I was 14 years old and sobbing in the back seat of the truck because life as I knew it had been shattered. Moments before, my dad pointed out a gas station/gift shop and said, “That’s where I trade with the Indians.” I was devastated. Until that moment, I believed that my dad had spent time alongside a tribe of native people when he was at the hunting camp. I thought they shared trinkets, animal knowledge and hunting tactics. This was...
Shattered illusions and sacred encounters: A journey through the woods
In the woods, writes Karie Charlton, we find doors to new beginnings, even in the depths of winter.
Photo by Kinzua Bridge State Park.
