The Anishinaabe continue to fight for land they never surrendered.

Duncan Michano dreamed of retracing the route his Anishinaabe ancestors traveled in birch-bark canoes, from the dunes of Lake Superior’s northern shoreline to the community of Longlac – a journey through more than 200 km (125 miles) of wilderness.

Years spent on the land in northern Ontario kindled a deep desire to traverse those forests, exposed bedrock, and frothy rapids that elders spoke of.

So, in 2016, he did just that.

Traveling with his granddaughter, he hunted for the route, much of it overgrown and fallow. At one point, he found himself standing between rushing water on his left and a steep hill to his right. There was only one possible path forward.

“I’m standing, thinking: ‘Jesus, my grandfather walked right here.’ He was here,” Michano later recalled.

“Knowing your ancestors followed the same path gives you a spiritual connection. It gives you a sense of ownership.”

Ideas of land, ownership, and rights have been the focus of an intense, multigenerational battle between successive Canadian governments and a collection of Anishinaabe nations that have long called the place home.

Last week, Canada’s highest court weighed in on the issue, ruling that the crown had made a “mockery” of a key 1850 agreement by failing to adequately compensate First Nations for the riches extracted from their ancestral territories.

The court victory could pave the way for billions in compensation and highlighted why Indigenous communities across the country are increasingly revisiting agreements signed by their ancestors, arguing that in some cases, the terms of those agreements have been broken.

The community of Biigtigong Nishnaabeg, on the northern shores of Lake Superior, is waging a different battle, however.

In front of a pine forest with green and bright yellow trees stands a low sign that reads, “Ojibways of the Pic River First Nation.”

The community, also known as the Ojibways of the Pic River First Nation, is considered a signatory of the Robinson Superior treaty at the center of the recent court battle, and as such, they would be eligible for an eventual payout. But for decades, the community has been saying their ancestors never signed any agreement with the crown. Instead, they argue that they retain title over the land and the right to determine how the land and resources should be used. If victorious in this claim, the Biigtigong Nishnaabeg community could be entitled to a far greater payout.

Michano, now 78, recalls how, when he was young, Canadian police would come every year to hand out cheques to members of the nation: an annuity owed from the Robinson Superior treaty for the use of their lands by successive generations of settlers, industry, and government. Each year, the payment was just C$4 (US$2.90) – a figure Michano said “wasn’t worth my time… Why would I go there and collect four bucks?”

That yearly rhythm was upended in the 1970s by a chance discovery. Michano was waiting at an airport and purchased a book, first published in 1880, about the history of treaties in Canada. Thumbing through the pages, he was startled to see that Biigtigong Nishnaabeg wasn’t listed among the signatories of the Robinson Superior treaty. He recalls it as his “holy F” moment: “We didn’t sign that treaty.”

Treaties between First Nations and the crown have largely underpinned the government’s claim to territory in much of what is now Canada and are the basis of its settlement and exploitation. In exchange for control of land, nations were promised the right to hunt and fish, the support of the crown, and a lump sum or annuity payment.

When European prospectors began venturing to the northern shores of Lake Superior in the 1800s, Anishinaabe chiefs – close allies of the crown – grew worried that violent conflict was inevitable, so colonial officials rushed to sign a treaty to temper their concerns. The result was the Robinson Superior treaty, a novel agreement that, for the first time, promised signatories a share of the revenues from mining and forestry as the value of the land increased

The federal government rejected the claim, but Biigtigong Nishnaabeg remains in negotiations with the province of Ontario.

Even today, Ontario has resisted paying compensation. The province’s lawyers admit there have been “150 years of failure” in honoring the agreement but argue that courts shouldn’t be the venue to order financial damages.

Still, Duncan Michano says nations like his are growing emboldened to push back against slow-moving bureaucracy. They might have to wait decades in court, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be strategic now.

They’re also increasingly wary of government funds and grants. “There are always strings attached,” Michano says. “But when it’s our own money, when it’s from our own sources, we can do what we want.”

Two years ago, flush with cash from a deal they signed with a mining community, Biigtigong Nishnaabeg purchased the demolished town site. The move was partly defensive, blocking other prospective owners from developing the land. But it was also a nod to the grander ambitions of the nation: to gradually reclaim their territory.