had cut back quite a bit since then. We’d quit smoking and slowed way down on the drinking—whiskey at least.

Charley had gotten me my first job at The Upjohn Company in Kalamazoo in 1980. Charley was in the human health antibiotics discovery group. He had discovered and driven development of a new antibiotic, an important drug therapy for MRSA and the SuperStaph.

Jim-Bob, are you ready to catch the biggest fish you have ever caught? I said to Jim, Charley’s son. At twenty-five, Jim was a wee tyke of three hundred pounds and six foot four, only slightly larger than his father. Jim was currently working toward his PhD in biomedical engineering at Case Western Reserve University. He was in need of a break from his classwork and research. I had known Jim since he was born. Jim also was my namesake since his middle name was Robert. I liked to call him Jim-Bob to get his hackles up. Jim was one of the brightest folks one could ever have hoped to know and was one of the luckiest fishermen to ever put a line in the water.

Hey, Jim-Bob, remember that morning when your dad, you, and I were fishing in Ontario? I asked. Terry, I saw a small northern pike follow my lure for more than thirty feet, almost to the boat. But when that sucker saw Jim-Bob’s lure, which was just hanging over the side of the boat since he had put his rod down, it immediately impaled itself on his bait, allowing Jim to bring that pike into the boat. I got skunked that morning, while Jim-Bob caught enough fish for lunch for all three of us.

Yeah, I outfish the two of you almost every trip, Jim said. This time it will be the same.

We’ll see, Jim-Bob. We are heading toward my stomping grounds now, I replied.

Dr. Terry Murray, the fourth in our party, had been a close friend of mine for several years following my departure from Upjohn to join Pfizer. Terry and I had become friends while we were working in Nebraska. Pfizer had moved our research group from Nebraska to Connecticut a year after I arrived. In Connecticut, she and I had worked as a team, managing a large group of DVMs, PhDs, masters, and technical-level scientists in our quest for new vaccines for domestic animals. Terry was a great scientist. She had a master’s degree in plant genetics and a PhD in immunology. But as good as she was in the laboratory; she was an even better director for my group.

When Pfizer had bought Pharmacia and Upjohn in 2003, the company had decided to move our research group from Connecticut to the Kalamazoo area. In Kalamazoo, Upjohn had excellent laboratories and a research farm for the testing of medicines in domestic animals. The move had been a return to the Kalamazoo labs for me but a major adventure for Terry and about fifty other scientists who had decided to make the transfer from the East Coast to the upper Midwest.

Bob, how did you get out of your management, university teaching, and crime- fighting activities long enough to take a week off? Terry asked.

I decided just to take the days off, I replied. I am the big boss, remember. Seriously, my crime consulting is between cases except for one case, which is pretty well under control. I’ll stay in contact with them by phone to help if they need it. We are between sessions at WMU since the students are out for summer break. And as you know, our directors back at the job are hard workers. I’ll stay in contact with them as well.

So much for being the big boss. Terry smiled.

The extracurricular activities I carried out were a welcome relief from my management duties at Pfizer. However, those activities had severely cut into my fishing time. This trip to Canada was a treat and my first visit to Reindeer Lake in several years.

Terry, are you ready to catch some big fish? I added.

Of course, but we’ll see, she replied.

While Charley, Jim, and I had been on many fishing expeditions together, it was the first time Charley or Jim had been to Reindeer Lake in Saskatchewan. I’d fished Reindeer Lake before and had been telling them about the place for many years. Over a few glasses of wine at dinner at our place, Terry had volunteered to fill out our foursome for the trip. We needed to have two fisherpersons in each boat and four per cabin. We had quickly agreed that Terry should complete the troupe. She liked to fish as much as we did.

Because she would be sharing the cabin with the three of us, she’d asked us not to advertise that she had slept with three men during the trip. Her husband, Langley Murray, had echoed her request but had not told her not to go. She’d told me, I wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. Nonetheless, I expected the topic of the ménage à quatre might come up in a party conversation or two over the next several years.

The CRJ revved its jets, and we were off to Detroit on the first leg of the trip. Charley and Jim already had their noses buried deep in the latest fantasy and sci-fi novels they had brought with them. Terry and I discussed the expedition.

Terry said, I have loved fishing since I was a little girl, when I fished the streams and small lakes with my dad around our farm in northwest New Mexico. We caught mostly small pan fish or trout. I have never caught the big twenty- to thirty-pound northern pike you claim we will catch at Reindeer Lake.

My first trip to Reindeer Lake was sponsored by the marketing group for Upjohn, I responded. We caught more big fish—pike and lake trout—than we could eat at the daily shore lunches or freeze and ship back to our homes in the Kalamazoo area. One of the northern pike I caught was fifty inches long and weighed more than thirty pounds. I showed you that picture, didn’t I? Want to see it again?

No, thanks. I remember you showing it to me. You carry a picture of a fish? You are a little sick—you know that, don’t you, Thompson? She smiled. But I am really anxious to try my luck there.

We will be fishing for four days from our base at Moose Bay Lodge, I reminded her. Not such a bad adventure, eh?

I gave Terry some background on Reindeer Lake. "In the late 1700s, this lake area was mapped by the explorer and surveyor David Thompson—I don’t think we are related, but I still haven’t gotten around to doing my family tree research yet. Reindeer Lake is a large glacial lake that measures over one hundred forty miles long by thirty-seven miles wide at its widest point. It’s located on the northeastern Saskatchewan and northwestern Manitoba borders.

"The Native Americans named it Reindeer Lake because it once was on the migration route of the barren ground caribou—reindeer. But with the recession of the glaciers after the last major ice age, the herd migration pattern for reindeer is far north of the lake.

"The lodge where we are staying is located approximately sixty miles north of Southend, a Cree Indian reserve at the south end of the lake. We’ll be fishing mostly the middle and southern parts of Reindeer Lake. The lake is dotted with hundreds of small islands and has a meandering, rambling shoreline. The lake drains mainly to the south through a controlled weir via the Reindeer River into the Churchill River, which then flows northeast into Hudson Bay.

Early Monday morning, we will drive from Saskatoon to Southend. Southend is located next to a portion of Reindeer Lake called Deep Bay. Deep Bay was formed by the impact of a large meteor approximately one hundred million years ago. It’s three miles wide and up to seven hundred twenty feet deep. Deep Bay is also the location of a legendary monster that supposedly pulls animals and little kids through the ice during the winter. Sonar and fish-finder scans have never located this possible relative of Nessie, but lake trout of forty pounds or more are not uncommon catches from Deep Bay. That size of lake trout is a monster to me, although it is unlikely they could eat animals or small children, much less pull them through the ice.

Unless the animals and kids are misbehaving, Terry said with a smile.

Terry and I broke off our conversation as the small jetliner began its approach to DTW airport. I yawned and stretched—no easy feat with my six-foot-one, two-hundred-pound body in a seventeen-by-thirty-one-inch seat. I was likely more comfortable than the Cross men, however. Terry was comfortable in the seat, with her five-foot-two height and small frame. While the flight was only twenty minutes in the air, we had been sitting in that fifty-seat torture chamber for more than an hour with the boarding, holding, and taxiing exercises.

I said to the guys, De plane! De plane! as Tattoo used to say. Finer words were never spoken at the end of an airplane flight.

We grabbed our carry-on bags and deplaned at a gate approximately a mile from our next gate. We then hiked that distance to board a real airplane for the next leg of our 1,800-plus-mile journey.

FUN TOWARD MSP

W e boarded the next airplane, a B737-800, about twenty minutes prior to departure for Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. For that leg of the trip, we had an upgrade to first class courtesy of my road-warrior frequent-flyer miles. Since we boarded first, there was plenty of room for our carry-on luggage in the large overhead bins. The seats were wider and the pitch longer than in the cattle-car portion of the plane. While the flight to Minneapolis was only an hour, a little luxury during a multileg airline trip was a treat.

I said to the guys, One of the nice things about this upgrade is that they put tags on our checked bags and rod cases that say, ‘Priority.’ That is supposed to assure us that our luggage will get premium care. On the other hand, I expect that tag really makes our bags targets for rougher baggage handling. The upgrade also prevented us from having to pay a checked-bag fee.

We settled into our seats on the old airplane. As the plane was pushed out of the gate, the pilot cranked up its two GE-made CFM56-7 jet engines. We moved onto the taxiway, awaiting our turn to take off. Since it was early in the day and air traffic was not yet backed up, we were number three in line.

Jim and Charley sat together again, while Terry and I sat in the row immediately in line with them. Charley and I sat across the aisle from one another. We ordered our drinks from the flight attendant, and Charley started telling Terry another of his favorite fish stories.

He told of visiting Liz and me in Connecticut in the late 1990s with his wife, Mandy, and Jim. You remember that trip, Thompson, Charley said. Terry, we chartered a boat and fished Long Island Sound. The weather was fantastic, and the seas were calm. That was lucky since both Liz and Mandy sometimes get motion sickness. A green-colored wife hanging over the side of the boat does not make for a pleasant conversation later.

I said, Yeah, we caught our limit of bluefish and striped bass that day. Of course, Jim-Bob caught the biggest fish, a twenty-three-pound striper that he fought for about ten minutes. Mandy and Liz also each caught ten-pound stripers that day.

Charley said, The only problem with that outing was what to do with all the fish we caught. Terry, we gave several pounds of fish to the boat captain and his mate as an additional gratuity. The captain likely sold them to one of the restaurants in the area. We grilled several big fish that night. Bob, I remember that you invited neighbors and friends for a fish dinner and outdoor picnic the next day.

We also froze several pounds of fish to take back to Michigan with us. Dad smoked them as soon as we got back. They were great, Jim added.

Feeling that we had talked enough for the moment, I opened my Patterson novel and read a little about Alex Cross—not related to Charley and Jim-Bob as far as I knew. Alex Cross was doing well and almost ready to get his man. At two to three pages a chapter, Patterson’s books progressed quickly, but he was a heck of a writer.

The Michigan Crosses had opened their novels, and Terry was busily reviewing the journal articles she had brought with her.

When the plane was cleared for takeoff, the pilot centered the aircraft on the airstrip, powered up his engines, and accelerated down the runway. I told Charley, Other than cranking the throttle on my old Harley Street Glide and racing down the highway, there are few things more exciting than the acceleration of a jet airplane on takeoff. You ought to ride my Street Glide, Charley. I would be glad to sell you that one or my big touring bike for a fair price.

He laughed. Mandy would kick my butt if I even thought about riding either of your suicide machines, much less buying one of them. One question: How did you convince Liz to let you buy more of those things after she insisted you sell the old Sportster? And when are you going to grow up?

Hey, that was two questions. As you remember, she bought me that Sportster for my PhD graduation gift, I answered. You couldn’t even kick it over to start it until I showed you the tricks. At least the Street Glide and my new Road Glide have electric starters. She bought me the Street Glide too—to celebrate the completion of my first book.

Charley smiled and said, The motors on your newer bikes are too big to have kick-starters. You would have to be an NFL lineman to start one with a kick-starter.

It seemed I had missed my chance at a sale again. I said, And I hope I never grow up. When did you get so old? I smiled.

We were in the air within a few seconds, on our way to the Twin Cities. While I resumed reading the Patterson novel, I also spent the usual amount of time trying to clear my ears until we leveled out at our cruising level of thirty-five thousand feet. The flight attendant served our drinks: coffee for Charley, Terry, and me and a Mountain Dew for Jim. As we took our first sips of the beverages and fought with the wrappers on the small packets of pretzels the airline had provided, I resumed my background discussion with Terry on the lake and its inhabitants.

I told her, "The northern Saskatchewan region where Reindeer Lake is located was first explored by European fur traders from the North West Company and the Hudson’s Bay Company in the late 1700s. Permanent trading posts were never established on Reindeer Lake, probably due to the remoteness of the area.

Christianity was established among the Indians in the mid to late 1800s by Roman Catholic and Anglican missionaries. By the early 1900s, the Native Americans around Reindeer Lake were mostly Christian converts.

Charley and Jim had been listening to our discussion. Based on his Native American heritage, his own research on Reindeer Lake, and his nearly photographic memory, Charley butted into the discussion. Hey, the area around Reindeer Lake is said to have been inhabited by members of the Cree Nations for over a thousand years.

How do they know those Indians have been there that long? Jim asked.

Pottery shards of Cree origin were found in the Reindeer Lake area just north of Southend, Charley responded. "Those shards were dated to approximately 1200 to 1500 CE. In addition, Clovis-type points and projectiles of Paleo-Indian origin were discovered in southern Saskatchewan. Also, Northern Agate Basin points were found near Southend. Those points were dated at about 3600 BCE.

"By the way, folks, the Native Americans in Canada like to be called First Nations people rather than Indians, although the term Indian is the historic and still legal designation for these people. Remember also that the white man gave them the Indian tag based on Columbus’s poor navigation skills."

Yeah, Columbus really found a roadblock in his quest for the Orient. Good thing for us, I suppose, said Jim.

Charley continued. The Peter Ballantyne Cree Nation people who inhabit the region around the southern part of Reindeer Lake are also called Asinīskāwiyiniwak, or Rocky Cree.

"Rocky really describes the area where this lake is located, with its boreal, mostly coniferous forests," I added.

Charley continued his story. "Yes, it does. With the arrival of the fur-trading companies, the Rocky Cree began trapping and trading their furs for modern supplies, including pots, blankets, axes, rifles, and ammunition. The bands of First Nations people in the region, the Plains and Wood Cree, originally agreed and signed what is called Treaty Six with the British Crown government in 1876.

They signed the treaty because the buffalo herds were being depleted by the hide traders in the US, and starvation seemed likely if they did not sign. The fur trade was also winding down, when the North West Company was bought out by the Hudson’s Bay Company, which then was taken over by the Dominion of Canada. Also, white and Métis settlers were moving into the plains region.

Jim asked, What are Métis settlers?

"Métis today is meant to describe people of mixed First Nation and European heritage. In the 1870s, the Métis settlers were usually descendants of French traders and Plains Cree women, Charley explained. Peter Ballantyne was a Cree chief from northeast Saskatchewan who was later appointed the first chief of the Peter Ballantyne Cree Nation. He signed Treaty Six with the British Crown in 1894."

I added, "Another reason for signing the treaty was that smallpox, the viral disease brought by Europeans to these susceptible people, impacted the Cree and other First Nations populations in Saskatchewan. A devastating epidemic of omikiwin—the disease of the scabs, as the Cree called smallpox—swept across the Saskatchewan plains in 1870, killing thousands.

"A recent article in the journal Science reported that the epidemics of smallpox and other European viral diseases, such as measles and influenza, had a huge impact on the North American Indian populations. Genetic evidence suggests there was a fifty to ninety percent reduction in the population density of the Native American peoples because of these epidemics."

The flight attendant asked us if we wanted anything else. We each ordered another drink, and then we resumed our discussion about the trip.

Saskatchewan is the only province in Canada with completely artificial boundaries, I told them. "Saskatchewan and Alberta were carved out of the Northeast Territories.

"Saskatchewan is prairie land in the southern part and forested in the northern part. It was named from the Saskatchewan River, which in the Cree language means ‘Swift-Flowing River.’

"Saskatchewan has a population of about one million folks, mainly located in its metropolitan and prairie areas. The capital is Regina, located about a hundred miles southwest of the province’s most populous city, Saskatoon. Saskatoon was established on the banks of the South Saskatchewan River. This is where we will be spending the rest of today and Sunday before heading north on Monday to Moose Bay Lodge by rental car and float plane.

"Northern Saskatchewan, where Reindeer Lake is located, has a subarctic climate with warm, short summers and very cold winters. Even the southern prairie part of Saskatchewan, where Saskatoon is located, can get very cold in the wintertime.

It was February when I made my first trip to Saskatoon. I was finishing my PhD at UT Austin and was interviewing for a postdoctoral position at the University of Saskatchewan. You remember me telling you about that, don’t you, Charley?

Charley smiled.

I continued. "Cold does not begin to describe that encounter when I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac at the Saskatoon airport. The air temperature was negative fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, and the wind was blowing about thirty miles per hour. It helped me decide I would prefer to work in the US for the rest of my career and visit Saskatchewan just in the summertime."

You learned the meaning of ‘freeze your ass off’ during your formative professional period, did you? Charley said.

It was colder than a well digger’s bootstrap? asked Terry.

Ignoring them, I replied, Fortunately, today the temperature in Saskatoon will be in the mideighties, so none of your trite phrases about the cold will be applicable. However, if we get the cold front coming through as predicted, I hope you remembered that insulated rain gear, or you will be saying those phrases again to yourselves.

At that point, the plane began its descent into the Twin Cities airport, and the flight attendant gathered our glasses for the landing. With our chair backs upright and tray tables up, we cruised onto the airstrip and into the gate at MSP. The next leg of the trip would be the international portion of the trip. We had a two-hour layover at MSP, so we had time for lunch and more discussion about the upcoming adventure.

ON TO TOON TOWN

A fter we deplaned in MSP, we made