Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing: Montana

I'm tired of the Interstate. I think I'll drive by the river for a while.

I get off at Lodge Grass and head south on a little two lane road. Railroad tracks on my right. Little Big Horn River on my left. Sun's about set.

It's poor here on the Crow Rez but not bad at all. Poor is relative. If you have land along the river, some horses, a nice little house, a good truck and friends and family to love, how poor are you?

Speaking of Horses, the Crows love their horses. Many of the Northern Plains Indians loved their steeds but nothing like the Crows. They also love their dogs. A matriarchal society, the Crows have a long history of male and female chiefs. Word has it that they even had a trans-gender chief back in the day. Two-Spirit, The Crows called people like that, having male and female spirits inside of them at the same time.

The Crows were the enemies of many other tribes, the Lakota, and the Northern Cheyenne being a couple. Don't know why but they were picked on a lot by the other Indians. When the U. S. Calvary arrived, many men joined as scouts. Do you blame them? [Possible conversation: Army Man: 'Can you tell us where the Cheyenne are?' Crow Man: 'Why do you want to know?' Army Man: 'Because we want to kill them.' Crow Man: 'They are right over there. Wait a second and I'll go with you.']

One of the most accurate accounts of what happened at the Battle of Little Bighorn came from a Crow scout named White Man Runs Him [or his other name was White Buffalo That Turns Around. Something tells me the first name was given to him by a Lakota or a Cheyenne.] When Custer ignored his advice, to not attack the throng of Indians by the river, White Buffalo took off his army uniform and put on his tribe gear. When confronted by Custer, he said he wanted to die as an Indian not as a soldier. Custer got pissed and relieved him of duty, and for most of the attack, White Buffalo and three other Crow scouts saw it all from a ridge nearby.

The Sun has now set. I'm heading south. The sky is lavender. Hope to be in Colorado by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe I'll drop by the Denver Museum of Art and check out their Native American Art collection. I remember from 18 years ago, that it was an amazing collection, that was both historically extensive as well as being modernly progressive. Hope they still have it. You never know. Things change.

I turn left and get on Route 457 heading east. That'll take me back to I-90. Then I see him and his buddies. I pull over immediately onto the grassy shoulder.

I've never seen a horse like that in all of my life [Later I found out that he was a Leopard Appaloosa] Black spots on White. Amazing.

I take his picture and then his buddies come over with the What's-You-Doing look. I grab some fresh grass from my side of the fence and feed a couple of his friends. The Appaloosa never does come over to the fence. He keeps his distance, which is OK. But his corral-mates took the grass from my hand and they have themselves a little snack. I rubbed their noses too.

I talk to them. They say nothing. They just eat the grass and then look to me to give them some more. I smile and oblige them.

   I'm not having a good time. Actually, I'm kind of pissed off. I'm beginning to wonder if driving hundreds of miles to visit here was such a good idea. But my gut said go, so I went.
   The day began great, with prayer bundles at Bear's Lodge and the drive on Interstate 90 across Wyoming was quite a delight. I love Wyoming now. Didn't know I'd be a Prairie Person but I am. The yellow grasses, the numerous streams and rivers, the antelope here and there and everywhere. And the women I've seen are quite fetching too. Not classically beautiful but a number I've seen have long hair, often blond with bangs, strong noses, and tight jeans with ranch stains on them. Men ain't bad either, rugged, clear eyed men, among the usual pasty suburbanites that you find everywhere in America. And the biggest surprise was I could get NPR all over the state, even in bum-fuck-nowhere, which is 90% of Wyoming. A generally polite people is what I found. (I had a nice exchange with a couple of Mormon missionaries at a McDonalds's in Gillette. Memorable quote: 'So are you a convert and lifelong?" asked the young man confusing me for a LDS. "Neither," I said, " I'm Episcopalian.")
   But there was some sadness as I drove. Antelope were ubiquitous, like pigeons in a park, but there was a noticeable absence of Buffalo. They were the kings of the Prairie, 150 years ago and now they are only ghosts, memories, and the occasional few like at Bear Butte, as remembrances of a time that will never return. Heavy sigh.
   The Big Horn Mountains rose to the west of Sheridan, as I drove on. Part of the Rockies. The Rockies are always good to see. Into the Crow Rez and before you know it, I was driving along the banks of the Little Bighorn River. I knew from my Montana road map that I could probably see part of the Battlefield from I-90 and as I looked up I could see the low prairie ridge, the flats along the river, Pine trees (?), a graveyard, and some government buildings, but it was the river bank that struck me and first pissed me off.
   "You were a fucking idiot, George," I said out loud as I drive the last few miles before I exited the Interstate. "How could you have fucking missed the smoke coming from hundreds and hundreds of Indian campfires? (They say there were close to a thousand lodges there, that day) Were you that god damn arrogant? You fucking idiot. You deserved to get you ass kicked!"
   I exited the Interstate but my anger didn't subside once I enter Little Bighorn National Battlefield. I did see a Prairie Dog town when I entered the park and that cheered me up for a minute but it didn't last. I was surprised that I wasn't sad, just more and more irritate. Pissed off that there is a National Cemetery at Little Bighorn, with only white military dead buried there, many who were not even at the Battle. A white obelisk on a hill marked the places where many of the 7^th Calvary died. (But not really. Farther down to the north was the area when most of the whites died.) Most of the focus at the Park was on Custer, but in recent years, an Indian Memorial had been built, but the sculpture was quite ugly I think and even though the U.S. government had tried to honor all the tribes who fought and died, it felt forced and phony to me. But they tried and I read that the tribes appreciated the attempt. But still. This should be Lakota/Cheyenne holy ground, of a great victory against tyranny, not some sad memorial to an arrogant asshole.
   Now, I'm walking back to my truck after seeing Last Stand Hill, the Indian Memorial, and a few white headstones near the path. There were a couple of red granite headsstones, marking where two Lakotas had died but it wasn't nearly enough. Jesus Fucking Christ! This was the high watermark for the American Indian, their Frederickburg, their great battle victory, days before the American Centennial in 1876, where the tribes kicked ass and took names (and then it all slowly went to shit culminating at the Massacre at Wounded Knee in 1890.) I'm not naïve thinking that the victors don't write the history books but again, this should be a monument to a victory more than a memorial of a defeat. Fuck. I stop and pause. My gut says go to the end of the road. There is something there for you, it says. I sure as fuck hope so. I've taken one photograph and that may be all I take here. I could give a shit. I get in my truck and back out of the Visitors' Center parking lot, trying not to run over the slow obese white people that are in my path.
   According to my Park map, at the end of this road is the place where Reno and Benteen held their ground under siege. (After Custer and his troup had been killed, the tribes tried to kill the rest of the 7^th Calvary under Major Reno and Captain Benteen. Reno had begun his attack up the river but was quickly routed and sent scrambling up to a ridgeline. Lucky for him, Benteen and his men arrived at what is now called Reno Hill just as the scrambling troopers of Benteen got there and that is what saved him and his men from the same fate as Custer. Benteen and Reno were under siege for the rest of the day and all of the next. The fighting was fierce on those two days. The Lakota and Cheyenne left on the third day. some Whites say it was because they heard that more Calvary were coming. Some Indians say that we just left because we were done. We couldn't kill all of them but that was OK. So we left. I choose to believe the latter.) I pass more white headstones where Calvary men had died as I drive south and it just pisses me off more. I want to stop and walk in the prairie grass but that is forbidden by the Park Service. We are in the center of the Crow Indian Reservation but all is see is white people, white crosses, white things.
   The presentation I heard at the Visitors' Center echoes in my head: that Reno was lucky that he didn't get massacred too. That archeological evidence proves that what the Indians have been saying for a 130 years is true, that what Custer did was foolish and not valorous, that he rode right into the heart of the gathering of tribes and unlike other times, when he out-powered and out-manned a village and killed all who were there, this time he was outnumbered by at least four to one, maybe nine to one, and simply had the Karmic Wheel roll very hardly on top of him. What goes around, comes around and it came down with a vengeance on Custer and his crew, on June 25^th, 1876. That throughout the two days of fighting, 258 U.S. Soldiers were killed and that Indian dead may have been as few as 30 or as many as a couple hundred. We all kind know the gist of the story, but the one thing that I learned is that Benteen and Reno's troops came this close to being whipped out too. This close.

As I get farther away from Custer Hill, the less traffic I see. Fewer cars, fewer people. I talk with an Australian man and ask if he has seen any red headstones, those for the Native dead. He said yes, at the end of the road. My mood brightens a bit.
   The road ends many miles from the Visitors' Center. I'm all alone. I'm at Reno Hill. I'm feeling much calmer now. It's around five in the afternoon. I park the Pathfinder, and grab my Pentax 35 mm with the SFX film and my Canon 30D with its four gig card. Maybe I'll take a few more shots. I'm a long way from any rangers or white folk or anything but grass.
   I walk to the south and as I get to the grass's edge, I see four or five red headstones fifty or so feet away. The grass leading to them is matted down. Seems a lot of people have walked to them. I stop and say a quiet 'O My God'.
   I take off the lens cap of my Canon and I walk to the nearest stone. When I get there I bent down and place my left hand on top of the stone. The granite is polished smooth, with a rounded, not flat top. I see the name Swift Bear. I think of all the bears I've seen and experienced in the last few days. Bear Butte. Bear's Lodge. Now, Swift Bear.
   And then I'm hit by The Loss.
   It's as if the land has come up through me, from my feet, up my legs, into my heart, into my lungs, into my eyes, into my brain, and I feel and see and breathe in the enormity of The Loss.

The Loss of the Buffalo.

The Loss of the Land.

The Loss of the Way of Life.

The Loss of the Indian.

Every tribe that is gone, every child dead from smallpox, every woman without a husband, every warrior killed trying to keep his family alive. All of it.

And I drop to the ground, hunker down with my left hand on the grass to steady myself.

And I cry. I wail. I make a lot of sound. I'm surprised by all the sound. I don't stop it.

I do this for a while.

   Half-hour later, I'm heading back to the Park entrance. I stop along the way, for no reason, except to postpone my leaving. I'm having a good time now. I see another red headstone, this time for Long Road. A staff with prayer bundles tied around its length rests at the base of the stone. I take its picture. I place a hand on the stone and thank him for the sacrifice he made.
   I see another stone. I don't remember the name. I find the red prayer bundle in my pocket, the one I made at BR-549 Studio before I came on this trip. I hesitate. I'm not an Indian. I'm a White Guy. Is it right that I do this here, give a bundle here? I don't know.
   Then I feel a presence off my left shoulder. And then I hear a voice.
   "Thank You."
   I tied the bundle to a shaft of grass. I leave the lens cap on. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and smile at the setting sun.