MANITOULIN—The gravel crunches underfoot on the long driveway leading to Gwekwaadziwin Miikan’s newest offering: a land-based withdrawal management centre years in the making, long awaited and hard fought for. The trees along the entrance have been cleared back—necessary for construction, yes, but symbolic too. This already sacred space is becoming something else: a place where people in pain can come to begin again.
Up the drive, new signage will soon greet arrivals, guiding them not just to the right door but to the start of something better. At the intercom station, the intake begins—on camera, for safety and care—with the press of a button.
“This is really where the assessment starts,” says Executive Director Sam Gilchrist. “We can see if someone’s accompanied, start the screening. But it’s not just a form—it’s relationship-building from the first second.”


This is not your typical detox facility. No white tile walls. No buzzers or locked doors. Instead, tiny homes—bunkies—nestled among the trees serve as spaces for rest and recovery. A nearby arbour anchors the grounds, calling people out of isolation and into connection with knowledge keepers, land and staff trained not just in trauma-informed care but in the quiet, persistent work of rebuilding trust.
Since opening in 2018, Gwekwaadziwin Miikan has offered land-based treatment and aftercare, rooted in Anishinaabe ways of knowing and being. The detox facility expands this circle of care to include acute withdrawal management—something that’s been sorely missing on Manitoulin.
“We’ve always known there was a need,” says Mr. Gilchrist. “We were all frontline workers before we started this program. We saw people falling through the cracks, especially during COVID. We were doing withdrawal support out of prospector tents—with porta-potties and generators. It worked, but it wasn’t as dignified as this will be.”
Capital funding from the Ministry of Health finally came through—but with strict conditions: no bricks-and-mortar. So Gwekwaadziwin got creative. “We thought, okay, we’re already land-based, let’s keep with that essence. What if we used tiny homes? What if we centred the arbour with a sacred fire?”
The result is a pilot program with five beds, to begin —modest but mighty. Each bunkie is private and peaceful, with meals curated by a dietitian to support people through withdrawal. The new shower house and washroom facilities allow for dignity in the process. And every Friday, a nurse practitioner from the Mnaamodzawin Health Team visits on site, offering confidential health consultations in one of the bunkies.
“It’s a nice, quiet place where people can meet with her privately,” Mr. Gilchrist explains.
“And we also use this space for sessions with external service providers. We collaborate with organizations across Manitoulin—so this allows for safe, comfortable conversations when needed.”
This isn’t just about detox. It’s about giving people something they rarely receive in systems shaped by colonialism: dignity. Autonomy. A pathway forward.
The plan is phased. If the pilot proves sustainable, there’s hope for safe flex beds and opioid agonist therapy tapering beds in future phases. But for now, acute withdrawal is the focus—catching people at the cliff edge, offering a soft place to land.
The gravel is rough now. But the land will regenerate. As will the people who come here. That’s the hope. And it’s not an abstract one.
A recent story published by The Expositor spoke of the soaring opioid overdose deaths in the region. This is not news to those who have put their all into building this space.
But this centre is news. It’s a testament not to what’s been lost, but to what’s possible when a community builds for itself.
And slowly, the gravel will turn green again.
Gwekwaadziwin Miikan’s land based detox program is open to all persons of Manitoulin, Indigenous and non-Indigenous 19 years and over. For more information visit gwek.ca.
