Little Bighorn Battlefield, Crow Reservation, Montana

While I was in Montana briefly to visit the Glacier Park area, I consider this part of the trip entirely separate. Montana is a big state, and the southeastern part of Montana is very different from the northwestern part of Montana. The northwest is mountainous with massive lakes, the southeast is hills of long grass and grain, the relative flatlands.

My first encounter with this side of Montana was the Little Bighorn Battlefield, a national monument located within the Crow Reservation, east of Billings. It isn't something I would go out of my way to visit, but once I knew it was on the way to Billings, I decided to drop by. I made no effort to find out when it was open and figured I would roll in and roll out within 30 minutes or so. I did not expect it to make an impression.

Why so apathetic? Ambivalence. If I ever thought of the battle, which was rarely, my first thought was always a mean, hard, hateful, "Good." U.S. Cavalry unit loses to Native American tribes? Good.  Enlisted men were poor and undernourished? Good. Custer made foolhardy tactical decisions and paid with his life? Good. All U.S. Cavalry under Custer's command died? Good. They were driven to the last hill, slaughtered, and mutilated? Good, good, GOOD. Assessing all of American history from 1492 to present, you'll excuse me if I have zero empathy for the conquerors. There is no comparing one individual's suffering to the humiliation and decimation of an entire race of people.

But that's what history did up until relatively modern times. It was a tragic tale of the brave General Custer and his valiant men who perished under the sneaking, backstabbing savagery of injuns. Reinforced, memorialized, and mythologized. Another backwards, whites-only glorification of the Great Pioneers of America.

Fuck Custer. Fuck historians.

So I'm already mad rolling up on this damn hill. Because while Custer's defeat was GOOD, everything before and after it was BAD stacked on BAD, deep fried in BAD. If you think the Lakota, Arapaho, and Cheyenne didn't pay for their impudence, you're out of your goddamned mind.

And that's the ambivalence. It only made things worse and solidified hatred across the races. And in the grand scope of things, what's one battle, anyway?

The national monument is a weird place. One of the first things you see upon driving up to the parking lot is a fenced in area full of rows and rows of white headstones. Without context you might assume that this is where the U.S. Army combatants of the Battle of Little Bighorn were buried, but they are actually near the top, under one large monument in a mass grave. Apparently the U.S. government allowed non-associated veterans to be buried in this area (Custer National Cemetery) up until the 1970s (x). Perhaps some of the men interred in the Custer cemetery wanted to be buried there because they had ancestors who died in the Battle of Little Bighorn. Or perhaps they thought of this land as a patriotic, historic place to be buried. 

After briefly speaking with the rangers in the visitors center, I walked outside to the path up to the spot of the infamous "Custer's last stand." As I walked past the unrelated soldiers' headstones, I tried to read some of them but could not make them out. The headstones are exactly like other headstones that are scattered around the memorial site that are meant to show where different U.S. army soldiers fell during the Battle of Little Bighorn, yet another confusing part of the experience.

I reached the top of the hill and read the placards and memorial stone. After the battle, the whole unit was hastily buried there, right near where Custer died, but within the next few years the officers' bodies were removed and relocated to cemeteries around the country (Custer's remains are buried at West Point) (x). But under this marker, the infantrymen still lie. Throwaway men. I may have felt a little something reading the names, but it was tempered by the emotional manipulation going on nearby. The park's service takes great pains to explain how many infantrymen were poor immigrants, Germans and Irish, who barely knew English and had few options. Okay. Still on an errand to oppress native peoples, but okay.

Down the hill and not so far away is the Indian Memorial, which was added to the park in 1997. It should be mentioned at this point that I'd left my camera behind in the car, so did not take any close up pictures of either memorial. I didn't do this on purpose, but I'm kind of glad it turned out that way. The pictures I got later driving up the road are sufficient for me. If you want to see what the memorial looks like, a Google search leads the way.

It's a beautiful memorial, set inside the hill, in a circle, that tells of the battle and losses from each of the participating tribes (Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho). It ends in a unifying message of peace.

It's a nice sentiment...eventually I'm sure everyone will be so far removed from this terrible history that we will all agree. With the offenses at Standing Rock happening right now, it's kind of hard to imagine that future. For now, for me, "Nice sentiment, still mad."

As I made my way out of the park, swinging up the hill and back down to take the photos I've shared here, I felt stormy and weird. It's strange to consider history when you standing on top of it, a result of said ugliness. If that idiot hadn't knocked into the Bahamas in search of India, probably none of us would be here. You know how the Butterfly Effect works. Step on a butterfly, we all descended from alligators; step on Native Americans, I am writing this entry in Fargo, North Dakota and most of the peoples who lived on this land for thousands of years are relegated to reservations.

In other words, you can't turn back time and probably wouldn't anyway. But it sure would be nice if everyone agreed that what happened was genocide and there is pretty much no amount of reparations that will ever really make up for it. Plenty of modern Euroamericans still believe the mythology of Western Civilization up to and including bald faced, take-no-prisoners manifest destiny. We're a long way from making anything even remotely "right."

And perhaps the national monument will change as the decades pass, as well. After all, the inclusion of the Indian memorial took 120 years. Who knows how we'll feel a hundred years from now?

Kalispell, MT to Bellevue, Idaho (via the Sawtooth Mountains), 456 miles

Sawtooth Mountains

Montana in the morning light was a whole different place from the disappointing day before. Today's route would take me south through Missoula, all way to south central Idaho, a total of almost nine hours of driving...but first I got to circle around Flathead Lake, a glorious, serene, and perfect antidote to the previous day's raw and unhinged shenanigans.

There were many homes tucked beside the lake, with gravel or dirt driveways dipping down through the trees to each homestead, some barely visible or not at all. This was the Montana I dreamed about, nestled in the foothills of the northern Rocky Mountains and girded by the unyielding mass of water called Flathead. I wonder what that kind of dream costs? I'm too scared to even guess, let alone find out. Maybe for a braver day.

As I drove, with the Rockies unfolding to my left, forever and ever seeming without end, I suddenly realized where I was. Yes, Montana, but also right near the location of the events portrayed in one of my favorite books, Fools Crow, by James Welch. While the book depicts the lives of the Pikuni (Blackfeet) people in the mid-1800s—a people who lived on the eastern side of the Rockies and whose reservation now stands there—an unmistakable understanding of the landscape finally brought my sense of place into focus. Making my way through the Flathead Reservation on the western side of the Rockies, the shape of the mountains took on a very uniform shape, like the sharp, spiked spinal bones of a mammoth being, laid long slain and resting partially submerged in the earth. The backbone of the world. And it clicked. This was how the Pikuni described the Rockies. The weight, wonder, and horror of history in this region coalesced and struck me hard in the chest.

If you've ever read Fools Crow, you know it is a vibrant, incredible insight into one Native American tribe's culture and world as it stood on the precipice just before the despicable, shameful encroachment of Euroamericans destroyed almost everything they had or were, and stole nearly every scrap of their lands. It portrays the oncoming interlopers, their uncompromising, backsliding, greedy, and opportunistic mentality, and the fatal disease they brought with them (smallpox). But it also portrays the Pikuni as they were, migrating with the seasons, hunting, raiding other tribes, growing up, marrying—their whole lives before everything changed. The first time I read it, I could not help but feel a sense of hopeless fury and despair—it was so real, so authentic, I wanted to reach through the pages and grab them, tell them to do something, run, fight, something. It's a stupid and naive notion, but true. They never stood a chance.

Near Salmon, Idaho.

But, in the now, as I drove through Montana, I noticed many of the road signs feature not just the English words for places, but the Native American words, as well. An article from 2006 explains the initiative, which incorporates the Kootenai or Salish languages in road signs, representative of the peoples who live in the Flathead Reservation. It is a small thing, but it is something. I both love and hate that many tribes have embraced the craven capitalistic side of our worst natures, building casinos to rob the (primarily) white man dry. But truth be told, I mostly love it—whatever you have to do, do it. And take back as much as you can in the process. I hate that it's gambling, but whatever. We gave them one ugly addiction—alcohol—so the least we can do is succumb to the one they can make work for them so readily. 

What I loved more was the cultural reintroduction...something true and tangible and honoring not just the present but the past. The native people's names for lakes and ridges and mountains predated our own—it's wonderful to finally acknowledge this in some official way that everyone will see as they visit Glacier National Park and other area tourist spots. 

I had the opportunity to drive through Missoula, which was a darling town—obviously a college town, you can always tell even if you never see the college or signs for it, I swear—and another notch in the positive direction for my overall impression of Montana. It's not all bleak hatred and religious hellfire!

Hello, deery!

There was a point in Idaho where I lost track of where I was or who I was or what I was. It was a very, very long drive, brought to an abrupt halt every once in awhile by men and women in the road, with their hard hats and orange vests, fixing some thing or another, with one always brandishing the sign that says either SLOW or STOP. There was a lot STOP. And otherwise almost no traffic to be seen in either direction...for hours. Oh, there would be a truck(yeah) here and there, but otherwise it was just me, my Rogue, my water bottle, and lots of winding roads, through flatlands, hills, and mountains.

By the time I got to the Sawtooth range, a point of interest I had put on my itinerary (hence the long drive), it was already sundown. I thought for sure I wouldn't be able to capture this beautiful scene to my satisfaction, but I'm actually very happy with what I managed to photograph. I've been a photobug since I can remember—my first camera was a 110 film Le Clic that made semi-blurry color photos where everyone looked great (HD has been both a blessing and a pimple, pock, and scar covered curse, hasn't it?). The first phone photography (mine was a flip phone, clamshell thing, which I looovved) produced similar quality to the old 110 Le Clic, but these days camera phones can do things so extraordinary, so out of this world precise and clear, it's almost unbelievable. The fact that the phones we use to commemorate our daily bagel or a guy flossing on the G train can take more sophisticated photos than the Hubble should be humbling, but we slide these devices into our back pockets and unceremoniously sit on them with our bootylicious asses every single day. The wonders of this world.

When I finally arrived at the predetermined rest stop just south of Bellevue, Idaho (Timmerman Junction) I was too tired to think beyond getting to sleep as soon as possible. I was aware, however, that this rest stop was more remote and empty than I liked, with only a couple of big rigs far on the other side of the vast rest area, and one other car next to mine. It was cold and I was beat, so I launched into the back of the Rogue, shut and locked the doors, and settled in for the night.

One last look at the Sawtooth Range.

Evergreen Branch Library, Wichita, KS

Not to be a Weirdo™, but I got a Bad Vibe™ as soon as I got out of my car in the parking lot in front of the Evergreen Branch Library, and I was really never able to shake it during my short visit. I'd gone there with the intention of setting up to do some writing, but could not warm up to the space no matter how hard I tried. With the number of libraries I'd added to my docket (including areas surrounding Wichita), I'll admit I did not try too hard.

While I don't feel particularly guilty about not giving Evergreen a chance, I was bummed about it to some degree since preview pictures of the facility via Google were inspiring. The exterior is very cool, featuring (what I presume to be) Mesoamerican aesthetics beyond anything I've seen up to this point in my library-centric travels. It's a striking yet not all-too-deep observation as you travel through the Southwestern and Western United States, passing through hundreds (thousands) of places whose names are of Native North or Mesoamerican origins but evoke almost zero percent of the heritage. Wichita (named after the Native American tribe, read more about them here) tries, but ultimately fails in the same ways many US cities, townships, and states fail: generalized, hollow flattery, zero funding for education/enrichment, and stubborn clinging to racist traditions.

Before anyone screams BUT WHAT ABOUT _____ and gestures at something Wichita got right, remember that a thousand "rights" can't overcome one very big Wrong. There is one, easy example: School/team mascots. My high school is objectively beautiful. Its architectural style is in the art deco family, and the theme is deliberately Native Americanesque. I love my old high school and will always be proud to have completed my secondary education in such an incredible structure. However, North High School's mascot is the "Redskins." There's even a "war cry" dance that the cheerleaders perform at pep assemblies, where the girls dance in a circle to vaguely Native American music. It's offensive...and it is offensive over something that shouldn't be fought for in the first place: idiotic school mascots. Who cares? If that much of your heart, life, and identity is devoted to keeping racist school mascots intact, you should probably sit down and have a long, hard think about it. Leave behind the fact a truly civilized society shouldn't be fighting for racist crap in the first place...laying down the gauntlet over something as stupid as a mascot is, frankly, embarrassing.

But people do. They do it for North High as much as they do it for the Washington Redskins. Tradition is the flag they plant on this battle's mountaintop, as if that means anything at all. I am sure the majority of surviving Native American tribes have a tradition of not being treated like a subhuman joke, a generalized idea, or an animal to be whipped and ridden. But it's meant to be complimentary, you (war)cry. Because Native American chiefs and warriors are known for their ferocity, and our sportsteam is also fierce and (footstomp footstomp) why can't you just let us have what we want it isn't hurting anybodyyyyyy. Zulu warriors were also fierce. As was Genghis Khan, allegedly. Why don't you call your team the Blackskins? Yellowskins? If that makes you uncomfortable, even a little, then you have to ask yourself why the term "redskin" doesn't.

My point: Any strides Wichita makes to align with modern racial sensibilities (and sensitivity, compassion, and fairness) fall short as long as one of the main high school's mascots remains "Redskins." There's a gnarly old, rotten buffalo head mounted in the front hallway of North High. He's called "Butch" and has been there since God Knows When...maybe as far back as when my grandfather attended North, and certainly when my mother attended North. Why not be the Bucking Bison? Brave Buffaloes? The Warriors? Since we like to shoot, mount, and stuff our prey, etc.? The non-racially exploitative options are endless.

Since Evergreen is in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood, the nod to the cultures of their ancestors is particularly poignant. I am not an art expert, and my first assumption was North Native American rather than Mesoamerican, but closer inspection--and my vague, semi-educated understanding of the differences--leads me to believe that Mesoamerican is correct. The front walk and entryway is the beginning and the end of the aesthetic indulgence, however, as the interior of the library is aggressively plain. (Note: I couldn't find information on the design of the Evergreen branch online, so I gave them a call. They weren't sure, either, and seemed a bit flummoxed to be asked, which made me feel bad...not because "they should know" but because the powers that be--the people who don't ever have to answer the phones--should empower their staff with that information. Considering how striking the exterior is, someone was going to ask eventually.)

The library branch may have opened in 2002, but the building has been there much longer, though a Google search and my porous memory lead me to no more information than I think it might have been a bowling alley once. The library feels very old, and just as used and kicked in as libraries that have been in operation since your ma was burning her bra and your pa was sweating the draft.

Periodical protectors from the Jazz Age.

Again, there was no sane reason for my Bad Vibe™ (anyone with anxiety will tell you to stop looking for reasons, man, because sometimes shit just drops on your head out of the clear blue sky and you just have to deal with it. A favorite tweet from Marc Maron captures it perfectly: "Why, anxiety? I'm just sitting here.") but I was able to appreciate the clean lines of the stacks and the clever flair library staff added to each section of fiction (See: Western). Unfortunately, my need to get out and keep looking for a safer haven to write won the day, so after a quick tour around, snapping pics as I went, I had to flee.

Nonsensical parking lot flair further convinces me this was a bowling alley.
Doesn't this screeeeam "Bowling Alley"?? Swoop swoop.