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Evacuees find peace, culture and community at Batoche amid northern wildfires
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Brent Colli has fled wildfires before.
In 2015, he and his family ended up sleeping in a public park in Prince Albert, only to be awakened by maintenance staff at dawn and threatened with tickets. This time, with nine children in tow and smoke chasing them down the highway, Colli wanted something different.
'I didn't want to be woken up in a parking lot again,' he said. 'I wanted to go somewhere we could sleep — somewhere that felt like we belonged.'
The site became more than a shelter. It offered warm meals, entertainment for kids, and a cultural connection that mattered deeply to Colli, who was among the first to arrive.
'It was just… welcoming,' he said. 'I felt like we belonged.'
At 5 a.m., the first thing he was offered was a cup of coffee.
The man behind the gesture was Brent Laroque, Métis Nation–Saskatchewan's director of environment, who was overseeing operations at the newly established evacuation centre.
'It makes me proud to be part of this whole process,' Laroque said. 'A lot of the different Indigenous governments are really starting to build some capacity, and to take on roles and support other Indigenous communities … Maybe the future of this is that we're supporting each other.'
For many like Colli, Batoche has become more than a safe haven. It's a return to something deeper — a connection to land, culture and a community willing to share its space, even in crisis.
A Shelter Rooted in Spirit and Safety
Métis Nation–Saskatchewan quickly established the evacuation centre at Batoche after wildfires began forcing communities like La Ronge, Air Ronge and the Lac La Ronge Indian Band to evacuate. While government-run shelters in Prince Albert and Saskatoon filled up — with some evacuees expressing frustration about delays, confusion and red tape — Batoche offered a quieter, more culturally-grounded alternative.
Families camped in tents at first. Then the doors opened. A television was set up. Children went on wagon rides to visit the bison. When strong winds flattened tents, evacuees were given rooms inside.
'My kids got to play, to be kids again,' said Colli. 'Even just watching TV helped. It felt normal. That's what they needed.'
Meals were served. Coffee was shared. The nearby chuckwagon teams practiced for summer races. Elders rested.
'It's like a big camping trip — but this time, it felt like somebody opened their home to us.' Colli said.
Each day, a schedule was posted on a board, listing activities like bison pasture tours, a karaoke contest, and a historic fiddler performance by JJ Lavallee. Early childhood educators were on hand with children's arts and crafts, including a child-friendly embroidery table.
The One Arrow First Nation lodge, just five minutes away, offered additional support with donations of clothing, groceries, and suitcases. They also provided shelter space for evacuees seeking it.
Laroque helped transform the Métis summer campgrounds and Dumont Lodge into a shelter for more than 140 evacuees.
The site, located on the Back to Batoche festival grounds, is normally a place for Métis youth summer camps and intergenerational cultural learning. It features cabins, dorm-style rooms, a full kitchen, and a wing designed specifically to accommodate elders with dignity and comfort — 'almost like hotel rooms,' Laroque said.
'There's no traffic. It's nice and safe,' he said. 'If the kids need a break, they can go to the playground. It's quiet. It's open. It feels like home.'
Word spread quickly through Facebook and community networks. Though Batoche wasn't listed on official provincial evacuation plans, families found their way there — and told others.
'People were just stuck,' Laroque said. 'They heard that there was free accommodations here, free food, and so they came.'
Land, Loss and What Comes Next
Colli remembers a more co-ordinated response in 2015, during another massive wildfire season.
'Now it's more confusing,' he said. 'Red Cross, SPSA, FSIN, Métis Nation — it's not always clear who's doing what.'
He said his family might have ended up sleeping in someone's yard if they hadn't heard about Batoche. Others, he said, spent grocery money on gas or racked up credit card debt trying to escape.
'I've seen people sleeping in cars with their babies,' he said.
On their last day at Batoche, Colli brought his children to the national historic site — walking the trails and reading signs about Louis Riel, Gabriel Dumont and the 1885 Resistance. It was a chance to connect the past to their present.
'It was important to me that they learn where we come from,' he said.
As the fires near La Ronge threatened cherished forest spots, Colli worried about damage to a family mushroom-picking site — and especially to the historic Robertson Trading post, which burned down June 3.
'There was a picture of my grandfather hanging in there,' he said. 'Albert Colli. I'm going to be sad to see it gone.'
Still, he finds hope in the strength of the land.
'But the land will heal,' he said. 'It always does.'
Métis Nation–Saskatchewan President Glen McCallum said Batoche's transformation into a shelter wasn't just about logistics — it was about spirit.
'Being displaced can take away who you are, but here, surrounded by culture and tradition, people are smiling, connecting, and beginning to feel like themselves again,' McCallum said.
Emily Ross, an evacuee from Sucker River, told McCallum she didn't want to go home, as they sat together listening to Métis fiddle tune 'Maple Sugar,' played by evacuee Jeptha Ross.
With fires intensifying each year, McCallum said Indigenous-led emergency response must become part of broader government planning.
'This isn't just about Métis or First Nations — these fires affect everyone,' he said. 'The fire doesn't draw borders, and neither should we. The sooner we plan together — governments, industries, institutions, communities — the better prepared we'll be for next time.'
As he packed up to head home, Colli said Batoche gave him more than shelter. It gave him a sense of dignity, calm, and belonging.
'Batoche wasn't just a shelter — it was a place where my family could rest, feel safe, and truly belong.'
