INTRODUCTION

At the hundredth meridian,
At the hundredth meridian,
Where the great plains begin .....

                                            The Tragically Hip

Two words make the magic begin : "Road Trip!" There is something liberating about getting into a car loaded with music, maps, books, food and drink, and as much clothing as you can pack into daypacks and overnight bags. Have a general plan, fill the tank with gas, make sure you have your documents ready and get up early and just drive, baby.

We decided that we wanted to head west, to Winnipeg and see some good friends we haven't seen in years. Great idea, but not enough. We started looking at a map and  a calendar and began to compile a wish list of places within a thousand kilometers of Winnipeg and drew lines on the highways that connected them together. Before we knew it, we had a trip ready and waiting for us.

There is something also mystical about the Great Plains. Something alien to us in our world of cities, factories, small farms and trees. A vision of a limitless sky and land that goes on into the imagination for as far as you can dream. A place where history and geography merge into one giant story.The Hip wrote a strange song about the "hundredth meridian" and it became a mantra. We had to go and see what it is like.

My little Suzuki Aerio, christened by my brother as the "Millenium Falcon", is going to have one last serious test on the long highway. She's done the trip before, and other ones too, but that was when she was new and seemed to unleash herself on the open road. Now, she's old, with several new parts to her, and many, many dents, chips and strange sounds. Can she do it?

More importantly, can we do it? Road trips are nothing new. We love them. But recent trips have been a bit of a strain on us physically ( nothing over 8 hours in the car ! ) and a strain on our ability to work together. No matter, we now have firmly joined the latter part of the 20th century and bought a GPS, so that, when we do get lost, we can blame an impersonal machine with a ridiculous female voice instead of each other. And we know the route, or at least the opening part of it, and can face a couple of very long days ( perhaps 12 hours each day, in order to get to Winnipeg in 2 days instead of the normal 3) when we know what's coming up and really, really put our minds to it.

So, bring it on !! To the Hundredth Meridian, where the Great Plains begin. To the wild west, the land of tragedy and heartbreak and opportunity and the future. The land of strange and wonderful scenery and new, unknown places. Here we go !!!

The Millenium Falcon in the Badlands of South Dakota

DAY 1 WEDNESDAY, AUG 21 NEWMARKET ON - MARATHON ON

Marathon is well named because we drove a marathon today. Twelve and a half hours and 1058 kms to get here. Despite the length, it was a great drive and it felt good to get in the car and just GO ! We amazed ourselves at our ability to endure, and we arrived here tired, but in relatively good spirits. Knowing that we were going to do a long drive in advance sure helped: nothing beats preparation.

Ontario is immense. The traditional image of rock, forest and lakes holds true for much of it, but there are also many farms and small well ordered towns. It is not all wilderness: civilization has been here for centuries.

The stretch south of Wawa, along the Lake Superior shore never ceases to amaze us. This is probably our fourth trip on this route and we always stop frequently to look and consider the power and majesty of this vast inland ocean. The shore is incredibly beautiful and the size must have been uminagineable to the first Europeans who gazed out on it. And, for the First Nations, there is a sacred connection to the behemoth.

A delicious pickerel dinner, a couple of cold beers and a good night's sleep were our rewards for a long, good day. Tomorrow, more of the same as we attempt another 12 hour, thousand kilometer drive to Winnipeg.

Happy Birthday, Olivia !!

Lake Superior

Northern Ontario

Lake, trees, rock .... are we in Ontario?

DAY 2 THURSDAY AUG. 22 MARATHON ON - WINNIPEG MB

The day dawned a little less early and we were on our way. One of the things we constantly remind ourselved of is the fact that Northern Ontario isn't all rock, forest, lakes and muskeg ... althought there certainly plenty of those things in great supply. There are also green and productive farms, especially around Dryden, and many small, busy and tidy towns: Terrace Bay, on the shores of Lake Superior is my favourite. We arrived in Kenora for a pizza supper and then began the two hour sprint to Winnipeg. I always look forward to the part in Manitoba, about an hour or so into the province, where the forest gives way and the open and truly flat prairie begins: that is when you know you have crossed a boundary into another world.

We enjoyed arriving in Thunder Bay in brilliant sunshine and gazed out to the "Sleeping Giant" in the massive lake. We also stopped, as we always do, at the Terry Fox memorial and contemplated the huge achievement of this uniquely Canadian hero. Even though we've been here before, and Terry's "Marathon of Hope" was 30 years ago, his story is still so impressive and so moving. We always get a little teary eyed when we read the inscription on the memorial.

And so ends another 12 hour and 1000 km day. We arrived at the home of our good friends Joy and Don. They are wonderful people and welcomed us with open arms, good food, cold beer, a comfortable bed and the promise of 3 days in one of our favourite cities, and one of the most under-rated places, in Canada: Winnipeg. We felt energized to be here !!

Thunder Bay's "Sleeping Giant"

Terry Fox Memorial, Thunder Bay

Prairie !!

Manitoba sundown

DAYS 3, 4, 5 FRIDAY AUG. 23 , SATURDAY AUG. 24, SUNDAY AUG. 25, WINNIPEG MB

Is Winnipeg the most "Canadian" city in Canada? This is my fourth visit to the 'Peg, and for Lou it must be something like her 7th visit. We love this city, mainly because we have such good friends who act as our hosts when we visit. Joy and Don are immensely proud of their home town and justifiably so. But the question still stands: maybe the question should be "is there such a thing as a completely 'Canadian' city, or is this just a myth?" Hmmm.....

The thing we like about Winnipeg is that it is a sizeable city with a small town feel. Joy and Don drove us around the city and, while there was much to see, we weren't overwhelmed by size or traffic. It is compact, yet there are several distinct neighbourhoods here. Where Joy and Don live is particularly attractive: it is near one of the rivers, not far from downtown, with the most amazing canopy of mature elm ( that's right, Ontario, I said "elm" ) trees over wonderful older houses that have been maintained with loving care. Character ? Yes, in abundance.

We had a chance to take in a short but informative tour of the soon-to-be opened National Museum of Human Rights. This is an architectural gem, with sweeping curved surfaces that are slightly reminiscent of the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain. A huge tower focussed attention, but the eye is drawn to the glass-covered sweep of wing-like curves on the main facade. The significance of the museum is not just in its intended mission as a chronicle of the international struggle for human rights, but also because it is the first national museum outside of Ottawa. There it is again, this drive to be a focus of Canadian identity. Can't escape it, because it is real and palpable.

Winnipeg is, in my humble view, one of the best sports towns in Canada. The Jets are back and the city is absolutely in love with its hockey team. Fair enough, hockey is as Canadian as it gets. But the city is also one of Canada's best football towns too. We drove out to see the new stadium for the Bombers and the University of Manitoba Bisons, Investors Group Field. This is, without a doubt, the gold standard of stadiums for CFL and CIS teams in Canada. It is a complete bowl, with protection over most of the stands, and all the amenities of a modern sports venue. Toronto should try to copy this place. And, if that wasn't enough, the Goldeyes are one of the most successful minor league baseball operations in the country, with a gorgeous small stadium in the centre of the downtown area. How many other cities in Canada can boast modern, first-class facilities like these?

We enjoyed several great dining experiences. The first was a tapas style restaurant which symbolized Winnipeg's multicultural culinary background. The second was in a converted warehouse in a, shall we say, slightly run down neighbourhood on the other side of the river that is trying to reinvent itself. The brunch was aboriginal in nature, but was absolutely delicious, and we applauded the entrepreneurs who are trying to upgrade a formerly "sketchy" area. Don also took me to tour a local craft brewery, the "Half Pints" brewery: must say, the tour began in a promising way when we were presented with a small glass with which to sample the many styles of beer on offer. Man, they were good. Winnipeg may be small in stature compared to other cities, but the taste on offer is big league in every way. We also went to an old familiar, but no less attractive area, the Forks, where eateries and bars and activites abound. And, like back home, a backyard barbeque is perhaps the best culinary treat: Don and Joy treated us to a feast of local food and it was delicious. 

We had a chance to look up some new friends of ours: Bill and Sandy Johnston, whom we met on our South American tour 10 months ago. What a great thing to meet nice people in a completely foreign part of the world, and then be able to see them in their home later. We enjoyed a pleasant afternoon at their pool, eating and drinking and recalling our trip. Fantastic.

So, if good food, great people, fantastic sights, diversity and culture up the wazoo are the signs of a great Canadian city, then, I humbly nominate Winnipeg as the definitive example of such a place. Don't forget that the French influence is alive and well in St. Boniface, and the Aboriginal experience is ever present. So, is there such a thing as the "typical" Canadian city? Yes, and it's here in Winnipeg.  

The Exchange District ... great architecture from the last century.

View of Winnipeg skyline

Artist's rendering of the National Museum of Human Rights

Investors Group Field ... home of the Bombers and Bisons

Joy and Don

Joy and Daisy

DAY 6 MONDAY, AUG. 26 WINNIPEG MB - BISMARCK ND

We bid a sad and heartfelt farewell to Joy, Don and Daisy and turned our car south into the United States. Winnipeg faded into our rearview mirror on a hot and muggy day and the land became quickly unfamiliar to us. It spread out in a billiard table flatness with large and productive farms going off into infinity. Grain elevators looked like the skylines of some miraculous city, and the what, sunflowers and corn were like ocean waves. The heat built up into a crescendo ... and our the Millenium Falcon's A/C gave up the ghost. The drive became a hot chore as we coursed south through the flatlands to Fargo, North Dakota, then west to Bismarck. Around Valley City, the land changed and became more rolling and hilly. Ponds, lakes and rivers, some dried to no more than a trickle, appeared. The farms grew larger and livestock began to appear in great numbers: the interstate was arrow-straight. Seven hours on the road seemed like seven weeks and the heat soared and bore down on our sols. We arrived at the state capital, Bismarck, tired and drained. We'll need to see about our A/C tomorrow because it's forecast to be 97 degrees F .... but it's a dry heat !!

North Dakota sunflowers ... millions of them !

DAY 7 TUESDAY, AUG. 27 BISMARCK ND - MILES CITY, MT

We have figured out how to make our A/C work under the brutal conditions. Thank God for that. A friendly technician at a rad shop in Bismarck said that if we kept our A/C only about 10 degrees below the outside temperature, it should work fine and feel cool in the car. We were just about ready to abort the trip, given the forecast high temperatures for the next week in the Great Plains.

Heading west saw the heat build up and the land roll on in incredible vistas. We found the badlands at Theodore Roosevelt National Park and drove a loop in some of the most incredible scenery we have seen since Bryce Canyon Utah five years ago. Roosevelt had a special connection with North Dakota because he bought land here and retreated here early in his career when his wife and mother died within hours of each other: he found peace and solace in this strangely calm and wise land.

We saw a prairie dog city and loved the antics of these little critters. We followed a small herd of wild horses and watched as they dictated the flow of traffic on the road. There's something wonderful about watching wild horses as they keep their small group together under the direction of a couple of the older mares, and the continuous watchful and protective eye of the stallion. Then, off to the open rangeland of Montana. This is truly wonderful country. History is everywhere and I imagined First Nations and settlers roaming the land with pronghorn antelope and bison as their fellow travellers. It was constant and amazing. Finally, the heat did us in and we hunkered down in a real frontier town in Miles City. People actually wear cowboy hats, boots and jeans here because, well, they are REAL cowboys. We saw a couple of young women in a Walmart ( shame on us for shopping there, but we're on a budget ) who were picking up a few things after work. They were dusty and one wore spurs on her boots. Never seen that before. We ate steak and drank beer in a saloon dating from 1908, with original wood and leather upholstery and more bison and longhorn heads on the walls than you could shake a six-shooter at. Yep, this is cowboy country ... awesome !!

Theodore Roosevelt National Park

Badlands

Lou and the prairie dog town

Best "keep off the grass" sign EVER !

Wild horses on the road

Badlands

DAY 8 WEDNESDAY AUG. 28 MILES CITY MT - GILETTE WY

History is a wonderful teacher, but only if we prove to be good, attentive and dutiful students.

Today we struck out westward from Miles City, then south and east towards the Little Bighorn Battlefield lite. Rangeland continued, but now in higher elevations, drier and hotter. Huge mountains loomed to the south and east and we wondered how Lewis and Clarke must have felt having traversed so much open and endless land only to see what looked like impenetrable barriers to the west. People need boundaries in order to define existence and the mountains can be friendly: but not always so. We later learned that these were the Bighorn Mountains, a short but impressive range just east of the Rockies.

We followed the valley of the Little Bighorn River, green now with irrigated fields of sunflowers and corn. These fields were hemmed in by ridges that loomed menacingly all around us. It was here that Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer and his men of the 7th Cavalry met their destiny. It was here that history coldly and impassively played out its drama.

When we arrived at the battlefield site, my heart beat faster. I had read about and studied the battle and this place since I was very young, my imagination in those days heady with tales of glory and sacrifice. I dreamed about this place and what it must've been like to fight along side Custer and his brave men. Maturity has, of course, replaced those dreams of glory and I was unsure how I would feel as I approached the site, the main part of which is clustered around Last Stand Hill. We drove into the parking lot and I saw the obelisk at the top of the hill and my throat caught and my emotions overflowed. I became profoundly sad, but at what, I did not yet know. I suppose that I felt that I had been here before, although that was preposterous: I had never been to this part of the world until now. But I just stood, silent, for a few seconds and felt strange.

We walked to the visitors' centre and listened to an excellent presentation by a Parks Ranger on the details of the battle. Suffice to say that Custer made several blunders leading up to the fight, but I will not discuss them here. We then walked up the hill, which seemed small when close up. It only took a couple of minutes to make the walk. Nothing can prepare the visitor for the sight of the closely packed white markers that showed where a trooper met his end. The whole Last Stand Hill area is so small, and I couldn't help but feel that Custer's men must have been falling over top of each other and their horses, shot dead by their own masters to provide cover in the firefight. But as you allow your eyes to take in the whole scene, there are white markers spread out over a fairly wide area, leading up to Last Stand Hill, and then, in what must have been the most terrifying aspect of the fight, stretching down the slope towards the river, where the remnants of Custer's men, out of ammunition and without their horses, ran for their lives for the cover of the trees, and where they were run down and killed to the last man. Such a colossal waste of lives, and such quick and gut-wrenching terror. More than 200 men, white and First Nations, were dead.

The strongest impression that the battlefield made on me is how lonely it must have been. The rolling grasslands are pretty much unchanged from the 1870's, and they are stark and unforgiving, like history itself. On that hot and desolate day, men fought for their lives and, though the battle was short ( the Sioux survivors of the battle said later that it took as much time as a hungry man needs to eat a meal ), it must have been completely terrifying for the combatants on both sides.

The remarkable thing about today's experience is that there is a real spirit of reconcilliation alive on a field of conflict. Previously, the battlefield was a monument to Custer and his men's sacrifice to the American ideal of "Manifest Destiny". Now the First Nations observe the site as their own "last stand" and a place of sacred honour. Markers show where First Nations warriors fell, alongside the troopers of the 7th. It is a poignant and moving testament to the fallible nature of humanity and the savage destruction of war. The native markers have the phrase "died defending the Cheyenne ( or Lakota ) way of life."  As the Ranger said in her talk, there are no longer any good guys or bad guys ... just the terrible and violent clash of the forces of history.

Nearby is the Reno-Benteen Battlefield sight, a little-known and almost forgotten action that was fought at the same time as Custer's fight. It is only about 5 kms away from Last Stand Hill, but was the site of savage fighting between the First Nations warriors who later swung around to take on Custer, and two elements of the 7th, the first commanded by Major Reno, who almost lost his entire command, and Captain Benteen, who arrived in the nick of time to re-enforce Reno and set up a desperate defence on a bluff overlooking the Little Bighorn River. For two days and nights Reno and Benteen held off First Nations attacks. The warriors eventually left the field when more re-enforcements arrived. It was widely held that these actions were a huge victory for the First Nations, and, at the time, they were. But it also signalled the beginning of the end as more cavalry and settlers came into the area and spilled onto the rangelands and into the nearby sacred Black Hills, which the Lakota claim as theirs to this day.

I shall never forget this place.

We moved south and east, into the arid semi desert of Wyoming, with the colossal Bighorn Mountains as our guides for much of this stretch. Eventually, the towns and ranches disappeared, and the road was the only ribbon of "civilization" for a hundred miles. Our car ran hot, the A/C was shut down and fuel ran short. For the first time, I became genuinely concerned for our well being. I thought the forces of history may have caught up to us, but the benevolent spirits of Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Custer, Reno and Benteen undoubtedly decided that our journey would continue in peace and safety. We limped into Gilette with no A/C and on fumes from an almost-empty gas tank. We thank the Great Spirit for our safe arrival here, and I'm eternally grateful that I got to come here and share this experience with Lou.

Last Stand Hill from the visitors' centre

At Last Stand Hill

Cavalry markers ... Custer's is highlighted in black

Mass grave of 7th cavalry troopers

Horse cemetery

First Nations' warriors' markers

7th Cavalry troopers' markers

Lou placing a stone atop a Lakota warrior's marker

Reno-Benteen battlefield site ... Little Bighorn River in background

Bighorn Mountains in the distance

DAY 9 THURSDAY AUG. 29 GILETTE WY - RAPID CITY SD

More heat and brilliant sunshine greeted us as we rose, got in the Millenium Falcon, and headed south and east. The rangeland of Wyoming continued in an almost unlimited procession. Surely we must be sailing on an ocean of rolling grassland. The colours changed and ew noticed more red creeping into the soil and rock. We arrived at Devil's Tower in the late morning. The heat rose quickly, but the shade of the Ponderosa Pine gave us welcome respite as we walked a short trail around the base of the Tower.

The Tower itself gained a place in our consciousness through the movie "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." Steven Spielburg made us of the Tower's sacred nature as the jumping off point for his story of extra-terrestrial contact and we could see why. It is unusual, commanding, powerful and fragile all at once. The First Nations revere it as the "Bears's Tipi" because of a wonderful and fanciful legend of Native youths playing in the wild suddenly being pursued by an angry bear. The children fled and prayed to the Great Spirit, who caused the ground where the children were standing to suddenly rise to the sky. The angry bear tried to climb the rising ground to no avail: but his claw marks are still visible today as the columns surrounding the huge rock. Walking around the base, looking up frequently at the silently imposing columns, gazing into verdant valleys below gave us a sense of this great place, and made us believe in the legend. It is, despite the many tourists like us, a great place.

I was pleased to see four First Nations young men walk around the Tower, but, as they ran and climbed rock and took goofy photos of each other on their iphones and ipads, I wondered if they felt the spiritual connection that this place is supposed to supply with their ancestors. Maybe yes, maybe no. But, then again, I wonder if British teens and young people feel any kind of connection when they walk around Stonehenge or Westminster Abbey. In this case, these young guys were probably having a good time as summer ends, and they face another possible school year. Maybe I should lighten up ??

We drove on through the well-named Black Hills, through rolling rock and stands of more of the wonderful Ponderosa Pine. These lands, now in South Dakota, are sacred to the Sioux, or more properly, the Lakota people, who dwell on the plains and who must have looked upon the Hills as their cathedrals. The betrayal of the Treaty of Fort Laramie, discussed in the previous entry, must have been the most profane act against their beliefs.

And the profanity increased as we approached Mount Rushmore. I realize that this site is famous the world over, but the road leading up to the site left a very, very sour taste in my mouth. Yes, the colossi are impressive, but the area leading up to it is not. It is as tacky and obscene as Clifton Hill at Niagara Falls. I was angry at the unfettered commercialism of the road up. Then, at the site, an $11.00 parking fee, several monumental arches, state flags and the sculptures themselves: I was done in five minutes. No effort whatsoever to commemorate the sacred nature of the site for the Lakota. For Americans, this place is as necessary as a pilgrimmage to Mecca: people there seemed aglow with patriotism as they stared into the mammoth nostrils of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln. For me, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Red rock of Wyoming

Wyoming ranglend

Devil's Tower and bison

The Bear's Tipi

Ponderosa Pine and rangeland

Obligatory photo of Mt. Rushmore ... now let's get out of here!

DAY 10 FRIDAY, AUG. 30 RAPID CITY SD - WALL SD

The Millenium Falcon was in need of an oil change and we took care of that at a Rapid Lube in Rapid City. The courteous staff had us on our way in less than an hour.

The heat built quickly and this proved to be our hottest day yet. Familiar range land then slowly gave way to the rounded shapes of hoodoos and, before we knew it, we were swallowed up by the badlands. Unlike the scene in North Dakota, these in Badlands National Park were huge and seemd to reach up in giant pinnacles as though trying to catch the sun. It was unbelievable, a veritable lunar landscape of grey-brown towers anb battlements, highlighted with subtle pinks, greens and gold striations. We were reminded of an older, more wizened Bryce Canyon in Utah, and, again, we marvelled at the tenacity of First Nations and early settlers who fought grimly to survive here.

At one point, we came upon a slight path leading down from the tops of the hoodoos to the wide valley below. A plaque told us that it was here, in the terrible winter of 1890, that Chief Bigfoot led what was left of his people through to what they hoped would be shelter and food at a small settlement called Wounded Knee. The journey was arduous enough in the best of times, but in the teeth of a severe winter, and with starving and ill people as part of your group, the trip must have been hell. But to stay where they were would mean certain death, so they tried. The rest will be discussed tomorrow.

The afternoon grew oppressive and we headed north to Wall. The skies grew grey and clouds rounded in threatening warning, but the storms passed us by. The television in our hotel, though, constantly blared storm warnings and we waited for the anger of this giant land to hit: it never did, at least not here, but Rapid City was hit, and tomorrow's stop at Wounded Knee, which should have been a stop today, was also hit. The oil change may have spared us! One thing is for sure: when a storm approaches in this part of the world, people pay attention !

Wall is a bizarre little town that features the block-long Wall Drug store. It is a monument to kitsch, founded as a real drug store in the 1930's that drew visitors with the promise of free ice water and 5 cent coffee, which it still does. It is now a carnival frontier town that sells, literally, anything as a souvenirto tourists from all over the US and beyond. Spiritual ? Other worldly ? Magical ? Not in Wall. Hucksterism abounds, but it's all good natured, self-effacing and unabashedly hokey. Some good fun after our trip to a ghostly lunar inferno.

Approaching the Badlands

Some colour in the desolation

Starkly beautiful

Badlands Johnny

Badlands Lou

Chief Bigfoot's last trail to Wounded Knee

A highway to .... ?

Wall Drug

Fake frontier town

A new friend for Badlands Johnny !!

DAY 11 SATURDAY, AUG. 31 WALL SD - CHAMBERLAIN SD

We knew that this day would be somewhat sombre, but the start could have completely done us in. We awoke to a flat tire. It was a bad luck/good luck scenario. Bad luck that it happened: good luck that it didn't happen in the murderous heat of the Badlands yesterday or on the lonely roads we took today. I changed the flat for the temporary spare and spent a couple of semi-frantic hours searching for a place that repairs tires. Potential bad luck here: Wall is a small town and it is the Saturday of the long weekend. One tire repair place was closed for the weekend, a second garage was open but didn't repair tires, so the third, the Auto Livery, was my last shot. The service bay was not open, but a really nice kid named Ryan said he'd look at it. We didn't find any puncture, and there was no leak. Ryan filled the tire, put it back on the car and we hoped for the best. Ryan said I didn't owe him anything, but I gave him twenty bucks for his trouble. The tire proved to be fine, just the intense heat causing it to lose pressure.

The search for Wounded Knee turned ou to be harder than we thought. Back through the Badlands we went, not stopping but still marvelling at the other-worldly land. Then, we completely confounded our GPS by going on Lakota land. We drove through desolate rangelands skirting the Nebraska border. So dry, so brown, with a few green valleys surrounding almost-dry muddy streams. The Lakota lands featured a lot of "typical" First Nations scenarios: poor houses or trailers with many cars and trucks, some rusted hulks, and small towns and villages ( Pine Ridge, Batesland, Martin ) that had cafes, gas stations, sweat lodges, youth centres and a couple of jails, but not much seemingly going on. There were some ranches with some cattle, some small Indian corn and lots of grass. Prosperity? No, not here.

We finally arrived at Wounded Knee. We actually almost drove past it. There was a hand-painted metal sign dating from the 1950's to explain the significance of the site. A huge plate with the word "Massacre" was placed over the original word: "Battle". We read the sign and thought that that would be our sum total experience of this place that we had both been so anxious to see. Then, we met a remarkable young woman named Casey Beareagle, who came up to us to say hello. We must admit that we were a little leery at first. Casey was one of a handful of Lakota people who sat at makeshift souvenir stands that sat in almost miserable silence on the site, waiting for the hordes of visitors that hardly ever come. Casey put us at ease very quickly. She spoke quietly but with a great sense of dignity of the events of December 29, 1890. Casey pointed out the site of the encampment to us, and we realized that, to our great astonishment, it was right in front of us, among the souvenir stalls. Then, she pointed out the simple church and gateway to a small cemetery on a hill overlooking the site. The victims of the massacre were buried in a mass grave on the hill, she said, and we should be sure to go up and look.

Casey claimed that several of her ancestors were among the victims. She spoke without any rancour or any sense of anger at what happened in this so-called "last action" of the Sioux wars. She said proudly that she was Lakota, but she also spoke honestly about the situations that the descendents of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull had to face on the Pine Ridge Indian Reserve today. Casey claimed that there was 85% unemployment here, and that, although some families have made a go of it ranching ( mostly bison ), most people are not ranchers and scratch out meagre livings in the towns and villages of the reserve. Lou asked Casey about the sign, and, indeed it was an old and rusty sign. Casey hoped that, one day, a second sign would tell the story in the Lakota language. We looked over her crafts and bought a lovely dream catcher she had made, with a tipi motif in the centre. Casey explained that she had created it that way because she felt that the strength of the Lakota women needed to be expressed: it was the women who created the camp and made all the arrangements for the domestic survival of the group, while the men hunted and defended the families from attack. We were so impressed with Casey and wished her and her family luck: it looked like luck was in short supply at this place. There is no sign that the federal government would be arriving any time soon with assistance in creating a fitting memorial, or even a National Park for this place. But, then again, the Sioux probably don't really want the federal government coming around.  Any time the government arrived here, it was a disaster for the people

But what really came out of Casey's story is that there was no "battle" here at all. The Sioux encampment held the remnants of Chief Bigfoot's band, some 300 or so people, mostly elderly, or women and their children. Some warriors were present, but not many: most had been killed off or arrested. The band was starving in that horribly cold winter, and had crossed the badlands into this valley in a desperate search for food. The cavalry tracked their movements and found them here at Wounded Knee. The cavalry was, interestingly, the 7th Cavalry, with elements of the 9th Cavalry in support: the 9th were immortalized by Bob Marley with the song "Buffalo Soldiers." The cavalry's mission was to disarm the Sioux and force them to return to the reserve. It is unclear what happened, but, during the disarming, a shot was fired. The cavalry came equipped with Hodgkiss guns, forerunners of machine guns, all of which, we learned later, were stationed on the hill where today's cemetery is placed. They opened fire, then pursued the survivors as they tried to flee into a stream bed nearby. All the Sioux were killed, their bodies frozen into grotesque statues of death by the freezing temperatures. "Battle"? Not bloody likely. It was a slaughter, committed by the descendents of Custer's 7th and Bob Marley's Buffalo Soldiers. Payback ? I'll leave that up to you.

At the cemetery, we met two young Lakota men: Daniel Rowlands and his uncle, who only identified himself as "Tatonka" or Buffalo. Tatonka was not very anxious to have a conversation or have his picture taken: Daniel was the more gregarious of the two and made friends with us easily. He pointed out some of the names on the simple grave marker and identified one of the men as the one who fired the initial shot that started the massacre. Daniel said simply that the man was deaf and had no idea what the soldiers were doing. When one of them tried to grab his gun, the deaf man squeezed the trigger, accidentally firing a round into the air, causing all hell to break lose. Daniel also pointed out that several cavalry men were killed or wounded by the inaccurate fire of the Hodgkiss guns. Those men were given medals of honour, while the Sioux were dumped into a hastily dug grave on the hill. 

As we listened to Daniel's story, we looked out on the scene before us. Quiet and calm today: only the sound of the wind rustling in the prairie grass, only the loud words of Daniel, a youth of great enthusiasm and questionable sobriety. Tatonka joined us later with a magpie he had caught and Daniel insisted we take his picture with the bird. I hoped that they didn't intend to kill it. The lads asked us if we had any extra water, which, of course, we did and we had no hesitation in giving them a couple of bottles in this heat. Then, Daniel asked us to make a "contribution" to his boxing club. To be fair, his left hand appeared to be broken with the typical "boxer's knuckle" and he looked like he was in good shape. I pictured the two of them a hundred years ago, proud young Lakota, ready to defend their way of life. Now, they wear backwards baseball caps and baggy jeans and have tatoos, and could easily fit in with young men pretty much anywhere. Except they have ancient stories to tell about their ancestors. How many young men with baggy jeans remember their ancestral stories in our world ? 

We left the site and drove on in silence. Then, Lou made the best observation: Custer got a monument and a National Park: Chief Bigfoot's people got a couple of young Lakota boys and a wonderful young woman who tell the story learned from their grandparents and who tell it without bitterness, simply, with dignity and quiet honesty. We were moved by all of this.

We turned east, homeward. The rangeland went on forever, seemingly with no care for puny humans or their ways. The land has known stories of life and death longer than we have been here and is unimpressed. We finally arrived at the small town of Chamberlain, South Dakota on the banks of the mighty Missouri River. We have now left the true west and entered the transition into the midwest. There is a real and palpable difference between the two areas. Tomorrow, if the Great Spirit is willing, we will drive further east, into Wisconsin and the Great Lakes watershed we know so well. But we will never forget the great grandsons and granddaughters of those who died so horribly at Wounded Knee. 

Lou and Casey


 

Commemorative sign with the new word "Massacre"




Wounded Knee: encampment site


 

Monument to the fallen




Daniel with his locust




Daniel and the magpie




Mass grave of victims and prayer flags