They say there’s a place deep in the old growth, past where the river carves stories into the stone. That’s where I once stood as a boy, still learning how to listen. It was there the old ones would take us, not just to teach, but to remember.
One dusk, while the mist curled low and the salmon were returning upstream, we heard a roar that split the forest’s breath in two. The birds stilled. Even the river paused, as if the water itself knew the old ways were rising. And then he came — the Bear, not just any bear, but the one with the markings of the ancestors painted into his fur. Each shape and swirl, a sacred echo — songs only the land remembers.
He stood tall, on two legs, like a man remembering he was once spirit. And he roared. Not in anger. Not in fear. But in reminding.
That sound wasn’t just heard with the ears. It thundered through the bones. It told us: We are still here. We are still sacred. And we are still watching.
The elders whispered his name only once: Nîpawistik Maskwa — the River-Watcher Bear. He was sent not to warn us, but to awaken us. To rise with dignity, like he did. To remember our strength, our language, and our place as stewards of these lands.
Some say he vanished into the trees after that, never seen again.
But I know better.
He never left.
He is the roar in your heart when you pray.
The tremble in your chest when you stand for the people.
The shadow that follows you when you walk with purpose.
He is memory made flesh — the spirit of resistance and rebirth.
And whenever you forget who you are, just listen.
The river still carries his voice.
— Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network
