Little Bighorn

Last night found me in Hardin, Montana.  The big chains and the RV parks all were asking  far more than I could afford. There were no national forests nearby and the weather forecasters were talking about yet another storm. (They were wrong, of course.) I went further into town and found a mom and pop motel which had reasonable rates, a speedy wi fi system, so fast I could Skype with Gary.  It is always nice to see his smiling face.

This morning I was up early to go to Little Big Horn National Battlefield to beat the heat and the tourists.  I got there right at nine in time to hear a lecture by a Native American park ranger.  A few years ago, the Park Service added native Americans to their interpretive staff.

She gave a sprightly lecture on what went wrong for George Armstrong Custer.  He was there to get "untreatied" Sioux to move out of the area, either by getting them in reservations or simply killing them. 

He didn't listen to his Crow scouts, who told him there was an enormous Sioux encampment, some estimate at 8,000.  To sneak up on this village, he left the pack mules behind...carrying all the extra ammunition.  He instructed his troops to leave their sabers behind because they rattled.  Their rifles fired one shot at a time and often jammed. 

Then there were the troops, raw kids who were there because they needed the $13 a month, food and a place to sleep each night.  Forty-four percent were foreign born and didn't speak English very well.

Add to that that the other two generals didn't like Custer all that much.  Once the troops started firing on the village, their fate was sealed.

You might think the ranger was only telling us the Sioux side in the battle, but that wasn't true, because she was Crow and perhaps descended from one of Custer's scouts. 

It was a moving talk, full of descriptions of the battle.  Afterwards, I told her that my great-great-great grandfather was a German who was drafted into the Civil War.  In those days, they used non-English speakers as gravediggers, which made more sense that taking 125 Germans into battle with the Sioux.

I also noticed that recently, the Sioux, depending on oral tradition and the location of ammunition, now have their own markers.  However, theirs are made of granite while the soldiers markers are of marble.  Given that marble wears out faster than granite, in another hundred years, the site could well be a memorial not to Custer and his men but to their opponents.

By 10:30 the RVs were rolling in and I was driving out.  I was heading to a possible campground in the Custer National Forest but when I got there, I found one had been wiped out by flooding and was being worked on.  The other, Shale Rock, had improved campsites, but alfalfa had taken over.  Did I really want to spend the day in an alfalfa field?

I drove three miles back to Ashland, the closest town to eat lunch and think about my options.  I was waited on by a handsome boy who shared the newspaper he had been reading with me.  I asked him about Shale Rock. 

"I don't know," he said.  "I never go in that direction."

"Why not?"

"The reservation ends in Ashland." 

And there he was, a young Sherman Alexie, caught in his culture and afraid to move out of it.  I wonder what will happen to a boy like that. 

Have things changed so much since Custer?

Now I am driving east on the same highway that took me west.  Four more camping nights and I will be home.