Finding myself in blood, flesh, veins and bug bites — life at a hide camp for Two-Spirit Indigenous youth

Alessia’s father carefully cut off all the meat and generously saved us the skins, packing them into a deep freezer. “I saved you girls the brain too,” he proudly declared through the phone after returning from his hunt, a sentence that would undoubtedly concern anyone unaware of the context.

For the third year in a row, I’m attending Niizh Manidook Hide Camp, a week-long hide tanning revitalization camp for Two-Spirit and LGBTQ+ Indigenous youth. Niizh Manidook means “Two-Spirit” in Anishinaabemowin, a term used by some Indigenous people to describe their sexual orientation, gender or identity. Campers learn the process of traditional hide tanning using the “brain tan” method, which is exactly what it sounds like: the brains of an animal are used to transform its hide into leather.

For generations, Indigenous Peoples tanned hides and used the soft, supple leather for moccasins, gloves, clothing and bedding. What was once necessary for our survival and a form of currency has become an old way that persevered through devastating colonial policies like the Indian Act, residential schools and the ’60s Scoop — all of which aimed to eradicate our culture. In recent years, there has been a resurgence of brain hide tanning across Indigenous communities and there are now a handful of tanners across the country who are teaching the process to generations both young and old, through camps, workshops and social media. 

Animals are honoured at hide camp — but it’s not for the faint of heart

Growing up in my home communities of Garden River First Nation and Batchewana First Nation, I was no stranger to wildlife. Both of my parents are skilled fishers, and various critters like bears, deer and foxes routinely ate the vegetables in our garden. But I had never heard about hide tanning. Each fall, I peered with awe at the massive, brown and bloody moose that would hang from my neighbour’s tree during hunting season. In the Anishinaabe worldview, it’s important to honour the life of an animal, including by using all its parts to leave minimal waste. At Niizh Manidook, I had the opportunity to follow this teaching by giving the deer a new life and purpose.

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In my first year, I was overwhelmed by a sense of hesitancy, and my stomach fluttered over my abysmal knowledge of tanning compared to some of my peers. I asked our camp Knowledge Keepers and teachers a million questions about the steps in the process, how they learned, what not to do and everything in between — questions they happily and patiently answered. But as I approach the campgrounds for my third year, I feel I have something to prove. It’s my first time tanning my own deer hide.

Within a few hours, I pulled onto the dry, dirt rez roads of the Delaware Nation at Moriviantown, fittingly nicknamed “Bucktown,” about a 30-minute drive northeast of Chatham, Ont. A small craft shop sits at the bumpy entrance to the grounds of Niizh Manidook, which is hosted on the family property of Beze Gray, a member of Aamjiwnaang First Nation and one of the camp’s co-founders. A large white canopy, two tipis, a smaller canopy and a variety of wooden frame configurations make up the work area. I pull up alongside the row of cars parked on the grass and within a few minutes I’m embraced in the arms of fellow campers and teachers who I’ve come to consider family. 

In 2019, Niizh Manidook was founded by Two-Spirit hide tanners, artists and activists, Hunter Cascagnette and Beze. The pair had a bit of hide tanning experience, a small batch of tools and the dream of creating a gathering space for Two-Spirit youth to become immersed in hide tanning. Since then, the camp has grown to host around 20 youth each year from Indigenous Nations across Ontario. This year, one participant even flew in from Alaska to attend.

“If you wanna get started on your hides you better get going,” Beze says, gesturing towards the workstation under a canopy. “It’s 2 p.m. now and you’ve got a few hours before we stop for the day.”

I quickly weave my hair into a braid and pop the lid off the blue tote bin, bracing myself for the smell of the thawing hides. With a quick tear, the hides are unfurled with a thump, landing on a blue tarp sprawled across the grass. Mary Ann Maiangowi-Manatch, one of the camp apprentices, pulls a knife from a sheath and precisely removes chunks of fat, meat and stray skin to square off the edges. Blood, flesh, veins, bug bites, hair follicles and even rib marks can be traced across the underside of the skin. Each hide tells a story, and if you look close enough, you can see yourself in it.

Wearing thick waterproof aprons and black rubber gloves, Mary Ann and I drape the hides over a long wooden beam to “flesh” them. Standing at the end of the beam with one foot braced behind me, I hold a steel rod tool with both hands and push down against the hide using my body weight. The remaining meat and fat peels off with a tearing noise and are discarded into a “bits” bin.

After an hour or so of the repetitive downward scraping, the hides are ready to be rinsed in clean water and prepped for the next step. They’ll soak for a few days in a solution that will cause the hide to swell and loosen the hair follicles, making it easier to remove.

Brain hide tanning isn’t exactly for the faint of heart — it’s messy, smelly and labour intensive. Tanners get covered in animal fluids, hair and flecks of skin. In comparison, commercial tanning uses toxic chemicals to tan the hides in large batches. 

After the hair is removed, the membrane layer from the inside of the hide will need to be scraped off. Next the hide will be stretched on a frame, dried and scraped to remove the grain layer from the hair side. Each animal has enough brain to tan its own hide, which is made into a mixture with laundry soap and water and spread on it for a few days for softening. Afterwards the hide is wrung out and softened by hand before the final smoking.

Processing hides connects us to the land, but also to ourselves

Over the next few days, campers work alongside teachers on hides in various stages: some are removing hair, some are scraping off skin, others are rolling the hide into a doughnut shape to wring it out before it is stretched. We all take turns at the different stations, not only to gain experience but to avoid too much sun and strain on our muscles. I wander between the stations, trying my hand at doughnut wringing, stretching and softening while taking notes and socializing. A few campers retreat to the shade of a picnic table, carefully beading sets of earrings, medallions and even a full purse. A roar of laughter erupts from their direction every few minutes or so.

According to Beze, hide tanning helps youth to understand nature in a different way and build community. “I think it’s really healing. When you’re processing a hide, you get to process yourself,” Beze tells me. “It’s a good practice for youth to learn because it’s so interactive and thoughtful and is [connected] to a part of an animal that is usually discarded.” 

After a few years with the camp, I understand more about what Beze means by “processing yourself.” In the repetitive, scraping motions, I feel the heaviness of my body and the weight of learning this practice. It’s not just about softening a hide, it’s about softening into yourself. We share stories, speak our languages, put in our blood, sweat and the occasional tear, accidentally cut holes, sew up those holes and celebrate the small victories of each step. Hide tanning teaches us to slow down, listen and be in relation — reminding us that to return to the land, is to return to ourselves.

In the crisp, dewy morning hours after a cup of coffee, I lug my soaking wet hide over to the scraping beam. Donning protective gear, I push a metal scraping tool down into the hide and the hair slides out with ease, each movement splashing murky water and fur onto my boots. As I carry the hide and bin over to the hose to rinse off and change the water, the opening chord progression of Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club” calls out from a speaker. It feels as though everyone pauses their work as a blend of voices from all directions join in to chant the lyrics. Gathered on the rez in the glaring heat, a song celebrating a queer space made up of chosen family, community and self-expression makes Niizh Manidook feel like a “Pink Pony Club” in its own right.

For the last task of the day, a few campers and teachers help me to string up the hide on a frame to dry overnight. The sun is starting to go down, so Alessia and I return to a clearing where a small village of colourful tents are set up alongside the Thames River. My body is heavy from the strain of continuous scraping, lifting and sweating. Unfortunately, my tent also waged its own battle of wills, losing against a heavy rainstorm that left the poles in shards and the ceiling collapsed. Alessia and I lug our sleeping bags, lumpy air mattress and backpacks into Niizh Manidook’s tipi for the night.

Hides are a testament to resilient Indigenous knowledge and science

On our last day, I sit under a canopy and with guidance from camp co-founder Hunter, use a scraper to remove my hide’s grain layer, which holds the hair follicles. As I press hard against the hide and pull down, the dry skin peels off with sh-sh-sh sound and falls to the ground in the shape of pencil shavings. This is as far as the hide will get for now as there isn’t enough time to fully tan it within a week. Even for experienced tanners like our teachers and Knowledge Keepers, the full process can take between five days for a deer hide and up to two weeks for a moose. 

A few hides are ready for the final step in the process, smoking. Brenda, one of the teachers, demonstrates to campers how to sew a hide to a canvas material and create a “smokestack.” The final smoke gives a hide a beautiful amber colour and a water-resistant “seal.” I haven’t seen the smoking process yet, so after spotting a tipi with smoke billowing out the side, I head over to get a closer look. To satisfy my curiosity, I lay flat in the grass with my feet in the air and peer under the tipi’s tarp. Met with heavy grey smoke, my eyes sting and brim with tears. I see a moose hide strung up in the poles as punky spruce wood burns in a metal garbage can below. 

“Is the wood supposed to be flaming?” I ask Hunter, who immediately runs over to smoulder the fire into coals. “Don’t put that in the story,” they say with cheeks beaming and a wink. “Can’t have people thinking we don’t know what we’re doing.” The smoke wafts upwards to penetrate the hide, preserving the work done to soften it before the final smoke. 

Every camper takes home a piece of luxuriously soft, sturdy, caramel-brown deer hide. As I run the hide between my hands, breathing in the gentle smoke, I’m reminded each hide was touched countless times by dozens of hands and is a physical testament to generations of traditional Indigenous knowledge and science. Despite long-standing efforts to eliminate our culture and remove us from the land, our people are creating spaces of resurgence and this is where I feel most connected to who I am as an Anishinaabekwe.