By Theresa Pitts*
As an Anishinaabe born in the Keweenaw, I cut my teeth along its many miles of shoreline. I gleaned a healthy respect for the power of the "Big Lake" and crab crawled carefree in the shallows of the Portage. I shared in the bounty of a Rice Lake catch and paused at the pebbled edge of Fannie Hooe, curious about her namesake. Lakes were elemental to my childhood here in the Copper Country -- they were my relatives. Yet there was one body of water which held me at arm’s length, one which seemed orphaned from the rest. I woke to it each day. Watched its changing moods. Marked its shifting colors. That was the lake that piqued my interest. And it lay in my own backyard: Torch Lake.
To a child’s eye, Torch Lake looked not unlike other lakes in the area -- a magnificent field of blue, a playground waiting to be discovered. Ripples blew like whistles across her surface, and the Keweenaw sun glinted like fallen stars upon her quiver. Overhead, seagulls squawked and squabbled. Their elongated wings swooped to and fro, surfing wind currents, weaving a soiled, ivory fabric overhead. It was mesmerizing.
But there was more to Torch Lake than met the eye. Though her surface appeared fresh and inviting, a dark history lay below. Once a deep, clear, fish-rich glacial bowl, Torch had fallen victim to the mounds of gray sand which now filled her belly and marked her boundaries -- stamp sand dumped there by copper giants Quincy, C and H, and Ahmeek, among others. The sand damaged the lake’s ecosystem, smothered vegetation, starved the fish. And that wasn’t all. There were toxins, too. Heavy metals in the tailings wreaked havoc. And with the dumping of sand came the disposition of mining chemicals as well: arsenic, mercury, PCBs, and PAHs. The lake was churning with enough toxins to endanger entire towns, much less its delicate populations of Northern Pike, Sturgeon, or Smallmouth Bass.
And so the lake became off limits.
The fishing ceased. The swimming ceased. The wading met its end. Torch Lake grew silent in her pain. But still we heard it. We, her neighbors perched upon the edge of this ecological disaster -- the residents of Lake Linden, Hubbell, Tamarack City, and Mason. Our lake views now served as constant reminders of what had happened to the waters, to the fish, to the vegetation. Undoing the damage seemed insurmountable. Even the Environmental Protection Agency struggled to right the wrongs committed upon Torch Lake.
But there are other ways to heal the water. Other methods. Other beliefs. And last week was one example.
On October 9-11, the third annual People of the Heart Water Walk took place in the Keweenaw. It was a departure from science and industry; a chance to offer spiritual comfort to the waters of our peninsula, to sing and pray for its healing. It was a time to peacefully call attention to the plight of what we as Anishinaabe call Nibi, our word for water. Some two dozen individuals from the U.P. to lower Michigan to Wisconsin joined together with one common goal: to walk on water’s behalf.
An Anishinaabe ceremony which welcomes all to participate, the three-day Water Walk began in the early morning hours along Gitchigami’s shoreline in Copper Harbor. A headlamp glowed as the women prepared traditional medicines for the walk. The sun was slow to rise that morning, like a bear heavy with the approach of winter’s slumber. The Superior breeze was present but kind. And our ears and hearts were filled with the melody of our purpose: the sound of rushing water from Fannie Hooe Falls to our west.
The group walked over thirty miles that day. Grandmothers and mothers, fathers and children. They skirted M-26 through Eagle Harbor and Eagle River, then turned south toward Mohawk where they rested for the night. Though I had been with them that morning to see them off, I didn’t join the walk myself until the second day. The clouds were low overhead. There was mist in the air and the wind had picked up. We walked through Calumet and Laurium, then down into the valley. I could see the tip of Torch Lake below, could feel my calling. Yes, I was walking for all water, but it was Torch Lake which I would focus on that day. It was this lake that needed my attention the most. And so, as we passed through the streets of Lake Linden, I contacted our support crew. "I’ll meet you near Hubbell," I told them. "I’d like to walk from there to Mason."
I left the group and was driven ahead, where I stood waiting in the shadow of the old C and H Mineral Building at Hubbell’s edge. It stands as proof of the industrial surge. Its property line is fenced, and signs posted warn of the dangers that lie beyond -- primarily roofing asbestos, an airborne health hazard. Mining affected more than our waters.
When the group approached, the copper vessel in which a small amount of Nibi is carried was relayed to me as I headed off through town. To my left I had a protector, a local pastor who carried the Eagle Staff. Behind me a group of young adults, students from Michigan Tech, all walked with us, their spirits high, their company welcomed. We traveled through Hubbell, my childhood home, then continued onto Tamarack City. We passed the sandstone ridge beyond, gazed at the old Quincy Mill, paid homage to the lopsided dredge. Then suddenly, my goal came into sight: the first hints of Mason, a former Quincy Mining Company town. As a child I had spent much of my life in Mason. My gramma lived there. Other family members kept homes in Mason, too. Back then, we children sometimes walked along the base of the sandbank, the gray sands of the town’s Stamp Mill and Reclamation Plant seeping into our sneakers. It was in Mason where I learned of the dangers of Torch Lake. It was there I came to understand at an early age that her water was sick.
As I walked along, I sang to Nibi. I sang to Torch Lake. I sent good thoughts in all directions. I prayed that the lake would heal. That her water would recover. That the fish would one day find new sources of food. That their deformities I’d heard talk of would end. I told my walking companions of my story, of having grown up along that stretch. I wanted them to make a personal connection to that wounded space. I hoped to foster empathy. I prayed the lake would feel our compassion.
We were nearing the Mason sign when the pastor spotted something overhead. "There’s an eagle," he said. I kept my eyes ahead, my heart full, as the others watched it weave in and out of the treetops. To the Anishinaabe, Migizi, the Bald Eagle, is a comfort. Not only is it indoodem, my clan, but it is the spirit that carries our prayers to the Creator.
I hope that was exactly what Migizi had in mind . . .
Editor's Notes:
* Guest author Theresa Pitts, KBIC member and Keweenaw resident, writes both fiction and creative nonfiction. She is a student of Anishinaabe culture and language and is active in the protection and preservation of wolves in the state of Michigan.
** Watch for another article on the 2021 People of the Heart Water Walk, with more photos, coming soon.
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