Wounded Knee: A ride to remember

KYLE — The land is immense. Stand on a hill or a butte and look in every direction.

To the west, the landscape rolls, dips and bends for 60, 70, 80 miles. The Black Hills rise in the distance, Harney Peak beckoning.

To the east, the valley of the White River bisects the land, and the creeks — Potato, Bear in the Lodge, Pass, Pipe, and others  — create the draws that run in all directions.

To the north, the barren Badlands. And to the south, the prairies of Pine Ridge and Nebraska.

It’s the heart of Indian country, the most beautiful and unspoiled land South Dakota has to offer.

To the people who live her on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the land is all. It is the center of everything.

We are born of this land, the Sioux will tell you. When we die, our remains become a part of this sacred terrain called Mother Earth.

This time of year, the colors of the land vary by the hour.

The deep purples and oranges of the sun’s rise and set cast glowing shades on the snow, on the prairie grass and on the lollin hills spotted with the brown of the earth, the green of the pine, and the gray of the rock outcrops.

At times those features seem blue; other times, they burn red.

Like he does nearly every morning, Alex Paul is tinkering with his car, a beat-up old VW Scirroco. He and a few friends are huddles under the hood, taking apart this and that, adjusting the idle, cleaning some hoses. It’s part of the routine of keeping a troubled ar alive in the middle of the winter.

It’s about 10 a.m. on Saturday, Dec. 22, at the nutritional center in Bridger, a tiny town on the Cheyenne River.

It’s cold, but not as cold as it was the previous week. Maybe a bit below zero, maybe zero.

Paul, from Illinois, has been coming to South Dakota for several years to visit his Oglala friends who line on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

“The Oglala are my people,” says Paul, who is white.

He is working on a support team for the Big Foot Memorial Ride (Sitanka Wokiksuye). His duties began a week prior in Little Eagle on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation. He is one of the few who will remain on the ride through its conclusion in Wounded Knee.

“An elder asked me to help out,” he explains. “When an elder asks you to do something, it’s an honor. I had no choice.”

If you stand idle around Paul, he’ll put you to work. “Can you give me a hand with this tent?” he asks about three times a day. “Hop in the car; we need to get some firewood.”

And off we go, ax in hand.

By mid-afternoon at the Takini School, the pace of activity quickens. Horseback riders from all over begin arriving. A Cree from Canada, a Chihuahua from Mexico. Navajos, Utes, Cherokees, Mandans, Yanktonnais. And, of course, all the Lakota tribes.

“We’re all here for basically the same reason,” says Frank Dillon Charging Alone, a veteran of the Wounded Knee occupation in 1973, who now lives in Colorado. “It’s the survival of our culture, our spirituality.”

More simply, they’re here to mark the 100th anniversary of the Wounded Knee Massacre.

They’re here to tell South Dakota, the United States and the world that their culture still thrives, that the defeats they suffered a century and more ago have only strengthened their resolve.

The Wounded Knee story is familiar to everyone on the ride, but it is told again and again, day after day. Around the campfires at night, descendants of those slain tell the stories they heard on their grandfathers’ laps. During lunch and along the trail, the stories are repeated.

“This is where Big Foot had his last sweat.

“This is where they passed through the Badlands.

“This is where they surrendered.”

We must never forget, they say. We must never forget the hundreds of Indians slain the morning of Dec. 29, 1890. We must never forget they stood under a white flag of truce — an empty flour bag fluttering in the wind.

We must never forget that it was the 7th Cavalry who fired the shots, who molested the women, who butchered the children.

We must never forget that it was Custer’s 7th Cavalry that was defeated at the Little Big Horn 14 years earlier. We must never forget that Wounded Knee was the 7th’s revenge.

We must never forget that two dozen of the soldiers received medals of honor for their deeds that morning.

“To the non-Indian, it must seem like a long time ago. To the Lakota, it seems like yesterday,” says Marie Not Help Him, whose great-grandfather lived through the massacre and passed down the stories.

Again and again they remind us, we must never forget.

Leroy Curley, 56, comes from Thunder Butte. His son and a nephew are riding. He’s in Bridget to wish them well.

“The ride brings home to these riders  — it slams home to their being — who they are. It teaches self-discipline and self-control. It’s a start to recovering our self-determination. That’s a long-range term for sovereignty. That’s why I’m here, to encourage them.”

Bridger represents the beginning of the trail for some, a stopping point for others. About 24 riders pulled into camp Friday night, five days after leaving Bullhead on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation. The Standing Rock riders, as they became known, are primarily descendants of the Hunkpapa Chief Sitting Bull, who was killed Dec. 15, 1890. Only about a half-dozen of them will continue the journey toward Wounded Knee.

Many of the horses and many of the riders became ill during the first week. Temperatures rarely topped zero and routinely hovered at 10 or 20 below. The wind chill bottomed out at about 70 below.

One horse died en route. Said rider Ron McNeil of McLaughlin: “He just laid down in the snow and that was it.”

Saturday night at the Takini School, more than 150 people stepped forward to pledge their determination and willingness to sacrifice themselves. Some vowed to be strong in the memory of deceased family members. Some vowed to be strong for future generations.

Their reasons were as diverse as their backgrounds. Some spoke English, some spoke French.

Some spoke Spanish, some spoke German. In all, more than seven languages were spoken during the Making of the Vows ceremony. And when it was over, we all lay down on the gym floor together and slept.

By 6 a.m. Sunday, we were awake. The unrelenting wail of a child shattered the stillness of our sleep. Within an hour, we were all dressed, pulling our clothes on from within our sleeping bags and under our blankets.

The black night passed into a blue dawn and, later, a white morning. It was much warmer today. You didn’t need a thermometer; you could feel it when you stepped outside. The nostril hairs that froze within seconds the day before didn’t freeze as fast today, and the toes and fingers didn’t ice up within minutes.

As a crew of men and women prepared and army-sized breakfast, the riders prepared their horses.

“His name is Tator Jack,” Jim Hunter told me. “He’s a good horse.” Indeed Jack is a fine horse. But he’s a follower. Any idiot would have ridden him which is probably why Hunter gave him to me.

When the horse in front of Jack loped, Jack loped. When the horse ahead ran, Jack ran. When the horse stopped, Jack stopped.

We did a lot of running on Sunday. The open stretches along the Cheyenne River Valley provided ideal conditions to cut loose.

I rose up in my stirrups, weight shifted forward, knees bent — just as I had been instructed, I think — and I spurred Jack as hard as I could with my hiking boots. He was a smooth ride when he centered, a bit bumpy in the trot. So we cantered all morning.

We charged up and down the hills, across the streams and creeks, through the fields and along the gravel roads. For 36 miles, we rode. It was total freedom, like piloting a small boat in a bumpy ocean. We could go anywhere, try anything. The hills were the waves, the wind was our guide.

By day’s end, Jack and I were beat. About 40 horses ran themselves out that first day and had to be walked into camp at the McDaniels’ ranch on the North Fork Bad River. It was after dark before we finally arrived. I could walk faster than Jack, so about five miles out, I dismounted and started hoofing it, pulling Jack along behind me. About three or four miles out of camp, a horse trailer came along. We put Jack i there, and I took a ride, in a car, into camp.

I was cold, weary and hungry. But far more appealing than the buffalo stew that was on the menu was a soft, warm place to sleep. I was too tired to eat, too sore to sit. Butm being one of the last riders into cap, I had little luck finding that warm spot.

A small section of a wooden loft high in an unheated barn was my bed for the night.

Alex White Plume, 39, is a different kind of radical. He wants changes on the reservation. Like the militant revolutionaries who preceded him, he disdains the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He loves his heritage, is proud of his family’s bloodline and is willing to fight for a better life for his kids.

The difference is in approach. Twenty years of rhetoric have generated a lot of publicity, but not a lot of change, he says.

White Plume knows that education works. He’s a member of a school board in Manderson. He makes sure that teachers at the Wounded Knee District School teach his kids Lakota culture. His kids speak Lakota. They share Lakota values.

His town, Manderson, is named after a white man whose mission was to fight Indians. White Plume wants the town’s name changed.

He brought 17 horses on this ride — two for him, the rest for this 14 kids he’s looking after: his sons, daughters, nephews and nieces.

White Plume didn’t ride on Monday, Christmas Eve. Both of his horses came up lame, so he worked on a support team.

And after camp was pitches on the Buffalo Gap National Grassland just north of Big Foot Pass in the Badlands, White Plume talked by the fire while awaiting the riders.

“These young kids who go on this ride will be strong and more dedicated to their culture.’ he says. “These young kids are our future, giving up their Christmas riding in this cold and suffering in this cold.”

White Plume admits his strategy is not espoused throughout the reservation.

“There’s a generation gap.” he says. Older Indians who have come to depend on the reservation system, who grew up accepting the BIA, resist his theory that the Lakota will be free again only when they’re self-sufficient and dependent on no  one.

White Plume sees positive results to his approach.

“You go to a church any Sunday, and you’ll see three or four cars parked around that church. Ten years ago, you would have see, 10 to 20 cars,” he says. Go to a sundance in the summer and you’ll see 200 or 300 cars.

“That shows that people are going back to the old ways,” White Plume says. “Our children are going to grow up to be Lakota.”

Each day’s ride begins and ends with a circle of prayers. The riders form a huge circle around the four or five leaders who are carrying the staffs that day. When they set out, no one rides in front of the staffs, which are adorned with eagle feathers.

In the Lakota culture, the eagle is a spiritual bird, roughly equivalent to angels in Christianity.  The veteran riders wear their eagle feathers in their hair or on their hats.

Each day, the riders pray for different things. On Sunday, they prayed for their children, their future. On Monday, they prayed for their elders, the people of wisdom who can best help the Lakota maintain their traditions by sharing their wealth of knowledge.

They also prayed for women, for the infirm, the jailed, and for world peace. And they prayed for Mother Earth.

The talk in camp Monday night was a farmer along the way who refused to allow the 180 riders to pass through the newly planted fields.

A few uneasy moments gave way to logic. Arvol Looking Horse, the ride’s spiritual leader and keeper of the sacred pipe, resolved the conflict.

Staring down at the farmer from atop his mount, Looking Horse told him in Lakota: “I’ll see you another day.” then turned and rode away.

The first people — besides the press — to pass through the Big Foot Pass on Christmas morning were not the riders, but a group of hardcore walkers.

Led by Dennis Banks of the American Indian Movement, the walkers hiked past the pass moments before the riders.

Also in the lead was a 42-year-old Buddhist nun named June-san. June-san lives in Albany, N.Y., and she’s walked on the Big Foot Memorial Ride for the past three years.

She befriended Banks 13 years ago. She has fasted for him while he was imprisoned, and he has helped her build peace bogotas. Their friendship is deep, bongs are strong.

Most of the time, during this walk, those two led the way. June-san pounded her drum — four hard beats, three soft, all day long, broken only by her non-stop, soft chants — and Banks walked ahead. They talked little, but they communicated through the beat and their feet.

June-san says she almost died on this walk a few years ago. She was following the riders overland, but strong winds wiped out the horses’ hoof prints. She was lost in the cold. Eventually she found her way, and she learned her lesson: No overland shortcuts. This walk is by road only.

So impressed are the Sioux with June-san, they honored her a while back by bestowing her with an Indian name: Walk Far Woman.

When she’s not building peace bogotas, June-san walks. “All the time, all my life,” she says. “According to this name they give me, I should walk more. I don’t walk enough.”

The walkers on this trip have bonded together remarkably well. Unlike the riders, the walkers have plenty of time for conversation. All day long they talk, sharing intimate life stories with virtual strangers.

Conger Beasley, a free-lance journalist on assignment for the Kansas City Star, feels very much a part of this ride.

“We’re all riders.” he said. “We’re all moving toward Wounded Knee for the same reason.”

Everybody on this ride has a story. This is Dana Garber’s:

“The first day I met June-san, she said ‘You should go to the Wounded Knee with me,’ I said, “I’ll go if it’s in July.’ ”

She came anyway, in mid-December. Kevin Costner’s Dances With Wolves changed her mind.

“I saw that movie with a friend, and when I walked out of the theater, my friend said, ‘Wasn’t that a wonderful movie?’ I said, ‘Yes, I’m going to Wounded Knee.’ ”

On her way out to South Dakota, Garber, who lives in Troy, N.Y., realized she was coming for another reason.

Her brother died in a car accident early this year. The last time she saw him alive was Dec. 29, 1989.

“I’ll tell you,” she said. “Ron would have loved that walk through the Badlands. I hope he was there. June-san said he’ll be there at the end, but his spirit has been with me all along.”

This ride, so spiritual, so sacred, so sincere, has not been without it’s lighter moments. On Monday, when Alex White Plume couldn’t ride because of lame horses, he drove to Wall to gas up his horse trailer. A big part of his journey is about getting back in touch with the land. The Indians talk about their pure, non-polluting ways. So what was the first thing White Plume asked when we arrived in Wall?

“Is there a McDonald’s in this town?”

You can call Russell Means the Samsonite Cowboy. Every morning, he’s up well before dawn. He saddles his own horse and rides the day long. He’s been a good cowboy. But at base camp, he doesn't look the part. He’s the only one around traveling with luggage. Most of the cowboys have a bedroll and little else. But not Means. He was spotted walking through the Little Wound School in Kyle with his suitcase in tow.

The funniest story this week comes from the media. It shows a classic example of a cultural clash.

A foreign film crew arrived in town mid-week, lost and confused by the poor roads of the reservation. According to the story making the rounds, a photographer stopped an Indian on the street to ask directions.

“We’re looking for a lane,” he said.

The Indian looked a bit confused. “Elaine? Elaine who?”

“No, no, not Elaine,” said the photographer in broken English.

“A lane … a little road.”

“Oh,” said the Indian. “Elaine Little Road. She moved out of town three months ago.”

Triumph settled into Wounded Knee on Friday night. Their ride complete,, the exhausted participants patted each other on the back, indulged in a fine community feed, and talked about their accomplishments.

They looked back at their past century. The white men succeeded in killing off their chiefs and their spiritual leaders. And those who survived were segregated on reservations. Travel was restricted. Communications were severed. The culture was dying out.

The great spiritual leader Black Elk, once said that the Lakota nation would rise again in seven generations after the deaths of Big Food and Sitting Bull. The seventh generation is here, and the nation is coming back.

“We bring back the Sioux nation that was broken apart,” Ron McNeil said Friday night. “We are rebuilding, in this seventh generation, the great Sioux nation.”

Gary Montana began this ride near where he was born, on the banks of the Grand River on the Standing Rock.

This ride whipped him.

“It was a test of physical and emotional endurance. I feel physically tired, but spiritually, I am strong.”

Montana, who lives in Utah, had originally planned a two-week fast. That lasted four days. He had planned to ride bareback. But within days, he was saddling up.

He feels humbled.

“I don’t think I realized how difficult it was going to be and how it was going to test me. There were times when I wanted to give up, to get in the car.”

Parts of the ride distressed him. He resented the attention that Russell Means and Dennis Banks received. He felt they detracted from the purpose of the ride. But, for the most part, he held his tongue.

He says he learned the power of silence, learned something about patience. He feels he’ll be a better father and husband for it.

He feels more committed to his Lakota heritage than ever before, and he intends to teach his 8-year-old son the traditional ways.

He has also learned to get along better with white people. He’s learned something about reconciliation.

The Sacred Hoop of the Lakota has room for white people, he says. White is one of hoop’s four colors. To mend that hoop, we have no choice but to get along.

“We can’t change what happened at Wounded Knee. I can’t go back and fight to protect the women and children,” he says.

“Any white person who ever crossed me, God help him, I was going to turn on him. But I’ve learned that’s not the way to deal with it….I can have hate in my heart forever, but is that going to change anything? No.”

ABOUT THE REPORT

Argus Leader reporter Bob Keyes (left) and photographer Paul Buckowski (right) have spent several days traveling with the Big Foot Memorial Riders.

The ride commemorates the December 1890 journey of the Lakota Sioux Chief Big Foot and his followers from Bridger to Wounded Knee. Big Foot and his followers began the journey after the death of Chief Sitting Bull. Sitting Bull was killed by Standing Rock Indian Agency policy at a campsite near Little Eagle.

On Dec. 28, 1890, Big Foot was slain along with up to 400 Indian men, women and children, by the U.S. 7th Cavalry at Wounded Knee.

The Wounded Knee massacre opened up a 100-year wound that Indians hope will begin to heal with this, the final trip in a five-year spiritual ride.

Keyes and Buckowski joined the riders Dec. 15 in Little Eagle for the opening ceremonies marking the death of Sitting Bull. Keyes then re-joined the ride on Dec. 22 in Bridger and has traveled with the group, on horseback, on foot and in accompanying vehicles to Wounded Knee. Buckowski returned to meet the party in Kyle on Wednesday.

As many as 500 people took part in the ride, which included long stretches of sub-zero cold and high winds.

Keyes has interviewed riders and observers and today offers his own account of the ride.

A graduate of the University of Georgia, Keyes primarily writes features as a reporter at the Argus Leader. He joined the staff in September 1988.

Buckowski, a graduate of the Rochester Institute of Technology in New York, is a staff photographer. He joined Argus Leader in May 1990. Today’s report was designed by Sunday Editor Mike Bennett, with graphics by artist Paul Pettit.