Outside of tiny Winifred, Montana the land got wild. The area is called The Missouri Breaks, because the hills seem to “break” apart into steep, deeply eroded badlands, canyons, and coulees along the Missouri River. In 1805, Lewis and Clark passed through here, referring to the unsettled land as the “American desert.” I came here because at the end of that century, the US Cavalry hunted a band of Nez Perce Indians through this rough country, as they fled towards Canada.
Hardly anyone lives in this landscape, and only a few dirt roads go in and out. The road I took ended broke abruptly on the south bank of the Missouri River, where a small sign hanging from a rusted mailbox read “Call for Service.” In the box I found a walkie talkie, and called across the river for a ride. Soon a very large man fired up the ferry and came across to pick me up.
I proceeded into the wilderness on yet another 100 mile plus trip on gravel roads without services. It was exciting and slightly intimidating, because there wasn’t anyone out here to help me if I got into trouble.
About an hour into the drive, with sagebrush covered land rolling off in all directions, I saw a spooky house set on a hill way back from the road. It was black against the brown soil, probably abandoned, and reminded me of the Edward Hopper painting called “Lighthouse Hill.” I felt nervous about going up there, but how could I not?
I searched up and down for a driveway that would lead to this spectral house. Just then, I spotted an early 1980s Ford pickup truck coming towards me, the first vehicle I’d seen all day. I nodded as they passed – two older, very dark skinned Native American men. They appeared somber and didn’t acknowledge me. I immediately became self-conscious and fearful. Was it their dark skin? Their Indianness? Their maleness? Their gun rack? Or was I just wound up from too much travel and too many conspiracy theories coming my way.
I skipped the abandoned farmhouse and headed back up the main dirt road. Within a mile I’d unintentionally caught up to the men in the pickup, so I throttled back a bit. My thoughts went wild. Now they think I’m following them, that I’m up to no good. They’re gonna pull over and ambush me. At some point they turned off into the hills. I knew I was losing it. None of my reactions made sense.
I drove into the dark part of my soul, desolate just like the landscape. So much about me was dark. So many things had happened that I could have prevented.
My emotional makeup sometimes made me cold, distant, unable to connect with people, especially those with the strongest desires for me.
I had trouble accepting love, even from my kids.
I was twisted, hard for others to understand.
I was fat.
I moved slowly.
I never earned the money a man like me should earn.
I sank, the bad emotions consuming me to the point I looked to the edge of the road where it dropped off into a canyon and thought, Maybe I should drive right off. I’d thought this only once previously in my life, just before I quit drinking when I was 26. A few days after my birthday that year I was driving drunk, with a six pack beside me, through some highway tunnels in Pennsylvania, just killing time and stewing in my personal, drunken hell after work all day writing books on an assembly line of typewriters at a book factory. Along with a loft full of other writers I wrote books about how to be healthy that sold millions of copies for the publisher. Between paragraphs I would step out on the back porch and smoke unfiltered Camel cigarettes. My eyes saw even sunny days through a dark haze. As I approached a tunnel that evening I almost pulled to the right to smash into the entrance wall.
However, there were no tunnels here, just the long, beautiful gravel road, and I was not that young man from so long ago. I pulled the truck over near a pond and set up my little one-burner stove on the tailgate. I put finely ground coffee in a Moka pot and brewed a double espresso while watching ducks swim among the reeds. The madness passed -- it had been about 20 minutes.
I was exhausted from the road, but thankful for the equanimity, even in the face of negativity, that came with growing older.
At day’s end I arrived in the rolling grasslands of the Nez Perce Bear Claw Battlefield. The low sun lent the tall grasses long shadows beneath a pale blue sky.
There were no humans near and falling into the history of this place was easy – and startling. It was a cold early October in 1877 when about 800 Nez Perce warriors and civilians held up in this gulch and low hills to rest after fleeing the US Cavalry for several months. They were trying to reach Canada, only 42 miles away, where they’d be safe from persecution. Then U.S. soldiers found them and set up to attack the encampment. The two sides had already clashed several times in previous weeks, and here the situation only worsened. The Nez Perce women and children hid in the vegetation and rocks along the creek, while the men had a standoff with the army. The leaders talked a few times, trying to figure a way to settle without warfare, but that ended in an attack that killed three top Nez Perce leaders, and dozens of others, including Army soldiers. Women and children hiding in the marshland were slaughtered. Wounded soldiers were left to bleed on the hillside overnight. About 56 people died, from both sides, and hundreds were injured. Another massacre.
The site, with its bubbling creek and golden grasses, had a sense of grace and majesty. At several points on the trail the park service had set up markers explaining what happened at that spot. At each marker, Native Americans and others had set down offerings that were meaningful to the modern Indians: sunglasses, coins, jewelry glinting in the golden sun. On a tree the Indians had tied bandanas and other cloths to help guide spirits. These memorials were powerful, and intriguing -- I couldn’t fathom the exact symbolism of the objects or the bandanas. Dead soldiers, dead horses, dead mothers, dead children, dead warriors, dead leaders. A US soldier wrote after the massacre that he never would have been able to imagine the horrors he saw take place. The theory had been that the Indians weren’t human, but he found that they were. He regretted everything. There was a line from the Nez Perce to George Floyd that we all could trace if we chose. This would always be sacred ground.
I felt a sudden coolness and descended a slough to a marshy creek where the water bubbled against the heat. A hawk flew in gentle circles above me, dropping every now and then with a cry. What is that about? I wondered. Maybe we’re connected, I thought. Maybe I am a hawk. I returned its cry with my own imitation. A few moments later the hawk dive bombed me, and I realized I was near its nesting site. This hawk didn’t want to connect with me. It wanted me to get the hell away from its chicks. I needed to swear off magical thinking, finally and for good.
At the top of the trail an indented grassy swirl marked the collapsing mass grave of the dead US soldiers. In comments on Yelp, some people said that when they visited, they didn’t feel any sympathy for the soldiers, who they saw as genocidal. Others countered that the Nez Perce were savages, who would have been unharmed if they’d just complied. I thought about all the hunting that my government had done this year. And all the hunting the protestors had done, right and left. All the ways we still couldn’t leave each other alone. The Nez Perce were chased, dehumanized, killed. So much wrong had been done, so much murder in the name of war. So much harm that lasts to this day. I felt deep regret at points along that trail. But I could see why the Europeans would have wanted this land. And when you want something, it is easy to justify taking it. And if you can justify it, then what is wrong?
That’s our ethos now, and I guess it was our ethos back then, as well.
