What was Kîsikâwâhk?

By the early 1700s, the Hudson’s Bay Company had asserted control over the vast tributary rivers and territories directly surrounding Hudson Bay. Fur traders—driven by profit, survival, and the lure of the unknown—had pushed deep into the dense boreal regions now known as Manitoba. As their reach expanded, the Company established a series of forts and trading posts to connect the interior’s steady flow of furs to the shipping ports along the Bay. These outposts became lifelines of commerce and communication, stretching like threads into the heart of the Canadian wilderness.

Early on, these remote posts were staffed by a mix of First Nations peoples—primarily the Cree—and rugged European traders. The Cree, with their deep knowledge of the land, provided not only survival skills but essential partnerships in hunting, trapping, and navigation. However, as the 18th century progressed and the wealth of the fur trade became more apparent, the demographics of the frontier began to shift. More European settlers and traders arrived, and larger, more permanent trading posts began to resemble frontier villages. With these better-supplied bases, traders, trappers, and explorers were emboldened to journey even deeper into lands unfamiliar to Europeans.

These expeditions, while initiated by European ambition, were often only successful through close cooperation with Indigenous guides and knowledge-keepers. A mutual, if fragile, relationship formed—practical and at times deeply respectful. It was through this partnership that certain frontiersmen were gradually invited into regions considered sacred, significant, or dangerous by local Cree communities. One such journey, believed to have taken place in the 1730s, brought a European party into the area now known as La Sombra.

This region was not described as sacred or religious, but as a place to be avoided—known among the Cree as Kîsikâwâhk (kee-see-GAH-wahk), roughly meaning “the place of danger.” Over generations, a wealth of oral stories, cautionary tales, and unexplained events had given the area a fearful reputation. Only the most spiritually attuned—particularly shamans—would enter, and even then, rarely. That European settlers would eventually lay claim to the area was likely seen, at the time, less as colonization and more as a magnanimous gesture from the Cree—who regarded the region as best left alone.

Enter Thomas Knox, a little-known Hudson’s Bay Company frontiersman. With the cautious blessing of local Cree leaders, he established an isolated outpost near Kîsikâwâhk. Aside from a few scattered business letters referencing his name, little is known about Knox or the details of his settlement. Yet as the decades wore on and more “civilized” Europeans moved inland from Hudson Bay, Knox’s remote station was mentioned again and again in journals, letters, and trading records—though rarely by the same name. Settlers and traders struggled to pronounce or spell Kîsikâwâhk, leading to a slew of corrupted names, the most persistent being Kis-Sombwa.

While most forts and towns thrived, Kis-Sombwa was left alone. From historical letters and journals, there are several accounts hint at unease surrounding the outpost. Reasons for avoiding it range from misdirection and strange weather to feelings of confusion and even spiritual dread. One letter refers vaguely to the settlement’s “God-less quality,” while another suggests travelers became “turned around within sight of its smoke.” Yet despite this, a certain kind of settler was drawn to it: those seeking the very edge of the known world, and more likely wanting to embrace this unease.

Kis-Sombwa, however, remained harsh and unforgiving. Winters were severe, food scarce, and trade unreliable. In some years, the population of the outpost was forced to relocate seasonally to survive.

What was the Treaty of Seven Winters?

By the late 1780s, the remote outpost of Kis-Sombwa had grown into something more than a scattering of cabins and fur caches. Though isolated and still viewed with suspicion by the broader Hudson’s Bay network, its inhabitants—an eclectic mix of trappers, Métis families, and former Company men—had begun to chart their own course. Emboldened by survival and hardened by experience, the people of Kis-Sombwa chose to diverge from the traditional colonial framework. They sought something rare for the time: a direct, independent agreement with the local Cree communities regarding the land they inhabited.

What emerged from those negotiations would become known as the Treaty of Seven Winters.. The terms laid out a challenge that was clear to both parties, but the success of which would indicate the settlers welcomed by the land and capable to the governorship in a way Cree had not found possible or of interest. If the settlers could endure seven consecutive winters within the borders of Kis-Sombwa without abandoning the land or retreating to other settlements, they would be granted governorship of the area. In other words, they would not own the land—ownership being a foreign concept to both parties—but would instead steward it, maintaining it with the understanding that the land itself could, and would, reclaim anything not respected.

It’s worth noting that the term “governorship” still appears in La Sombra’s town charter to this day. It remains a critical distinction: no individual or group technically owns La Sombra. Instead, the community is entrusted with its care for as long as it proves worthy. In this way, the Treaty of Seven Winters established not just legal precedent but spiritual responsibility—a compact that bound settlers not only to each other, but to the land itself, under watchful eyes both seen and unseen.

Where does the name La Sombra come from?

Though there is no single record that confirms exactly when Kis-Sombwa became known as La Sombra, the transformation of the name appears to have unfolded gradually—and almost accidentally. Between 1790 and 1815, references to the area appear in letters, trade logs, land reports, and private diaries under at least thirty-four different names, many of which carry multiple spellings, phonetic guesses, or deliberate alterations. Some resemble the original Cree term Kîsikâwâhk, while others twist it into forms like Kiscomba, Kissombra, or Kee-Sambra. The inconsistency speaks not only to the oral nature of frontier life, but also to the unease settlers felt trying to define a place so deeply resistant to clarity.

The eventual convergence on the name La Sombra—Spanish for “the shadow”—is almost certainly not the result of Spanish settlement in the area. Instead, it reflects the growing French influence across the region during that period, particularly in trade and intermarriage. Curiously, the name seems to have gained traction not from native French speakers, but rather from English, Scottish, and German settlers attempting French affectations in their speech and writing. Whether out of admiration, mimicry, or the frontier’s tendency to reinvent language as it went, “La Sombra” emerged as a poetic evolution—perhaps even a subconscious reflection of the area’s enigmatic, shadowed reputation.

By the early 19th century, La Sombra had eclipsed all previous names in official and popular use, cementing itself not only as a toponym, but as a symbol: a place always slightly out of step with the rest of the colonial map. A frontier not just of land, but of language, perception, and belief.