Long, long ago the people came to live on the never-ending prairie lands. There they found great variety, even in the grass itself. On the eastern half of the prairies it was thicker and taller, while on the western side it was sparse and short. There was variety as well in the beings that lived on the land. Of the many kinds of four-leggeds, some were grass eaters like the enormous buffalo, the majestic elk, and the speedy deer. Others had fangs or claws like the bears, the great cats, short-tailed cats, badgers, wolves, coyotes, and foxes. Still others were small like the squirrels, gophers, moles, and mice. Some beings were crawlers, like snakes and lizards. Then there were the beings who had two legs and two wings and flew, of which there were many, from the tiny hummingbirds to the great hawks and eagles. Finally, there were the unseen ones such as the mosquitoes, gnats, ants, and worms.
The prairies were a place of extremes as well. Winters were very cold and the snows fell deep. Spring was very wet and summer and autumn were hot. In order to survive and thrive on the prairies, any kind of being had to be strong or know how to adapt or both. Each and every being had a way to survive.
Easily the two most powerful creatures on the land were the buffalo and the bear, and these relied mainly on their enormous strength for self-?protection. They adapted, too; the buffalo grew thick hair in the winter to protect itself against bone-chilling cold, while the bear simply found a snug den to sleep the season through. Other four-leggeds, such as the deer and white-bellied goat, relied on speed to outrun enemies. As a matter of fact, the white-belly was the fastest on the prairie. The turtle, on the other hand, was one of the slowest beings. To protect itself against attack, it withdrew its head and legs into its extremely hard shell, a shell that even the powerful jaws of the bear could not break.
Of course not all beings relied on strength or speed for survival. The skunk, one of the smaller and weaker four-leggeds, had a noxious spray that it could send great distances: one extremely painful to the eyes and noses of anyone struck by it. No one bothered the skunk. Likewise the porcupine, because he had long, sharp, needle-like quills. Once the quills penetrated anyone’s hide or skin, they caused excruciating pain and were impossible to remove.
Other means of defense and protection were extremely sharp hearing and a sense of smell, quickness, hiding motionless, and blending by color into the landscape. Such abilities and characteristics were a natural part of each being, instinctively used when necessary. There was only one being of the prairie lands with no physical abilities that set it apart from others: the Two-Legged People.
Two-leggeds were not the weakest of creatures, but neither were they among the most powerful. Far from it. While they were good runners, just about any other being—except perhaps the mouse—could outrun them. As to size, speed, strength, and quickness, two-leggeds were woefully lacking. Yet they did have one ability that set them apart: the ability to reason. With that ability they developed tools and weapons that enabled them to make use of their limited physical attributes. It was not that other beings did not reason, but for two-leggeds that ability was their fang and their claw. In other words, if they could not reason they could not survive.
A young man named Turtle was beginning to learn and understand these realities that were part of his world. He had been given the name by his mother because, even at the age of five, he was a thoughtful boy and not given to impetuousness as boys usually are. He was deliberate and very observant. Because of those habits he did not play so much with other boys; he had only one friend, another loner named Little Goose. But as they got older even Little Goose found Turtle’s ways a little too strange.
As he grew, Turtle did everything required of him in the ways of his people. He was more than an adequate hunter and never shirked his duties as a warrior. He had grown up under the skilled tutelage and counsel of his father, uncle, and grandfather, so his skills and abilities as a provider and protector were no less than other young men in the village, and better than some. But if anything, his habit of putting thought into everything he did became even more pronounced. As a result, when other young men were courting girls, he was often off by himself or sitting near a group of old men. Though the old men teased him, they were pleased that a young man could be interested in other aspects of life.
Turtle was close to his grandfather, No Feather. It was he who taught the boy to make bows and arrows and shoot them, and he who taught the boy to ignore the jibes from other boys. He saw something in Turtle that was different. Most boys grew into young men who were anxious to prove themselves and win glory on the field of battle. Those things were not unimportant to Turtle, but he was much more of a thinker than other young men. That pleased No Feather. It was the thinkers who understood how and why things happened.
One day, just before his grandson’s 20th winter, No Feather decided it was time to invoke an old custom, one that had not been done since he had done it as a young man. He had talked to other elders and they all agreed that Turtle was the kind of young man who should do it.
So the old man took his grandson away from the village to the river’s edge and told him his thoughts.
“I have talked to the other old men,” he began, “and we feel that we should ask you to undertake an old custom. We are asking you to make The Journey.”
Turtle knew about The Journey and knew that his grandfather had made it as a young man. It was not to be taken lightly, because it was dangerous. Nevertheless, he was excited at the prospect. It was something that a young man could not decide to do on his own; the elders asked a young man because they thought him worthy of the test. According to the old stories, a few young men in the past had not returned from The Journey. No one ever knew why. One thing was certain: more than physical strength or prowess was necessary to complete The Journey. Those who did succeed invariably became men whose commitment to the welfare of the people was second to none.
“In four days’ time the elders of the village will prepare a feast,” No Feather said. “Then you will be asked to undertake The Journey. You have the right to refuse, just as well as the right to accept.”
That evening the village crier announced to the people that the elders would offer a feast in four days. A feast always meant that something serious or auspicious was going to happen, and usually word got out somehow. But as much as everyone asked, this time no one knew the reason for the upcoming feast.
On the appointed day nearly everyone in the village gathered in an arbor built for the occasion. Women who had been cooking all day long brought the food and the oldest man in the village stood to speak.
“My friends and relatives,” he began, as a hush fell. Even the dogs were quiet. “It has been more than a generation since one of our traditions was last done. One man among us, now an elder, was the last to do it. Now we are asking his grandson to do this difficult thing, to make The Journey.”
A murmur slid through the gathering, especially among the elders. The Oldest Man went on to remind the people what The Journey was.
“The Journey is a quest,” he said. “A quest to find the best in ourselves. For that reason we select a young man we think is worthy to undertake this quest for us. We know we are a strong people, but we also know there must be more to strength than weapons and the ability to fight. Strength is also a will to win, to do what is right, to understand all that is around us. We want the young man we have selected to make The Journey, to finish it, and then bring to us his story of why and how he was able to do so.
“There are things he must bring back to us as well. From the banks of the Bad River to the north, some sweetgrass. Soft gray river shale from the Big River to the east. From the south the blue sage grass, and the flat cedar leaves from where the White Earth River begins its journey. These are to prove that he has walked the land.
“But that is not the difficult thing. The young man we will ask to make this journey must do so without weapons or food. The only things he can carry will be a knife and a deer-hide robe, and the only clothes he takes will be what he wears at this moment.”
Another murmur went through the crowd. Now it was the middle of autumn and in another moon the cool winds would precede the coming winter. To be alone without weapons and a shelter was not easy. Yet the elders knew it must be so because life itself was not easy. Anyone who accepted this challenge was accepting that reality.
By now everyone gathered was curious to know which young man would be asked. The young men listening knew that making The Journey successfully would go a long way toward raising their status. But most of them were silently hoping that they would not be asked. And when the name of the young man was spoken, a gasp went through the crowd.
“The young man we ask to make The Journey is the one known as Turtle,” the Oldest Man announced. “It is, of course, his right to refuse.”
Turtle knew this moment was coming. Among the murmurs in the crowd he thought he heard a few snickers, and there was more than one expression of disbelief. Surely there were those who thought the strongest young man or the most accomplished warrior would be chosen. He was neither. Nevertheless, he walked forward when the Oldest Man motioned for him to approach.
“I know your grandfather has told you,” the Oldest Man said to him. “What is your answer?”
“I will go,” Turtle said, barely above a whisper.
The Oldest Man was pleased. “Good,” he said, then turned to the crowd. “We will feast with this young man and send him on his way with a full stomach and our good wishes.”
When it was time to begin The Journey, Turtle stood before the Oldest Man once again and handed over his bow and arrows, his lance and shield. It was an open gesture in view of the whole village to show he was armed only with his knife. The Oldest Man then held out a rolled-up deer-hide robe and an extra pair of moccasins. Turtle was to choose, and as his grandfather had advised, he chose the extra pair of moccasins. It was easier to make good night shelters than it was to make moccasins.
Turtle embraced his mother and grandmother, acknowledged his father and grandfather, then in view of the entire gathering walked north, carrying his spare pair of moccasins. He started north because it was autumn; the sweetgrass he was to gather from the Bad River was already in bloom and would soon begin to wither. Of the two grasses he was to gather as proof of his journey, the blue sage was more durable.
Without a backward glance he walked until he reached a line of hills. From that distance he could just make out the circles of lodges in the village. With a deep sigh, Turtle went down off the hills wondering if anyone other than his family was looking in his direction. Two thoughts coursed through him like whirlwinds: he had never felt so alone in his life, and he might never see his family again.
He dared not stop again, even for a moment, for fear that his doubts would force him to turn back. So he kept walking, briskly at first, and then as the sun sank in the western half of the sky he finally slowed his pace. Over and over as his grandfather had suggested, he thought of what he had to do to get through each day.
Obtaining water was not an insurmountable problem. Luckily it had been a winter with much snow, and rain had fallen throughout the spring and summer, so creeks and rivers were not low. Food was another matter. Only dried and bitter fruit were left on berry trees this time of the year. Wild turnips, however, were in full bloom. If he could fashion a fish trap he might catch a fish or two in one of the larger streams. He decided to keep an eye out for the right kind of fallen branch with which to make a rabbit stick, one heavy and curved. If he threw it with enough force, he could take a rabbit with it, or perhaps a grouse.
Not for a moment did he forget that he would need to keep watch against enemies, especially since he had no weapons. A lance was what he needed, even one without a stone point. But even before a lance and a rabbit stick, he needed something to start a fire. Dropping down into a narrow valley, he concentrated on finding the materials for a bow drill fire starter. Since all but one of the components was wood, it was difficult. Finding some kind of cord for the small bow was the first obstacle he had to overcome, and quickly, with sundown not far off.
Turtle solved the problem by using the thin leather thongs around the tops of his spare moccasins. After he had finished his fire starter he gathered kindling and then firewood for the night. Following an old creek bed, he chose a high bank on the north side, against a bend in the old watercourse, and dug into the bank to make a shallow overhang, just enough to keep the wind off during the night. Then he made his fire. Though it was only a small fire it chased away some of the loneliness he felt. Turtle had been away from home before, several times for many days and nights. But now it was different, because he did not know when he would get home again. He kept his fire burning low until dusk gave way to darkness.
Turtle watched the dawn break and a gray light grow beneath a layer of low clouds. A cool breeze crept along the dry creek. He was hungry and decided it would be wise to find some kind of food before he began growing weak. Following the watercourse north, he found a small thicket of oak and there searched for anything that he could make weapons of. He found a curved branch and carved it into a rabbit stick. Having even such a simple weapon in hand made him feel better. At least he was armed.
Nothing came within range of his rabbit stick, however. Though he had found water, Turtle went to sleep that night feeling the first sharp pangs of hunger. Because he had to keep moving during the day, he decided to fashion snares to be set out during the night from then on. He could hunt as he traveled in daylight.
His plan worked. Though he came close to a rabbit or two with his rabbit stick, it was a snare fashioned with leather thongs from his moccasins that brought success. He delayed traveling the next morning just long enough to cook a rabbit. While it hung over the low flames of his fire he scraped the rabbit hide. He had seen his grandmother sew rabbit hides together to make a coat. There was certainly time for him to do the same; all he needed was enough rabbits.
Turtle was surprised that even a small bit of meat could renew his energy. He did not eat it all, intending to make it last until his next kill. Carrying what was left of the cooked carcass and the rolled-up hide, he broke into a trot to make up the time he had lost. He had never been to the Bad River, but he had heard enough stories told around the fires. Once he reached the Bad River, his plan was to turn south and follow the Big River. By then he hoped to have more substantial weapons, and he resolved to search the next thicket of ash trees he came to. A young ash tree was easier to carve into a bow than one that had dried for many years. His father had taught him that.
The sixth night away from the village was decidedly cool, but it brought another rabbit to one of Turtle’s snares. More meat, another hide, and sinew for a bowstring. Feeling rejuvenated, he cut two young trees, one for a bow and the slenderer for a lance, and immediately began crafting his weapons while the wood was still fresh and soft. He paused frequently to look around for two-legged intruders. By late afternoon he had fashioned the bow, and he added finishing touches until the sun went down. In the morning he would find enough wood to build a good fire to make a deep bed of embers. With the intense heat from the embers he would cure his new bow. What he needed now was more sinew for a bowstring, and his immediate source was rabbits. So he set out more snares.
Turtle improved his shelter, making it more difficult to see in the event a two-legged happened along, but mostly to make it as snug as possible since he had no robe to cover himself. He took a long drink from the creek just before dusk gave way to night, then crawled in. Wolves and coyotes were baying and singing in the hills around him, and he heard a nearby cricket chirping and the grunt of a nighthawk diving after insects. These night sounds lulled him to sleep.
A cool dawn breeze woke him to gray light. The first thing he saw was a fox sitting in the grass, no more than three or four paces away. Turtle was startled, though not afraid. Foxes had never been a danger to people. But he was surprised to see that it did not flee when he emerged from his shelter.
And when the animal spoke, it froze him in total disbelief.
“I see you have a warm place to sleep,” the fox observed.
Turtle could only stare.
After a moment, the fox glanced about and then returned his gaze to the young man. “Are you traveling far?”
After a moment, Turtle cleared his throat and heard himself speaking to the fox. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I am traveling.”
“I have noticed that your kind move your dwellings often,” the fox replied. “It seems you are a traveling people. But why are you alone?”
A fox is talking to me. I am hearing it, Turtle said to himself. There were stories of a time when people and animals could speak to each other. Different animals had the ability to understand and speak to one another as well. But that was very long ago, it was said. Perhaps not.
“Are you afraid?” the fox asked politely.
Turtle shook his head. “No,” he said. “I … I … have never heard a fox speak.”
“Then this is a good day,” the fox replied. “For I have never understood the language used by two-leggeds. Yet I can understand what you are speaking.”
“Why, do you suppose?” Turtle ventured.
The fox smiled. Turtle could discern that it was a smile.
“There are things in life that are hard to believe, hard to understand,” the fox said. “That does not mean such things are not real.”
Turtle nodded. That was the kind of thing his grandmother or grandfather would say. Perhaps he was speaking with a fox elder. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” he replied.
“Which way are you traveling?” the fox asked.
“First to the north,” Turtle said. “To the edge of our lands. I will travel to all the far edges of our lands.”
“Is there a purpose for such a journey?”
“Yes,” Turtle told the fox. “I am to learn.”
“That is good. To learn and to know is power. Just as the sun lights the day, knowledge is what lights our journey through all the days we live. As children we depend on the knowledge of others. After that we must begin to learn for ourselves. Then we use it to help others.”
Turtle stared at the fox, though he knew it was impolite to look directly into anyone’s face. The fox took no notice, however. He pointed with his nose. “It is time for me to see to my duty as the protector of my family. Come with me,” he offered. “For you and I have things to talk about.”
Turtle glanced at his unfinished bow and the pile of wood at his cold fire pit. In an instant he decided that curing the bow could wait. He stood and followed the fox.
“My name is Old Shadow,” the fox said. “My children now have children. More mouths to feed, more beings to protect.”
“What are you protecting them against?” wondered Turtle.
“Some enemies can be seen, such as the wolverine and the bear,” Old Shadow replied. “When our children are small, they can be carried away by hawks and eagles. Sometimes the owls come at night. The enemies that cannot be seen are hunger, cold, and loneliness. We must face them all.”
Turtle followed the fox across a meadow, feeling a bit foolish because he was following a fox. A talking fox at that. But it seemed like the proper thing to do, because whatever else he might be, the fox was wise.
“Where are we going?” Turtle asked.
“I need to know who else has been here, besides you,” Old Shadow said, even as he stopped suddenly to sniff at a bare patch on the ground. In a moment he continued with Turtle not more than a step behind. The fox glanced back over his shoulder.
“You are loud,” he told Turtle.
Turtle was surprised. He had been taught to move silently since he was a boy. “I cannot hear anything,” he protested.
“True,” returned the fox, “but yours are not the only ears around, and all of them are better than yours.” He stopped and indicated a patch of blue-green grass. “That kind is very loud when it brushes against your feet. Do not let anything touch you as you pass. That is the best way to avoid making noises.”
So it went as they probed the edges of the fox’s territory: observations and advice. Turtle knew that foxes were good hunters but he had not realized how cautious they were. While Old Shadow’s nose constantly sought and found scents and odors, his ears were always alert for sounds. Near a bend of the creek, he suddenly paused.
“Come!” he whispered. “Hurry!”
Turtle followed him as they ducked into a thicket of low sagebrush.
“Down,” Old Shadow said. “Do not move, make no sound.”
Turtle did as he was told, lying on his stomach and peering through stalks of the bushes around him. A hornet buzzed around the bushes for a moment and a tiny grass snake wiggled past them, but Old Shadow was as still as a stone, and Turtle did his best to imitate him. After several more silent moments, he heard soft footsteps.
A young long-tailed cat walked by their hiding place, cautious and nervous. Lions were hunters and extremely alert. His ears flipped front to back for any sound and his large eyes peered about. Then he jumped across the creek, lowered his head for a quick sip of cool water, and was gone.
“Silence is your best ally,” Old Shadow whispered. “And if you can learn to be still, all the better.”
Later in the day they paused to rest beneath the edge of a cut bank, the low end of a gully. Old Shadow, as ever, tested the breezes for any errant scent. “We foxes are not as powerful as our cousins, the wolves,” he said. “We do not hunt the big animals they do, such as the deer and the elk. Nor are we like our other cousins, the coyotes. Sometimes they throw caution aside, and they are scavengers as well as hunters. It is better for us to hunt smaller animals, those that are not as fast or as clever as we are. It is wisest to stay within what you are able to do.”
Old Shadow took Turtle back to his sleeping shelter as the sun was going down. “I hope your travels go well,” he said.
“Thank you,” Turtle said. “I have learned something this day.”
The fox smiled. “That is what life is all about,” he said, then trotted away.
Turtle awoke at dawn and immediately looked about, half expecting the old fox to be somewhere nearby. After a small meal, he built a fire to make a bed of coals to dry his new bow. As he worked through the day, he thought of his small adventure with Old Shadow. An adventure that was difficult for him to believe, though he could still see the fox’s face and hear his voice.
By sundown he determined that his bow was dry enough to use, and he was restless to move on. Part of him wanted to go home, but he knew that it would be the wrong thing to do. There was no honor in quitting.
At dawn he awoke and gathered his things and turned his footsteps north. Though many beings were moving about on the land, like the white-bellied goats and buffalo in the distance, he did not see a fox anywhere. Of course, that did not mean that one was not around, somewhere. Perhaps more than one. Silence and stillness—those were the ways of the fox.
Several days later he came within sight of a wide river that ran west to east. The landscape around fit the descriptions his father and grandfather had given him of the Bad River country. When he finally came close to the low valley through which the river flowed, he caught the faint odor of sweetgrass on the breeze. If nothing else, he had accomplished the first objective the elders had given him.
Turtle followed his nose to a wide swath of sweetgrass and picked a thick handful. After he set out snares, he braided one strand of sweetgrass and wrapped it in one of his rabbit hides. That braid he would take home, and the other braids he made would be used for smudging as he traveled.
Along the banks of the river he also found willow stalks just right for arrows. He had been picking up fallen feathers all along. Making a well-hidden camp, he decided to stay two days to finish his bow and make arrows. He wanted to finish the lance as well. A good lance was his first defense. Actually, after a pause to think, he decided that any weapon was his second line of defense; constant alertness was the first line.
His camp was on the north slope of a line of hills, inside a thicket of oak trees and plum bushes. Anything or anyone looking down from the hill could not see it, nor was it easy to spot from the north. According to his grandfather, the Bad River—since it flowed into the Great River—was known for large blackfish, so in addition to stalks for arrows he cut thinner ones to make a fish trap.
By the middle of the following day, he had accomplished most of the tasks he wanted to do. His bow was finished and he had six bone-tipped arrows. The lance was nearly done, too. The bones were temporary points, made from the ribs of an elk that Turtle had found. He had a notion to look for the right kind of stone for his lance point and arrowheads along the hilltops behind him. Instead he gave in to a sudden wave of fatigue and leaned back against a tree, just to close his eyes for a moment.
When he woke, the shadows cast by the trees had not changed much, but there was a figure in front of him that had not been there before. A black-tail deer with large antlers stared at him as it lay in the grass, not more than a stone’s toss away.
“I have never been this close to a two-legged hunter,” the buck said. There was no fear in his voice.
“I have never been this close to one of you,” Turtle heard himself reply.
“I trust you are not hunting,” the deer said.
“Not … not now,” Turtle assured him.
“Good. I see you are not burdened with things, the way two-leggeds usually are,” the buck observed.
“No. I am traveling light because I have far to go.”
Turtle was certain he saw an amused expression in the deer’s large brown eyes. All the while his ears were turning, alert for any sound. “We do not have your hands,” the deer went on, “to carry anything. But I think even the things that burden the heart and the mind are easier to carry than the things in your hands, or on your back. I have seen two-leggeds carry much on their backs. That must be difficult.”
“Yes,” admitted Turtle. “But necessary. It is our way.”
“We all have our ways,” the deer agreed. “My name is Leaper. Come, I have something to show you.”
If he had not met Old Shadow, Turtle would have thought he was losing his mind. But if a fox talked to him, why not a deer? He stood.
Leaper, true to his name, was on his feet in an instant. The size and breadth of his antlers showed he was an old buck, but he was still powerful. He pointed with his antlers toward the hills and trotted away. Turtle, close behind, was halfway up the hill before he realized he had no weapon with him. But he did not want to go back.
The old buck paused just below the crest of the hill and gazed for long moments across the wide valley of the Bad River. His large ears were turned back. “Eyes forward, ears back,” he said. “That is the best way to stay alert for hunters. Always look and look long, and search through the sounds you hear.”
“Eyes forward and ears back—that is difficult for us two-leggeds to do,” Turtle said.
“You can find a way,” replied Leaper. “And never, ever, stand on the crest of a hill. Find a spot below the ridge, like here. You can still see far, and if you do not move, you will not show your presence to anyone else.” So saying, Leaper cast his gaze across the wide valley. Turtle sat next to a bristly soap weed and did the same.
“Tell me what you see,” the deer said.
“On the far slopes,” Turtle said, after a moment, “are two buffalo, perhaps more in the trees. There are birds everywhere, in the trees along the water and above us in the sky.”
“Yes. Your eyes seem to be good, for a two-legged,” allowed the old deer. “Do you see in the grass in front of you?”
Leaper looked down and saw the dark squares on the back of the thick-bodied snake wending its way through the grass. He had not thought to look around where he sat.
“Enemies can be where you least expect them. That is a rattling-tail,” observed Leaper. “His bite can cause great pain, even death.” He stomped the ground hard with a front hoof, twice. The rattling-tail paused, its black forked tongue flicking out from its mouth, and then turned in another direction. “Rattling-tails, and I think all their kind, do not hear with their ears. They hear with their bellies. They feel our footsteps.”
Turtle kept watch to make sure the snake was going away, and then looked around to see what else was near. There were many insects but no other dangerous creatures.
Leaper walked to some clumps of soap weed and lay down among them. From a distance he looked like one of the clumps, especially if he did not move. “We will watch,” he said. “It is not enough to know you have enemies. It is better to know where they are. Remember, eyes front, ears back.”
The day passed as they lay among the soap weeds. Everything else, including the sun and occasional clouds, was moving around or past them. Across the valley the small herd of buffalo had moved over the hills. A coyote trotted along the water and briefly encountered an angry badger before he swam across the gray stream. A herd of white-bellied goats moved into the valley from the east. They drank at the river and lingered, but eventually moved on to graze on the slopes below them. Insects buzzed around them. Turtle made certain no snakes were trying to sneak in close. By turning his head slightly to one side or the other, he found he could hear sounds behind him while he kept watch forward. He heard ducks, the fluttering of a grouse taking wing, and the warning bark of a prairie digger. For some reason he did not feel impatient at sitting so long in one place.
Shadows lengthened, stretching long to the east, before Leaper uttered a sound. “I must go now,” he said. “I see no hunters, and when the sun goes down it is time for me to eat.”
“Thank you,” Turtle said.
“Not at all,” Leaper replied. “I hope your journey is good. Remember what I told you about enemies.”
Rising to his feet, he shook his great antlers and bounded effortlessly down the slope and disappeared into a grove of trees. Turtle searched the trees with a probing gaze but could not see the big old buck. With a sigh he stood and walked toward his camp.
When he reached it, he saw that it had not been disturbed. In the daylight that remained, he decided to finish his fish trap and put it in the river overnight.
His efforts were rewarded. In the cool light of a gray dawn he walked to the river and found a large blackfish in the conical trap. After he cooked and ate, he gathered his things. His plan was to turn southeast and stay just west of the Great River. He alternated his pace as he went, first walking, then trotting. Thus he covered much ground before the sun went down.
Turtle thought of the fox and the black-tail deer. The words they had spoken to him floated in his mind, like lazy clouds in the sky. He hoped he could remember all they had said, but he wondered who would believe him when he told about Old Shadow and Leaper. He knew his grandfather would.
Four days of hard travel later he came to a high bluff on the west side of the Great River. It was the landmark his grandfather had told him to find. The bluff faced east over the river and its face was gray shale. He would need to gather a few slabs of it to go along with the sweet grass as proof of his journey.
Turtle was gaining confidence with each passing day. In addition to his rabbit stick, he was now armed with a lance and a bow with six arrows. His moccasins were somewhat worn, but not enough for him to discard. And he also had the lessons given him by a fox and a black-tail deer. Taking them to heart, he worked his way silently to the edge of the bluff. There, with a thick growth of sumac guarding his back, he sat for the better part of an afternoon, watching the comings and goings along the shores of the Great River below.
He saw a few raccoons, a short-tailed cat, several coyotes and foxes, and birds of every kind and color. A gray heron walking on long stick-like legs was prowling for fish along the shore. A brown eagle swooped down and took a fish from just below the surface of the water. Above him a falcon circled, as did hawks. Turtle took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes to keep from dozing.
Rustling noises caught his attention, coming from the plateau behind him. His breath stopped in his throat when he saw a large bear. Luckily, the bear was still over 30 paces away, far enough for Turtle to take his chances by sliding down the near vertical face of the bluff.
“Two-legged,” the great bear called out. “I know you are there. I cannot see you but I can smell you. Come out, I will not harm you, for today I am your friend.”
If not for his encounters with the fox and the black-tail deer, Turtle would have jumped down the bluff for sure. Nonetheless, a fox and a deer were nothing like the most powerful hunter on the land. Turtle knew two things about this kind of large bear: it was immeasurably stronger than a grown man and could outrun even the fastest human.
Turtle rose to his feet, his legs shaking, and moved cautiously out of his cover. Jumping over the edge might still be necessary if the bear charged.
“I am here, friend Bear,” he called out, his voice quivering a bit.
The brown bear rose on her back legs, raising her black nose for scent. Locating Turtle, she dropped to all fours and approached.
“Do not be afraid, young two-legged,” she said. Her voice sounded tired.
Turtle felt somewhat reassured, though he stayed near the edge of the bluff. The bear was very large, yet not as large as a male would have been. Her coat was a deep, dark brown, though she seemed gaunt. Bears were usually fat this time of the year. Turtle noticed that her teats were small and dry. She was an old bear.
“Thank you, Grandmother,” he said. “It is good to see you.”
The bear walked to the edge of the bluff and gazed down the slope at the river for several moments, then settled herself in the grass.
“I know that you two-leggeds are afraid of us,” she said, “and with good reason. We are much stronger than you and we are faster runners. But you must know that we do not hunt you.”
“Yes, we know,” Turtle said, taking a seat an arm’s length from the bear. He still felt a bit nervous being so close to an animal that could kill him with one swipe of her claws.
“There are ways in which bears and two-leggeds are alike—perhaps you know that, too.”
“How so?” the young man asked.
“We are hunters, and so are you,” the old bear pointed out. “We eat meat and plants. So do you. That is true of only a few others. Most eat only meat or only plants. There are many ways that my kind are different from your kind, of course. But there is one way that puzzles me.”
Turtle cleared his throat. “What is that, Grandmother?”
“Our strength is easy to see. We are powerful and fast. We do not fear any being that walks on this earth. We will face anyone in battle, even elk or buffalo.” She paused to lift her nose, searching for smells. “But I am puzzled because I cannot see the source of your strength. I wonder if it is what you carry in your hands—your weapons. Perhaps that is so, because you are weak and slow, you have no claws like we do, or fangs like the great cats or wolves, or horns like the buffalo, or antlers like the elk and deer. Yet you hunt and you take down beings that are stronger and faster than you. It does trouble me.”
“Why does it puzzle you?” Turtle asked.
“Because it is the unseen enemy that can cause the greatest harm,” the bear replied. “A long time ago one of your kind hurt me with a weapon. A stone piece of it is still lodged in my back. I smelled him but I did not see him.”
“You are still alive,” Turtle pointed out.
“True,” the bear agreed. “But there was a time when two-leggeds had no weapons. Now you have many. Look what you carry.”
Turtle had never thought of what the bear said. He thought that weapons were something people always had. Yet how did they come to be? Someone long ago had to make the first lance, the first club. He remembered throwing stones at snakes. Stones became weapons when used in that manner, he reasoned. He had been taught to make weapons. That was what the bear did not know.
“My friend,” he said, “when I was a boy, my father and grandfather taught me to make weapons. I have made many in my life. That is our strength—we can make things. We can make our clothing, our dwellings, and our weapons.”
The bear nodded her head slightly. “Yes, what you say may be true. I can roll heavy stones aside to look for insects hiding beneath them, or push down a very large tree. But I cannot make anything the way you say you can.” She paused for several moments. “You also have fire.
“That is why the source of your strength cannot be seen,” she went on. “It is not so much your arms, your legs, or your speed and your size. It is a kind of strength that dwells somewhere within you. I do not know if that is good.”
Turtle did not know what to say. The bear’s reasoning bothered him, because it was not easy to argue against it. He could not. “I am glad you are my friend today, Grandmother,” he finally said.
“My people and yours are not enemies,” she said. “Sometimes our trails do cross when we do not expect. If you will walk away when that happens, so will we. You must tell your people this.”
“I will, Grandmother,” he promised.
The old bear labored to her feet. “Have a good journey, Grandson. My name is Strong Heart. I have lived many, many summers.”
Turtle stood and watched the old bear until she was out of sight over the hill. She was thin and he wondered if she would make it through another harsh winter. What she had to say echoed in his mind. She had stayed but briefly, yet suddenly he was sad she was gone.
He did not remember falling asleep, but he awoke curled up in the grass. By sundown he had made a shelter by covering a narrow gully with brush. A large blackfish was in the trap he had left in a shallow eddy of the river. Turtle fell asleep that night with a full stomach, wondering if any more animals would speak to him. In the morning he finished his fish, collected shale from the bluff, and reluctantly continued his trek. The spot by the river was peaceful and he hated to leave.
Of the four items he was to find, he had two. But he knew there was a wide expanse of land before he reached the river far to the south where blue sage grass grew. He had been fortunate so far. He had weapons and his snares had given him food. If he could bring down a deer he could probably take the time to make enough jerky to last a month. However, after meeting Leaper, he decided he would never again shoot a black-tail. If a white-tail came close, he would take a chance. He thought of all these things as he trotted across the prairies. Most of all he wondered who would believe that a fox, a deer, and a bear had spoken to him. Or had they? Maybe it was just his imagination.
Autumn rains, not unusual, began falling softly each afternoon. Walking became more difficult while it rained, especially up hills and slopes, because the ground was soft and slippery. For several days in a row Turtle started in the early morning, then sought shelter as the rain fell steadily in the afternoon. Shelter was not always available. After the third afternoon of rain, everything he owned was thoroughly soaked.
One morning he stumbled upon layers of shale protruding from the summit of a small hill, which was also not unusual. His grandfather called this prairie shale, to differentiate it from the shale found along riverbanks. Intending only to sit and rest, he noticed a bit of an overhang beneath the top layer, behind thick brush. With his lance he poked inside to make certain no rattling-tails were lurking. Pulling out pieces from the crumbling lower layers, Turtle managed to fashion a low shelter. He could sit inside out of the rain.
He hurried to gather kindling and dry wood from nearby gullies and thickets. When the rains came he built a small fire and hung his moccasins and breechclout on sticks to dry, as well as the rabbit hides. He roasted some of his dried meat over the low flames and fell asleep watching the fire.
“This is a good place,” said a small, soft voice.
Turtle opened his eyes and sat up, reaching instinctively for his lance. Then he saw the small bird with yellow eyes and long, thin legs. “Did you say something?” he asked.
“I said this is a good place,” the bird repeated.
“It is,” Turtle replied. “I cleared away the brush and some of the shale. I may need to stay here for a day, maybe longer. Rain makes it hard to walk.”
The bird was a small owl, a kind that lived in burrows with the prairie diggers. The bird-with-the-trembling-chin, they were called. In late autumn and early winter they had a high-pitched wavering cry, like someone shivering. It was their way to warn of a cold night coming. Turtle was no longer surprised to be addressed by other beings, yet after the bear, the last thing he expected was a burrowing owl.
“The rain drives my friends crazy,” the owl agreed. “Water runs down into their dens. I was going home when I saw your shelter,” she said, bobbing down the way they did now and then. “I thought it might be a good place to wait for the rain to stop.”
“Yes, it is,” Turtle agreed. “Stay as long as you like.”
The little owl stayed away from the fire, eyes narrowing when a waft of smoke came near. “My name is Singer,” she said. “I have lived here all of my life. In that time the village of the diggers has become larger and larger. Now it is spread over several hills. If you are traveling you might go east to avoid it. There are many rattling-tails who live with us as well. They cannot be trusted.”
“Thank you.” Turtle was sincerely glad for that bit of news. He did not like snakes, and he knew that rattling-tails lived in the digger burrows because they could not build their own dwellings. He could never understand how the diggers could tolerate a rattling-tail living in their very homes.
“You have come a long way, it appears,” the owl said. “I think you also have a long way yet to go.”
“Yes. I am not yet halfway through my journey.”
“There are many travelers on this land,” observed the owl. “The buffalo, most of all. They go from beyond the sunset to the other side of the sunrise. I think they were born with restless spirits.”
Turtle’s grandfather had said the same about the buffalo. “I think you are right,” he told the owl.
“But then, your people are travelers as well,” Singer said. “You came to this land from somewhere, because you were not always here. Now you move your dwellings. You do not stay in one place like the diggers or the badgers do. It seems you have restless spirits as well.”
Turtle smiled. “Perhaps we have become restless like the buffalo because we follow them. We hunt them and eat their flesh. My grandfather says we take their spirits into us by doing so.”
“Your grandfather is right,” affirmed the owl. “Does he know what the buffalo have to endure in order to live their life of traveling?”
“Perhaps he does. He has never spoken of it.”
“I think he will one day. But consider this,” Singer said. “The buffalo are the most powerful four-leggeds on the land, yet that is not enough to keep their enemies away. Wolves hunt them, so do your people. They suffer losses as we all do.”
“What does that mean?” Turtle wanted to know.
The owl bobbed her head and shoulders again, and gazed out into the soft rain with her wide eyes. It was stopping, the sun’s rays piercing the thinning clouds.
“It means that life favors no one being,” she said, a bit sadly. “It does not favor the strong over the weak. We all have our burdens and our victories. We all make our way the best way we can, using the abilities we are given. I must go back to my burrow now, the one that the diggers let me use. I raised my families in that burrow. The rattling-tail took some, now and then. But that is the way it is. I fly low just out of the reach of foxes but not so high that the falcons can dive on me from above. That is the way it is.”
“You are wise,” Turtle told the owl.
“I have lived a long life,” Singer said. “Beyond that hill, there, with the lone tree, is the body of an elk. He died yesterday, perhaps of old age. His flesh is still fresh, his hide will be very useful to you. The rains have kept his scent from floating far. Go, before others find him.”
“Thank you, Grandmother,” Turtle said.
“May all your journeys be good,” the owl said. She flew out of the shelter. Turtle jumped up and watched her go, flying low over the land. Then, grabbing his lance and his knife, he hurried toward the hill with the lone tree.
Two days of hard work, from dawn to dusk, yielded all the meat he could carry, along with a large hide. He scraped the inside clean, pounded it with stones, then smoked it over a fire. All the while he kept watch. He could not take all the meat from the elk carcass, only one hind leg and part of the rump. But he also took the hamstring sinew, the cord that ran from the base of the skull down to each ankle. Now he had a stout bowstring.
From the hide he made a small shirt without sleeves and a robe he could sleep under. It would also serve as a coat and shed rain and snow. Strengthened by good meat, he traveled south for eight days until he came to a wide river with clear water. Water that came from mountains far to the west, which he had never seen. Along the banks of the river was the blue sage grass.
He tried his fish trap and caught two fish, of a kind he did not know. He rested a day to work on his hide and dry out his bowstring. At dawn the second day he turned west, now wearing his second pair of moccasins.
Turtle was thankful for the elk hide because the nights were growing colder. He thought about the little burrowing owl. She was the size of one of the bear’s paws, but no less wise. Never in his life did he think animals could be wise, but why not? They were born and lived their lives, the same as humans, and on the same earth. Each of them that had come to him had been an elder. All the elders back home in his village knew things, more than anyone who was younger. It made sense, then, that an old black-tail deer would know things a young one did not.
The fourth night away from the river with the clear water, Turtle stared into his small fire. A cold breeze slid over the land outside his snug shelter, a small, low dome of interwoven branches and leaves. He was tired. His feet were sore because he had never traveled for so many days in a row. At least 48, if he had not lost count. For certain he knew that he was also much leaner. Though he had food, he ate sparingly. A man needs so little, just to live and breathe, he thought. Just before he extinguished his fire he saw the fox, the deer, the bear, and the owl. They knew things that he did not, perhaps never would. Somehow, that awareness bothered him. After the fire was out, he lay in the dark under the elk robe wondering where this journey would really take him.
Nearly ten days later he passed north of a land that seemed bare of grass and trees. At least the hills and slopes he could see had nothing growing on them. Turtle held back his curiosity about the place, resisting the urge to explore this patch of desolation in the middle of the prairie lands. His grandfather had warned him to stay out of it. That was another journey for another day, he had said.
A day’s travel north of the bare hills were rocky ridges, many of them covered with cedar trees. Turtle stared at them with a deep sense of relief. A kind of fatigue he had never known made his legs weak. He had been away from home for 60 days. Perhaps his family thought he was injured or dead. Wasting not another moment, he climbed the closest ridge and cut several flat branches with the flat cedar needles. He had the proof he needed. Now it was time to go home.
Below the ridge of cedar trees, he found an old blown-down tree, its roots exposed. By weaving brush through them, he made a solid shelter, a place where he would rest for a few days. Then taking his bow and lance, he climbed to the crest of a ridge and crawled in under the lower branches of a cedar. For most of the afternoon he watched the land all around.
There was plenty of activity. An elk whistled somewhere and a buffalo bull bellowed, its voice thinned by the distance. Coyotes could be seen everywhere, as well as rabbits and white-bellied goats. Turtle was reassured because he did not see any two-leggeds. Any people here would probably be enemies—that was an assumption the warrior side of him had to make. But, of course, not seeing an enemy did not mean one was not there. Anyone encroaching into enemy lands did everything possible to stay out of sight. One thing was certain, however. A cold breeze was prowling the land and he knew that autumn was nearly gone.
Turtle decided to close off his shelter and make a fire inside. Nights were colder now. As dusk settled across the land, he prepared a bed of small cedar branches and needles, then gathered fallen branches to cover the shelter, not only to keep the wind out but to keep the fire’s glow from being seen. Returning to the shelter with an armload of sticks, he saw a low, shadowy form blocking his path.
“You hide well,” a gruff voice said. “For a two-legged.”
Turtle saw the small eyes of the badger glistening in the dusky light. He kept his hand around the handle of his knife. He knew about badgers. They were extremely ferocious. One had chased him up a tree when he was a boy.
“Thank you,” he said, watching the badger look around. “I am glad to know that.” Turtle could see the dark stripes from the sides of his face and down his back.
“You have traveled far,” the badger said.
“Yes,” Turtle said, nodding slowly. “My feet hurt.”
“Now you can go home.”
Turtle paused. How did the badger know that he could go home? He decided to let it pass. “It will be good to go home. Come to my shelter. I have a few tubers. I am sure you are hungry.”
He decided not to build a fire after all, since he knew animals were afraid of it. The badger sat on his haunches off to one side and nibbled on the handful of tubers Turtle put before him.
“You have built a good shelter,” observed the badger. “My name is Digs. My dwelling is not far from here, high on a hillside.”
“High on a hillside?”
“Yes. There is a hard winter coming,” Digs said, taking more bites. “Our kind move to a hilltop or below the rim of a high bluff when there will be deep snow. That way it will not bury us and we will be above the water when the snow melts.”
“What if there is a drought, or a winter with not much snow?” Turtle asked.
“Then we move down the hills, closer to the creeks and rivers,” the badger said.
“That is good to know, and a wise thing to do,” Turtle pointed out.
“Everyone must have a home,” the badger said, finishing the last tuber. “Everyone must defend it. We badgers do not like anyone coming near our homes. We will fight fiercely to drive enemies away.”
“Is that what you came to tell me?” Turtle asked.
“Perhaps,” Digs replied mysteriously. “But also that two-leggeds passed by my dwelling days ago. I think they were carrying weapons, of the sort your kind use to hunt, or make war.”
“Where did they go?”
“That I cannot tell you,” the badger said. “They were traveling from the land of the Owl People.”
The land of the Owl People meant south. People from the south, likely going north. Turtle was worried. “I am glad to know that. Now I must hurry home. Those two-leggeds may be enemies of my people.”
“Thank you for feeding me,” the badger said cordially. “I must return to my dwelling. It is dusk now; darkness is not far and the nighttime hunters will be out. Travel well, two-legged.”
After the badger departed, Turtle built his fire. He wanted to sleep comfortably and rest well. In the fire’s light he wrapped his bundles and checked his weapons. At dawn he would begin the last part of his journey, as fast as he could manage. If the badger was right, enemies from the south could be somewhere out there.
Dawn came cold and clear. Turtle’s breath misted lightly in the air. After his legs had loosened, he broke into a trot. He traveled in a straight line, picking out a spot on the skyline ahead. When he reached it, he picked out another. Going over hills and ridges could not be avoided. Thus at the crest of each rise and hill, he hid and paused to rest and scout the land ahead. Many animals were moving, as he had expected. Except for bears and big cats, there was no outright danger from animals. The danger he was looking for was enemies from the south. Not until the fifth day, however, did he find them.
He smelled the smoke from their fire at dawn and saw them when they moved from their night camp. Seven men, all armed with lances and bows and quivers full of arrows. Stopping them was out of the question; he was badly outnumbered. There was only one way and that was to reach his village before they did.
For two days he followed them, conserving his energy and hoping they were not going in the direction of his village. His hopes were dashed. The intruders entered a river valley he knew well, southwest of his village. Home was four days away.
That night he did not sleep, but kept going, bending his line of travel to the east and then back to the north. It was cold and he was glad for the elk robe. Walking all night, he slept briefly at dawn.
At midday he stopped and slept again. He kept moving in this way, sleeping only in brief snatches. Though thoroughly exhausted, he was confident that he had left the intruders far behind. Pushing through a second night he reached a line of hills south of his village.
The dogs were the first to greet him as he stumbled past the outer circle of dwellings. His mother and grandmother were overjoyed to see him. Before he fell asleep he told his father about the intruders coming from the south.
Not until the next morning did Turtle awake. His mother told him that his father had led warriors to meet the intruders. After he bathed in the stream he took a meal of hot soup and mint tea from his grandmother. Several elders came to see him, to welcome him home, anxious to hear of his journey. There would be a rebirth ceremony in the sweat lodge, they told him, after the warriors returned. Then he could tell them all he had seen.
But Turtle was not certain if the elders would believe what he had to recount—or even his grand-father, whom he told first. No Feather listened quietly, inscrutably, it seemed, to his grandson. After Turtle told him of his last visitor, the badger, the old man nodded thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.
“There was a time, it is told, when two-leggeds and animals spoke to one another,” No Feather said. “It was not a different language that they spoke. It was that they could understand one another, just as you understood the fox, the deer, the bear, the owl, and the badger and they understood what you were saying to them.”
The next day his father and all the warriors returned with good news. There had been no fight, because the enemy had been surprised and surrounded in an ambush. The warriors had taken all their weapons away and sent them back to the south.
Everyone in the village came to visit Turtle as he rested, even some who had thought him strange. Most brought gifts and all were anxious to hear of his journey. After the rebirth ceremony he was taken into a special lodge where the elders met, and there he told them the story. No one scoffed when he told them of the fox, the black-tail deer, the bear, the owl, and the badger. But Turtle had expected that the elders would listen courteously and not scoff at him. The old ones had lived long lives and nothing seemed to surprise them. A feast was prepared the next evening to welcome home the traveler, and all the people came.
The Oldest Man spoke again. He did not tell the people that Turtle had spoken with animals and they with him. But he did say this:
“We are what we are. The wisdom of the Creator made us so, and made us to share this place, this earth, with all the other beings who are here. With some we are friends, with others we are enemies. We welcome our friends and face our enemies. There are other enemies as well, which cannot be seen—hunger, cold, and loneliness. They must be faced as well.
“Throughout our lives, our journeys, we are burdened. Some burdens we carry in our hearts, others we carry on our backs or in our hands. We must strive to travel light, without burdens, and when we can we must take on the burdens of others.
“Every being on this earth has a way, a power, be it strength or speed, sharp eyes and ears, or the ability of silence or stealth. Ours, as two-leggeds, is to reason, because we are weak and slow. We can reason to rise to the level that all others have, and it is my prayer that we do not lift ourselves above others. But whatever our power is, life deems that we will not be favored because of it. We must always remember that.
“We must use that power always to fiercely protect everything that is precious to us, our families and our homes.
“These words I have spoken rise out of The Journey of the young man we call Turtle. He has learned that knowledge is the best weapon, the greatest tool. Knowledge will light our path throughout our lives.
“Along the way he has been taught that each of us—no matter who or what we are—looks at life from what we are and how we live it. We look at the world from our path, whether it is high or low, hidden or in the open. If all that every being knew could be collected, there would be more knowledge than anyone could imagine. Each of our journeys is necessary because if knowledge is the key to wisdom, then all beings must learn as much as possible during their journeys—their lives.
“Finally, we give a new name to our traveler. Though his journey has not been easy, neither has it been without gain. From this day on he will be known as His Good Trail.”
Wawoslolye
(wah-woh-slol-yeh)
Knowledge
BE QUIET, WATCH, LISTEN, AND LEARN
In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king, so says an old axiom. The reason that the one-eyed man is king is obvious: he can see and no one else can.
There are over four thousand public and private colleges and universities in the United States where students are ostensibly beginning their pursuit of knowledge. Every year thousands upon thousands of them graduate from these institutions with basic skill sets and knowledge specific to their chosen professions. Yet, after they spend 40 years or so acquiring valuable experience and building on their knowledge base, society will deem them of no further use. After a career and several jobs, where they have certainly acquired more knowledge than they ever did in college, these people will be unceremoniously ignored, if not forcibly retired.
The United States, like just about every Western country, is a youth-oriented society. The energy and good looks of youth are preferable to the seasoned experience and knowledge of anyone over 40. Old equates to useless. If that seems difficult to believe, then consider the fact that most organizations, companies, and governments have a mandatory retirement age. Granted, the U.S. government has recently raised the retirement age, but the reason has nothing to do with keeping an experienced, knowledgeable work force in place; fewer people retiring means less drain on Social Security funds.
Even in qualifications for public office, knowledge and experience seem to take second place. Among the requirements to run for office at any level of government is a minimum age, usually 30 or younger and often as young as 21. Other basic requirements are citizenship and residency. Meaningful, relevant experience and a broad base of knowledge are not mentioned.
It is interesting to note that youth rights groups regard minimum age requirements for candidacy for elective offices as age discrimination. In comparison, I think of how my ancestors developed leaders. There, experience and a record of achievement were the first requirements. Young men used the arena of combat as well as civilian life to build this record, distinguish themselves, and demonstrate their courage and common sense. For all aspiring leaders, whether as warriors or civilians, it was necessary to be selfless, compassionate, honest, courageous, intelligent, and humble. As young men worked to demonstrate those qualities, they gained experience and knowledge. Elders knew that a man with several years of experience was the best one to handle the inexperienced exuberance of young men, especially in a combat situation. Several years of experience and useful knowledge gained gave assurance that this first line of leaders, who were about 30 years old, knew what they were doing more than the 18- to 20-year-olds did. Any thought of age discrimination was met with the patience of experience and the assurance that those young ones would one day realize why 18- to 20-year-olds were not leaders. They would learn that after several years of “doing”—serving the needs of the people—they would gain the experience and knowledge to be considered for leadership. There is no substitute for knowing what you are doing. As a matter of fact, it was basic knowledge, and the willingness to gain more, that enabled my ancestors to successfully face a major change in their lives about three hundred years ago.
The Lakota people (along with the Nakota and Dakota) once lived in the region southwest of Lake Superior. How long our ancestors were there as forest dwellers and canoe people and fishermen is not known. We do know approximately when they migrated farther west. In the late 1600s French trappers and voyageurs arrived and formed alliances with other indigenous people. The French tipped the balance of military power by providing the Hahatunwan (a.k.a. Anishanabe, Ojibwa, and Chippewa) and other tribes with firearms, and drove the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota out of the region.
In this instance discretion was the better part of valor. Common sense told the Lakota and their allies that any military confrontation with their better-armed enemy would decimate their populations, especially males between ages 20 and 40, since those were the fighting men. The regions farther to the west were not totally unknown to them, since adventurous young men had occasionally wandered beyond known areas and brought back information. But when they left the thick forests and plentiful lakes of what is now northern Minnesota, they realized that a change in lifestyle was necessary because the northern plains were a drastically different physical environment. And adapt they did to that new environment because of one simple and strong value: knowledge.
As hunters and gatherers, all indigenous people knew the basics of survival, such as finding food (which included hunting and fishing) and procuring raw materials for shelter and clothing. But procurement was only the first step. Harvesting or gathering was followed by processing. For a game animal—be it rabbit or elk—this meant skinning and butchering and taking all usable material from the carcass. The hamstring cord of elk and deer, which was attached on either side of the spine from the base of the skull to the ankle bones on each hind leg, was extremely strong; it was dried and separated and used for thread and bow strings. Hooves, when boiled and cooled, produced a glue stronger than most chemical glues today. Sewing needles were made from leg bones and awls (for piercing holes in hide) from antler tips.
The Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota lived by their knowledge of the world around them in all its aspects—such as plants. They categorized these for use as food, medicine, construction or crafting materials, or dyes. Plants that did not fit into those categories were used in ceremonies or as additives or ingredients in cooking, processed into soap, made into toys, or burned as smudge or incense. Medicine plants were used to treat a variety of ailments and illnesses, such as colds and coughs, headaches, gastrointestinal disorders, toothaches, diuretic needs, dizziness, snake bites, and aching joints, to name a few. Just as important as knowing how to use them was knowing where to find them, when to harvest them, and how to process or prepare them for use. It was also necessary to know which part of the plant could be used: the leaf, root, bark, or fruit.
Similar banks of knowledge, if you will, existed for social customs, spiritual beliefs, hunting techniques, warfare, friends and foes, seasonal weather patterns, animal habitats and habits, and weapons, utensils, and tools, all of them obviously handcrafted. The products of technology, then as now, did not and could not exist without human skill and ingenuity, not to mention knowledge of materials and construction methods. Then, it was human energy that literally drove the functioning of tools, utensils, and weapons. But the driving force behind it all was knowledge.
Thus it was knowledge that enabled the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota to live in their forest home, and knowledge that allowed them to adapt to life on the northern plains. Some of the information and knowledge specific to the forest environment was of no use in the new reality; it was not totally discarded, though, but replaced with new information that led to building a new body of knowledge.
The only bodies of water on the plains were creeks and streams and the many small rivers. The largest was the Great Muddy River, now known as the Missouri River. It was along these watercourses that trees grew in groves and forests, but nowhere near as thick as the woodlands around the lakes of Minnesota. Fishing would no longer be a primary method of procuring food. Canoes would no longer be necessary and neither would canoe-building skills. The lack of trees meant that the old ways of ensuring comfort and safety no longer held; in the forest, lodges or dwellings had been mostly permanent dome-shaped structures, a framework of wood poles covered with layers of woven branches. There was an immediate impact on hunting, too. Since forests provided food as well as shelter for game animals, such as deer and elk, it was not necessary to go far to find them. The wide-open grassy and virtually treeless plains meant not only that hunting tactics had to be altered, but that hunters had to travel great distances to find game. The Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota realized almost immediately that the plains environment was much more unforgiving than the forest. Survival would require adapting, and adapting meant developing a new knowledge base.
They also learned immediately that the northern plains was a place of extremes. Though sparsely populated by humans—a testament to the physical and mental toughness that two-legged beings needed to survive there—it teemed with animal life. Seemingly numberless herds of bison and pronghorn antelope wandered over the vast and endless landscape. The extremes played out with the weather as well. Summers could be scorching hot with powerful thunderstorms, and winters brought bone-chilling cold, with wind-driven whiteout blizzards. There were only two choices, equally extreme: stay or leave. The Dakota and Nakota chose to stay east of the Great Muddy River, where they found the rolling hills of the tall-grass prairie more to their liking. The Lakota, on the other hand, crossed to the western short-grass prairies.
Because herds of bison, the most readily available resource, were almost constantly on the move, anyone who hunted them had to be mobile as well. So the once forest-dwelling, sedentary Lakota shifted to a nomadic lifestyle. Permanent dwellings made of wood were no longer practical. What to replace them with was the obvious problem.
Any dwelling had to meet three requirements: portability, suitability for cold weather, and sturdiness to withstand strong winds. The answer was a conical lodge made of hides and wooden poles.
Bison were plentiful, in the hundreds of thousands if not millions, so there was a ready source of hides. The Lakota knew the characteristics of the trees in the environment around them—essential knowledge that was second nature to them after countless generations of living in direct daily contact with it—and since the poles had to be straight as well as strong, they knew that young pine trees were the logical choice. The resulting shelter was easy to put up, take down, and transport, snug in the cold winter, and able to stand up to merciless winds: the perfect product of old and newfound knowledge.
To make what would become the iconic dwelling of the plains—known as tipi—about 10 to 12 bison hides, with hair scraped off, were cut and trimmed and sewn together to form two triangular halves. The base of each triangle was curved. The two halves were laced together with hardwood skewers (usually chokecherry shrub) to form a half-circle-shaped covering. That covering was draped over a conical framework of 10 to 12 poles. These poles of softwood, such as young pine, were straight and when dried were rigid and strong enough to bear the weight of the hides. They were about three inches at their base and 12 feet long, yet they were light and easy to transport. Bison hides had the tensile strength necessary to be stretched tightly, as they were over the framework of poles.
Loops of braided cord were attached to the curved bottom edge of the covering, and long hardwood pins were twisted into these loops and then pounded into the ground. This accomplished two things: it stretched the covering tightly and it enabled the structure to withstand wind. Though the basic floor design of the dwelling was circular, with the door facing east, the Lakota learned that an elliptical or egg-shaped design was more effective against the wind. Thus the back end, to the west, was narrower.
The dwelling was approximately eight to nine feet high inside, or just beyond the reach of a tall man with an arm stretched upward, and about 10 to 12 feet wide at the floor level. It was a dwelling that could hold four to six adults comfortably. To make the lodge snug and warm for the winter, an inner lining was added—two narrow lengths of bison hide, about four feet wide, tied to the lodge poles. Grass was stuffed between the inner lining and the outer covering, creating effective insulation.
Interior fire pits were necessary for cooking and heat, especially in the winter, so one other crucial design element was a smoke hole. The new conical lodge had a narrow opening at the top, with two square flaps on either side of that opening on the outside, propped up by two long poles that faced them away from the general direction of prevailing winds. The conical shape of the dwelling allowed smoke from the fire to rise and slide out of the smoke hole. The outside flaps created an eddy that sucked out smoke in even the slightest breeze.
Since dogs were used to haul possessions and household goods, the design and size of the conical lodge made it easy to transport (from the point of view of the people, if not the dogs). Each dog pulled two drag poles to which a light frame of wood was attached. Onto and into this frame, household goods and possessions were placed and tied down. Larger and stronger dogs could pull one half of the lodge covering, essentially the weight of five to six buffalo hides. One dog could also pull at least six of the long support poles. So four dogs were required to transport one lodge: two halves of the covering and 10 to 12 poles. With the coming of the horse, it became possible to transport bigger and heavier loads, so the tipi grew larger; eventually up to 20 buffalo hides went into its construction, with longer and sturdier poles to support the covering—another transformation made successful by knowledge and the willingness to learn.
But knowledge encompasses much more than just the artifacts and physical realities of a culture. There are aspects of culture that have no physical dimension but profoundly shape a society: values, beliefs, traditions, customs, laws, and norms of human behavior. For the Lakota as a culture, this kind of knowledge was as essential to survival as knowing how to build a shelter.
On the plains, surviving with and within the natural environment was often a struggle, and to ensure survival it was necessary for people to live and work together. To make this possible, societies established and applied rules, roles, and behavioral expectations—which meant that awareness, hence knowledge, of individual and collective human behavior was a critical necessity. Observation over time was the best teacher, and among other things it revealed one reality at the core of group dynamics: most humans preferred to be part of a group rather than live in isolation. That essential bit of knowledge formed the basis for the community’s punishment of the most serious offenses, such as assault, bodily harm, and murder: ostracism and even exile.
Ostracism meant that the offender was no longer part of the community, either for a prescribed period of time or forever. The offender, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist as far as the community was concerned. He was escorted out of the village with nothing but the clothes he was wearing, and the people were told that under no circumstances were they to have any contact with him. After that, word was sent to other villages, and sometimes even to enemy villages. The offender, therefore, was utterly alone in the world. If his family chose to follow him, then the sentence applied to them as well. This punishment defused the inclination for revenge in the community, and the threat of it was such an effective deterrent that murder and aggravated assault were rare (until the arrival of alcohol).
On the other side of the coin, recognition within the group was a powerful motivator and a way to guard against the vice of arrogance, especially when it came to exploits on the field of battle. An arrogant man more often than not put his own needs and welfare and reputation first. Warfare was a proving ground for young men, especially those who aspired to be leaders. The dilemma was to encourage them to do their best as warriors when it was necessary—to the point of laying their lives on the line—while keeping their egos in check and learning the value of humility. To solve that dilemma, a special recognition ceremony for Lakota warriors was devised.
The ceremony was called waktoglakapi (wahk-toh-glah-ka-bee), or “to tell of one’s victories.” A few days after warriors returned from a patrol or mission, the village gave a feast and invited the warriors to stand before the people and recount their exploits in battle. This was done for two reasons. First, the telling of significant and courageous action taken on behalf of the people was a gift to the people. Once the story was told by a man, the action he described was no longer his; it belonged to the people. Secondly, any and all accounts had to be verified by others who were involved or present when it occurred. This ensured that stories could not be fabricated. Thus the ceremony was both an affirmation and recognition of the warrior and an effective safeguard against arrogance. Someone with keen insight and firsthand knowledge of the fragile egos of young men was certainly behind the creation of the waktoglakapi. Chances are it was an elder.
Elders, of course, were the best source of information and knowledge in the Lakota world. Not only because of the knowledge they had gained from a long life, but also because they were the connection to the previous generation’s thoughts and ideas. Interestingly enough, an elder would be the first to tell you that he or she really did not know much. Which was, of course, spoken out of true humility. In reality elders were the repository of knowledge: walking libraries, if you will, and a most precious resource. In spite of American and Western societies’ tendency to be youth-oriented, this is still very much true. Elders today are an untapped resource. This was not the case for my ancestors, the pre-reservation Lakota. They developed a social hierarchy based on experience and knowledge that enabled them to stay a strong and well-organized culture for hundreds of years. And the elders were the first to tell children and remind everyone that the pursuit of knowledge must be a lifelong endeavor.
No one, of course, can know it all, but each of us can know as much as is in our power. There are choices, of course. We can know a little about many things, which is better than knowing nothing at all—though the axiom “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing” is a word to the wise. Or we can accumulate voluminous and specific knowledge regarding just a few things.
In this day and age the pursuit of knowledge begins with a formal education, and then what we learned in those 12 to 20 years is either affirmed, disputed, altered, or obliterated. Whatever we do with a formal education, or after it, the most significant truth that each of us can embrace is that life is the greatest teacher. And it is not selective about what it teaches us. It will teach us how to be as well as how not to be. It will teach us how to do something and how not to do it. My grandparents all had the same advice when it came to living life. They said “Be quiet, watch, listen, and learn.”
The more we see, the more we know, and the more we know, the more empowered we are. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.