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Preface

What is a site? A site is a place, a location, a spot or an area where something is located. In this case, The Site was a kind of sandbox where I often went to play—well, search for prehistoric artifacts, you know, arrowheads—over a period of six years, from 1992 to 1997. I first stumbled upon this sandbox, this archaeological site, in September 1992. Operating under a provincial permit, by carrying out some minor excavations and checking the site after heavy winds or rains had caused further erosion, I gathered more than three hundred artifacts. Or pieces of artifacts, for I picked up everything in sight, knowing that fragments, even the smallest bits, have meaning. The material from this site: fragments of smashed buffalo or bison bones, stone knives and scrapers, arrowheads and other implements—these remains of a prehistoric campsite turned out to be more than 3000 years old.

The results of my studies of this site have been published in a suitable technical journal. Finding artifacts is one thing, writing about them in a serious fashion is another. It’s not an easy task, but it’s an obligation that I accepted as part of the price to pay for the many hours I enjoyed scouring that site. But I was well rewarded for my efforts, gaining freedom from stress, inspiration for poems, new friends, many happy hours of quiet contemplation. Even when I wasn’t at the site, I was thinking about it, enjoying windy days, hoping that another piece of worked flint might turn up at the next visit.

“Going out to the site” became part of our vocabulary, an expression my wife accepted as another opportunity for her freedom; although Ruth accompanied me there a few times, usually it meant that she would be free of her cranky husband and the persistent dog for at least a day. Just an hour’s drive west of Winnipeg, going out to the site was something to do, a trip to make as soon as the snow was off the ground. Wise Ruth often was right in suggesting that it was too early in the season. I can recall reaching down into cold water to pick up a few pieces of flint one spring when the site was still under water. What a contrast to the dry, windy times when the fine sand blew up into my face.

On the personal level, this part of my life remains more than just a fond memory. It will remain a source of inspiration for that which can be achieved, forever.

Robert W. NeroWinnipeg, Manitoba