This Thanksgiving Long Weekend Terry Doerksen and his wife Patty decided to retrace their ancestors' steps with a Red River Ox Cart this weekend.

Doerksen says the journey took them from the original Mennonite landing spot where the Rat River meets the Red River, to the immigration sheds south of Niverville, and eventually to Blumenort. He is calling the journey a Thanksgiving Pilgrimage.

He has written three short stories that he is sharing with people along the way.

A Deep Debt

The paddlewheeler, International, nudged the shore of the Red River at the forks of the Rat and lowered its gangplank. When my ancestors – the very first of a coming wave of international migrants - stepped onto terra firma, they had no idea of the history of the land on which they walked. They had been offered free land to till – 60 acres per family – and freedom to follow their Mennonite faith. Like their salvation, the land truly was free: free to them. But in both cases, it cost someone else dearly.

The Anishinaabe were the caretakers of this corner of the country. The Creator of the land, Gitche Manitou from whom our province would get its name, had given The People everything they needed to live here. The rivers were given them to travel and to fish. The bizhiki and waawaashkeshi – buffalo and deer – were given them to hunt. And then, through a treaty that they never could completely understand, the Anishinaabe were told that the land was no longer theirs. Three years before the arrival of the Mennonites, they were told to choose a block of territory equivalent in size to … 60 acres per family. Even though I know the whole land had been theirs before, I’m glad that at least they didn’t get less than the newcomers. They chose two areas: the Roseau River Reserve and the Brokenhead Reserve.

From time to time in those early days, the Mennonite settlers were visited by hungry Indigenous people asking for food. The settlers had no idea that when they offered braut and vota to their guests, they were serving those who had once been lords of the land that bore these gifts. That by so doing, they were serving the One who had been Lord of Heaven, but came down to identify with the brokenhearted.

My feelings are deeply mixed. I am so thankful that 146 years after my ancestors landed here, I have a wonderful place that I can call my home. Yet I am so sad that my gain came at such a loss to those entrusted by our Creator as stewards of the land. Some day I hope to acknowledge my debt to the Anishinaabe of Roseau River in a more substantial way. For now, I will simply say from the bottom of my heart, “Miigwech.”

Metis - Mennonite Fusion

I take every chance to stop at La Routier restaurant in St Pierre and indulge in their deadly poutine. By ‘deadly’ I’m thinking more of its effect on my palate than my arteries but I’m sure it works either way. The poutine is made with New Bothwell cheese curds – a fusion of French Canadian and Mennonite elements. The marble cheese itself is a map of this part of Manitoba, where French/Metis towns alternate with Mennonite settlements.
Kind of like my oxcart: a Metis vehicle with a Mennonite church pew for a seat. Complete with hymn-book rack on the back. The ‘cartiste’ was my former boss, Phil Doerksen, who poured in over 200 hours of dedication and skill to craft this thing of beauty. The design and guidance came from Armand Jerome – together with his wife, Kelly, the foremost Red River Cart makers in the known universe.

Of course, Armand wasn’t the first Metis to help a Mennonite with a cart. The area of St Pierre and the Rat River was a regular wintering spot for the Metis. It had lots of hay for their animals and lots of wood for building carts. And when the first Mennonite immigrants to Canada landed at the mouth of the Rat in 1874, they were met by their new Manitoba neighbours. A handful of wild-looking, michif-speaking Metis cart drivers would spend the next three days transporting the tired and grateful newcomers with their belongings the six miles to Immigration Sheds that they had built. Once the Mennonites were de-loused and had a chance to buy some supplies, the Metis guided them the rest of the way to their new homesteads. No one else would have been able to do it – they were the ones who had surveyed the land and marked out the lots.

My own neighbour in Winnipeg recently surprised our family with some smoked brisket which he had brought from Steinbach. When I asked him why he was so generous, he said that good neighbours are a blessing and are to be celebrated. I agree! I celebrate the Metis of southern Manitoba who have been such good neighbours over the miles and over the years.

Kindness to a Lost Sheep

Ten-year-old Gerhard Doerksen, my great-grandpa, arrived from Russia at the Rat River a year after the first group. All these new families were met by friends and relatives from the previous year - now equipped with wagons and oxen to help with the move. All the families, that is, except for one. The poor, lost Doerksen sheep - alone in a strange land without help and without a home. I’m sure Gerhard’s dad breathed a silent prayer to the Good Shepherd to guide them yet once more, but out loud he said, “Who is going to invite us?” A certain Peter Toews heard the voice above the din. He had come with wagon and team but with no one to meet. His words must have been the water of life: “You’re welcome to come stay with us.” The Good Shepherd had planned it all along. If any descendant of Peter Toews is reading this, could you contact me? I’d like to buy you a coffee and say thank you on behalf of my family.

And I want to say thank you to the Good Shepherd Himself. How often you have guided me, and those who have come before! To green pastures and quiet waters. Through the valley of the shadow of death. I wouldn’t want to take one step without you.

As for Gerhard, he was known for passing on the kindness he had been shown to others. Many years later he handmade and decorated a little banksya – a footstool – for his young grandson. My Dad. Somehow that pretty little banksya made its way into my possession. As I was packing for this Thanksgiving Pilgrimage, I thought the banksya would be perfect for Patty, my wife, to put her feet on as she sat beside me on the cart. Only afterwards did I realize the significance of it. My great grandpa’s banksya now blessing us on the same trail which he traveled in Peter Toews’ wagon. Cool.