“I started to wonder, what if?” Q&A with author Conor Kerr

Enough talk. Plains bison belong on the plains, so that’s where we’ll put them. No feasibility studies, no federal funding and certainly no permission. Just a borrowed truck and trailer, and maybe a stolen jeep. Let’s start with downtown Edmonton.

Such is the scheme hatched in a one-bedroom trailer by two young Métis in Conor Kerr’s 2024 novel Prairie Edge. Distant cousins Grey and Ezzy – the first disillusioned by years of activism, the second by years of institutional prejudice – embark on the clandestine reintroduction of plains bison to their home in central Alberta and, in doing so, confront their heritage.

“Just think about how this used to look. How it used to feel,” says Grey, as much to the reader as to Ezzy. “All I want is to see a herd of a million bison storming across the prairie.”

Here, we speak with Kerr about his book, his thoughts on bison reintroduction past and present and his hopes for the future of the species.

Why bison? What is their significance, culturally and ecologically, to your stretch of Edmonton?

Bison are a driving force on the prairie and are so integral to maintaining a healthy ecosystem. You kind of need them here, and to the Métis people in particular, bison are the culture – they’re the law, they’re the society, they’re the economy, they’re the governance structure. Everything revolves around the bison and the bison herds.

Thinking about the reintroduction concept in the novel, sure, on the surface they’re just bringing bison back, but in doing so you’re restoring Indigenous governance structures and economies to the landscape. It’s all woven together. There’s no one without the other.

What kind of research did you do ahead of writing the novel?

Most of it was in my airspace. I have a lot of friends who do some ranching, so that’s where I got the knowledge of how to herd bison and work with them. I did have to look up more intently how to steal a vehicle. Ironically, the catalytic converter was stolen off my truck just as I was writing that scene in the book.

A lot of knowledge actually came from the oral tradition, from stories which have been passed down. I used to spend time with a couple elders, and one of them, actually, had a grandmother who would have been in one of the very last bison hunts. I can’t imagine sitting there, on the edge of the prairie, watching the last bison herd run south across the Medicine Line, knowing as a people, as a community, that you’ll never see them again. So those conversations were a kind of research, but you’re learning it in a different way than you would reading it from a book, that’s for sure.

Where did the idea of the book come from? 

Edmonton’s a funny city because it’s got this incredible River Valley parkway running uninterrupted all the way through, and a lot of big animals do move in. Every once in a while you’ll see a couple moose ripping around downtown, in this city of 1.5 million people.

When I was building this novel, I remembered reading a news article from a decade ago of a bison herd that got loose in Camrose, Alberta, and I thought it was really funny to have 50 or 60 animals stampeding down main street. I started to wonder, what if a bison herd came to the Edmonton parkway?

Why does this kind of storytelling matter when it comes to real-world change?

There’s often this idea that Indigenous people working in these spaces are benevolent, that they’re just so knowledgeable, that they can do no wrong. It’s essentially a racist stereotype imposed on Indigenous people, so in this novel I wanted to capture the nuances of my different Indigenous characters. They’re working towards what they believe is right, but they have flaws. One’s trying to build a brand and become Instagram famous, another’s working behind the scenes but doesn’t really treat others that well. I’m trying to break down a few of the stereotypes existing around some of the people involved in these movements and, of course, highlight the hypocrisy of the whole virtue signalling thing that’s currently ongoing in a big way.

How do you feel about bison reintroduction as it’s now practised?

Places with bison herds like Yellowstone and Elk Island are really cool. They look so much more natural, and I think it lends itself to restoring the prairie to a more natural state. Bison will bring back the grasses, bring back the birds, and just help in general with this whole climate disaster we’re going through. But at the same time, these parks have a very colonial undertone to them in how they relate to Indigenous peoples. We’re “lucky” to be going out there and seeing their bison herds.

The more work that happens around bison restoration, whether or not they’re doing it on First Nations or Métis land, the more I feel it should all be done in that cultural context if it’s going to be successful.

What are some of your dreams for the future of bison in North America?

I’m very interested in the idea of a future where bison herds again shape the landscape in a way that’s suitable for Indigenous peoples to live within our cultural spaces and governance structures. The idea of Land Back doesn’t mean everyone gets kicked off the land. It means sharing and honouring the land in the way that the treaties naturally intended it to be shared.

I suggest that everyone look up the International Buffalo Relations Institute. They’re based in Calgary, but a lot of their work happens on Blackfoot reservations down in Montana as well as southern Alberta. They’ve been restoring bison to the prairie, and because of the way their reservations are set up, they were actually able to have a herd of bison cross the border for the first time in 150 years. They’re actually doing this work.

This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.