The drumming starts as a heartbeat. A low, steady rhythm that seems to rise from the earth itself before filling the summer air with a pulse you feel more than hear. It’s my third time attending the Rama Powwow, but the moment never loses its power.
“This is our way of healing,” Elder Mary Ashkewe tells me as we watch dancers gather at the edge of the arena, their regalia catching the afternoon light. “For many years, we couldn’t practice these ceremonies openly. Now we invite everyone to witness and learn.”
The annual Rama First Nation Powwow has returned to the shores of Lake Couchiching, bringing together Indigenous and non-Indigenous visitors in a vibrant celebration of culture, resilience and community. Set against the backdrop of traditional territories that have sustained Anishinaabe people for countless generations, the gathering serves as both a homecoming and an invitation.
“We come to remember who we are,” says Jordan Muskrat, a grass dancer from Georgina Island who has been attending powwows since childhood. “When I dance, I’m connected to every ancestor who kept these traditions alive during times when they were forbidden.”
The history Muskrat references is not ancient. Canada’s Indian Act explicitly banned Indigenous ceremonies including powwows and potlatches from 1885 until 1951. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission documented how these cultural practices were systematically suppressed through government policies designed to erase Indigenous identity.
Children who now dance freely in the powwow circle represent the first generations in over a century to grow up without these prohibitions. Their participation marks not just a cultural celebration but an act of profound historical reclamation.
Walking the grounds, I’m struck by how the event bridges multiple worlds. Elders speak with youth in Anishinaabemowin while food vendors serve both traditional foods and contemporary powwow classics. Visitors from nearby Orillia mingle with dancers who have traveled from across Turtle Island.
The Grand Entry, which officially opens each day’s festivities, showcases the diversity within Indigenous traditions. Veterans and flag bearers lead the procession, followed by dancers representing different styles and age groups. The arena fills with spectacular regalia—each outfit telling its own story through intricate beadwork, ribbons, feathers and designs passed down through families or gifted in ceremony.
“My jingle dress has 365 cones,” explains Serena Winnipeg, a young dancer whose copper jingles create a distinctive sound with each step. “One for each day of the year. The healing in this dance comes from the sound—it’s medicine in motion.”
The jingle dress dance originated during the 1918 influenza pandemic when an Ojibwe father had a vision of a healing dress while his daughter was ill. This connection between ceremony and wellbeing runs throughout the powwow, reflecting Indigenous understandings of health that encompass physical, spiritual, emotional and community dimensions.
According to research published in the International Journal of Indigenous Health, participation in cultural practices like powwows has been linked to improved mental health outcomes and stronger sense of identity among Indigenous youth. What outsiders might see as simply a festival is in fact a sophisticated system of cultural knowledge transmission and community wellness.
“We don’t separate our culture from our health or our spirituality,” explains Dr. Pamela Toulouse, an Anishinaabe education professor from Laurentian University who attends the gathering. “Powwows remind us that these elements are all connected.”
The economic impact extends beyond the weekend itself. Artisans display handcrafted jewelry, clothing, and artwork, representing both traditional skills and contemporary Indigenous artistic expressions. For many vendors, the summer powwow circuit provides essential income while allowing them to share cultural knowledge.
Mary Owl has been selling her beadwork at the Rama Powwow for over two decades. “When I started, there were maybe ten craft vendors. Now look,” she gestures to rows of tents stretching across the grounds. “People are interested in authentic Indigenous art, and that creates opportunities for our artists to make a living from their cultural knowledge.”
This growing interest reflects broader changes in Canadian society. According to 2021 data from Statistics Canada, Indigenous tourism and cultural events generate over $1.7 billion annually across the country. Communities like Rama First Nation have developed infrastructure to welcome visitors while ensuring celebrations remain grounded in Indigenous protocols and values.
As the afternoon progresses, the MC calls for an intertribal dance—an open invitation for everyone to join the circle. Children, elders, and visitors move together around the arena, the differences in experience or background temporarily dissolved in shared movement.
“This is how we build understanding,” says Chief Ted Williams of Rama First Nation. “By opening our ceremonies and sharing our joy, we create space for real relationships to grow.”
Williams notes that while the powwow welcomes visitors, it remains centered in Anishinaabe values and protocols. Photographs of certain ceremonies are restricted, sacred items are treated with appropriate respect, and the powwow committee ensures the event honors traditional ways while evolving to meet contemporary needs.
The balance is delicate but essential. Tourism revenue supports the community, but the gathering’s primary purpose remains cultural, not commercial.
As twilight approaches, the drumming takes on a different quality—slower, more reflective. Families spread blankets on the grass while children chase each other between the tents. The smell of cedar smoke mingles with fry bread and the distinctive sweetness of late summer in Ontario.
Tomorrow, many attendees will return to jobs in nearby cities or continue to the next stop on the powwow trail. But for this moment, gathered around the sacred circle, there’s a palpable sense of something both ancient and immediate—a community not just remembering its past but actively creating its future.
“We’ve always been here,” Elder Ashkewe reminds me as we watch the evening’s final grand entry. “And through these gatherings, we ensure we always will be.”
