Meet the KwePack

‘Strong, supportive and super badass’

The Kwe Pack is pictured here. In the back row are Kason Diver, Jamie Stenberg (holding Owen Stenberg), Nichole Diver (holding Porter Diver) Chally Topping-Thompson, Katie Butterfield, Edye Howes, Melissa Boyd, Trish Staine, Kyra Paitrick, Chelsea Durand and Tarissa Henderson. In the front row are Shelbie Shelder, Alicia Cyr, Sarah Agaton Howes, Brooke Copa-Hernandez, Nashay Howes and Annette Rennquist.

Photo by Amy Broadmoore

KwePack is like family; the bonds go deeper than running

BY SARAH BARKER

Kwe means woman in the Ojibwe language, but it infers something more like a sacred, life giving being. In the same way, KwePack is more than a running group to the Anishinaabe women who live in and around the Fond du Lac Reservation.

“I’m part of a group of strong, supportive, super badass, native ultra runners. Day-to-day, it’s hard to remember how profound that is,” said Sarah Agaton Howes, one of KwePack’s organizers. “It’s changed my life, and it’s changed my community.”

They’ve described the group as lifesaving, spiritual, cultural, empowering, like family and a darn good time.

That’s a pretty big reach for a grassroots group with no website, no funding, no bylaws, no officers and no set schedule of meetings. In fact, eight years ago, there was no group—just individual women determined to change their lives and show their children a better path.

Chally Topping Thompson is one of those women. In 2007, she was overweight, lacked self esteem and smoked. She decided to change that. “You know how you get this craving for a cigarette,” she said. “I thought I’d walk it off and that was alright, so I thought running would be even better. I went one block and, holy man, I was so out of breath I couldn’t even think about a cigarette. I had not done sports in high school but I stuck with running because I could make it a little further every time. I felt good about meeting these little goals I made for myself.”

She signed up for 5Ks, investing in regulation running gear so as not to look like “an Indian girl from the rez.” Five kilometers turned into five miles, six miles, and in 2010, Grandma’s half marathon—but she continued to train on her own, self-conscious of being “a chubby girl running.”

In this same time period just a few miles away, Sarah Agaton Howes had had two children and was well on her way to the diabetes and high blood pressure that plagued her entire family. She too embarked on a radical lifestyle change that included running a few miles.

“I was standing at the start of the 2010 Diabetes Prevention 5K on the reservation—most people walk it—wearing my husband’s shorts and a t-shirt, and I saw this other native woman standing there. In actual running clothes,” Agaton Howes said. “It blew my mind—I had not seen a native woman who was a serious runner. That was Chally. She came over and was like, ‘Hey you should do Grandma’s half with me,’ and I told her she was crazy. But seeing her planted a seed in my mind.”

Sarah Agaton Howes and Nashay Howes cheer on a teammate at the end of the Superior stpring trail races.

Photo by Amy Broadmoore

That meeting kickstarted Agaton Howes’ “run stalker” mode—a moniker given her by the KwePack that she proudly owns. She’s a community organizer by nature and training, and realized the key to regaining health was to return to traditional Anishinaabe ways—eating healthy, being physically active, and most of all, building a community of support around that sort of life.

Other native women were struggling to do the same thing, but in isolation. Agaton Howes, the indefatigable run stalker, got their numbers and unleashed the power of the KwePack.

“I’m a pack animal; I do better in a pack,” she explained. “Two or three women, we started running together once a week, partly for safety. We found out right away how powerful it was to be with other native women, how we felt supported and strong together. When we’re out there in the woods in a group, I’m really aware that these are our ancestors’ trails. It feels right. There are lots of running groups in the world—for whatever reason, we haven’t joined those spaces. We were making a space for us to feel comfortable.”

“Sarah kept inviting me to run with her,” Thompson recalled. “I’m an introvert and the body shaming came up again, but eventually I started joining them.”

Still, there was no official KwePack. It was just a few native women meeting up on the weekend or over lunch hour to go for a run. They took their time, they laughed, they snapped photos and talked about kids and jobs and life as an Anishinaabe woman. If some ran ahead, they stopped and waited so no one got lost, no one was left behind. Some- times they went up the shore to a different part of the Superior Hiking Trail, but always the group aspect and socializing figured as promi- nently as the running.

Though most of the women had little or no running experience, they quickly ramped up their mileage and took to the trails in and around Fond du Lac. It was almost inevitable that the Superior Trail Races became their homecoming event. “It’s in a beautiful, pow- erful place, and it’s just hard enough that you feel like you might not make it. But you will. And you’ll come out changed. I just love that,” Agaton Howes said. “You’ll go from This is so stupid to This is incredible—every possible human emotion. I call it practiced hardship— running ultras makes us stronger, to deal with all the hardship in our lives.”

Nashay Howes races down a portion of the superior hiking trail at the Superior Spring Trail Races.

Photo by Fresh Tracks Media

Not everyone was as philosophical about practicing hardship. Thompson, ever the straight shooter, did not sugarcoat: “I hated trail running at first. It was so hard, I couldn’t breathe, my pace was so slow. But Sarah and me, we’ve run a lot of hard miles together. That’s what builds those bonds.”

Over the course of two years, KwePack grew, partly through Agaton Howes’ active recruiting and partly through referrals from Fond du Lac health services—”If someone came in with depression, they’d say, ‘You should go run with these women,’” Agaton Howes said. But they resisted formalizing the group until, nervous about their first go at the rugged Superior 25K in 2013, the five entrants made up KwePack t-shirts for a shot of team confidence.

“Up until that point we didn’t realize how impactful we were,” Thompson said. “But at that race, we had a presence. People noticed five brown girls running. We were super nervous and giddy, and out on the trail, one of us started howling. Then another one howled further up. We were howling encouragement to each other out there in the woods. The next year, there were 17 KwePack women at that race.”

Nichole Diver was one of those Superior neophytes in 2014. She recalled that the 15.5 miles of technical terrain was made even more difficult by ankle deep mud and offhandedly mentioned that that was the first race she’d ever run. But the memory that really stuck out? “I ran about 85 percent of that race alone. When I was almost done, I saw Chally—she’d waited almost an hour so she could finish the race with me.”

Diver, who worked with Thompson at Fond du Lac human services, had two children close in age. She suffered postpartum depression, but kept that battle to herself. She and Thompson started running on their lunch hour as part of a pact to be generally healthier. For Diver, joining up with the whole KwePack for group runs was “more about socializing with these amazing women—running was a bonus.” As simple as the premise was—miles of conversation and postrun coffee—the impact was complex and all encompassing. Diver lost over 100 pounds, she sailed through her third pregnancy with no depression, completing last year’s Superior 25K in her eighth month. This year, the mother of an eight-year-old, a six-year-old and a 10-month-old crushed the race’s 50K course. As a witness to his wife’s transformation, Diver’s husband spoke in awe of KwePack: “I am so grateful to those women.”

“KwePack is like family; the bonds go deeper than running,” Diver said. “They made my daughter her first pair of moccasins; they’re preparing her for life.

Nicole Diver is pictured during the 2018 Superior spring trail 50k.

Photo by Amy Broadmoore

Nichole diver kisses her 10-month-old son, Porter, while her husband, Keith, looks on at the 50k finish.

Photo by Amy Broadmoore

Rebecca St. George drives in from Duluth for her job as in-house attorney at Fond du Lac.

She’s 47 and has two teenage children. She’d run, off and on, but joining a bunch of younger women, accomplished trail runners with hydration vests and training plans? “Absolutely not. I was too slow, too clumsy, not fit enough. It would be awful,” St. George reeled off her initial thoughts. “But Sarah [Agaton Howes] just invites people. She said three or four other women were coming out to her house for a run around Big Lake, about 10K, which is farther than I’d ever run in my life, and that it would be great and I should come. This was in January. There was something so easy and confident about how she put it out there, like of course I could do it. And I believed her.”

Howes’ breezy invitation opened the door but if the experience had not, in fact, been fun, St. George said she wouldn’t have returned. It was fun—practicing hardship would come later—she did go back, and five months down the road, she completed the Superior 25K. “I’ve struggled with depression all my life. When I said yes to running the 25K—as crazy as that seemed—the cloud lifted,” St. George said in wonder. “I had a goal and a group of interesting people to do it with. So, there’s the community piece, but running changes your brain chemistry. This is the first time in my life I’ve been a regular runner, and it’s had enormous impact on my mental and emotional health. I look at that day I went out to Sarah’s to run with them as the pivotal moment of my life getting better.”

Rebecca St. George celebrates after finishing at the Superior Spring Trail Race

Photo by Jamison Swift

As many thorny issues as KwePack has managed to untangle, problems are rarely spoken of directly—no judgments are made nor is advice given. Like when young and cocky Amelia LeGarde showed up for group runs still drunk, sweating merlot: No one mentioned it.

“They knew if I just kept running, I’d figure it out on my own, and that’s what happened,” LeGarde said. “It’s hard to put in miles to the point where you’re feeling better because working through anger and sadness, those emotions are amplified. It’s a lot easier to just grab a drink, and, less sweaty. But like with that first [Superior] 25K, I put one foot in front of the other and got through it. I applied that to the rest of my life.”

While KwePack’s camaraderie (and the party-dampening 7:00 a.m. group runs) started her down the path, ultimately getting pregnant put an end to her drinking. “I had a desire to show my daughter a different way of living. That’s something we all share,” LeGarde said.

Like many KwePack runners, the group’s effect for her was synergistic—the women were simply fun to hang out with, which made it easy to live healthier and to try new things and set big goals, like running a 50K. And when those goals were achieved, the ensuing confidence reinforced the whole upward cycle.

But a lot of running groups provide the same sort of structure for success. KwePack’s Anishinaabe context (they’re all native) sets it apart from other running groups—that’s purposeful and important, as close to a rule as this rule-averse group ventures. KwePack provides a safe space and understanding about “messy pasts and messy lives,” as Rebecca St. George described the Anishinaabe experience, that generic groups can’t. But as their numbers have grown and their presence felt, they’re aware that carving out an indigenous-only space—irony notwithstanding—automatically leaves non-native women on the outside.

Melissa Wells cries at the conclusion of the Superior 25k

Photo by Amy Broadmoore

“The cultural piece is the biggest for me,” LeGarde said. “That’s the reason I feel a connection with this group and not some other. It’s powerful and spiritual to be together as native women, but at the same time, it feels exclusive. Many of us come from homes where one of our parents is non-native, so we’re trying to navigate that.”

As usual, all 21 KwePack runners and their families stayed together the night before this past May’s Superior Trail Races. And, as usual, they waited together for every pack member to finish. Looking around at the finish line crowd, KwePack’s effect could be seen in grateful spouses, inspired friends and healthy children who think running is just something all moms do. Muddy and sweaty and beaming, KwePack runners had the look of women who had accomplished much more than a tough race.