Destination Home

(The place is real, the people, personalities, and events are combinations of those I've
known and imagined).

Destination Home


I felt apprehensive. I’d traveled far in the twenty years since I'd left home. But there was one place I hadn't been, the Flathead Indian Reservation, my people's home, my childhood home. Even though I was tied in knots, as the plane landed I knew it was time to return home.

After renting a car at the airport in Spokane, I followed the interstate through the city, across the state line, then on across the panhandle of Idaho. After crossing Fourth of July mountain pass, I began to relax and enjoy the mountain scenery.

Leaving Wallace, I ascended a second mountain pass. At the very top, a bright blue sign sporting the state seal in gold greeted me, “Welcome to Montana”. I eased back. Moving toward my destination the anticipation of home began to stir my bones.

When I left interstate ninety at St. Regis, I stopped at Huckleberry Brothers’ cafe for a first taste of home; a cup of black mountain coffee served steaming hot. Sizzling buffalo burgers on the grill woke my taste buds, but unable to stay long, I turned away, purchasing instead, a slice of huckleberry fudge ‘to go’. Mouth watering, tummy grumbling, I move on down the road I knew so well, starting to get the feeling I’d been away too long.

Traveling at a clip of fifty miles per hour, window down, the scent of coniferous trees and clean mountain air aroused me. I watched the woods on either side carefully. Memories of other trips haunted me.

Though I’ve been lucky enough not to hit any, I've seen many animals along the way. Deer have strayed across my path many times. One winter a herd of ten or more elk emerged from these very trees onto the road in front of me. Once a bear cub and it’s mother slowed me momentarily. And one time I even disturbed a mountain lion sunning herself and a cub on the heated blacktop edge of the road. Today, though I watched, not even a porcupine or raccoon revealed itself to me.

At the intersection I turned east toward the tiny town of Dixon. A small green sign with white letters stated “Entering the Flathead Indian Reservation.” I chuckled to myself remembering my Dad teasing me the first time I read the sign myself.

“Dad, we’re on an Indian Reservation?” I asked apprehensively.

“Yeah, and if you’re not careful, some ole buck will scalp ya.” His dark eyes twinkled at me.

“Oh, Thad.” Came my mother’s disgusted voice. “You old buck, quit teasing so.”

Glancing at the Indian reflected in my rear view mirror, I chuckled again at my own childhood naïveté's.


As I approached the tiny town of Dixon I noticed the sign, SLOW DOWN TO FORTY MILES PER HOUR, painted in tall white letters on a red fence. The words were new, but the fence I remembered. I slowed to pass the post office, gas station, bar and the leather shop. Two miles the other side of town I turned left at the intersection.

Passing the old Indian agency I noticed an elderly woman, skin as dark as my own, sweeping a decaying porch with an old wispy broom. I wondered if she were one of the women my mother used to tan deer hides with or maybe she was the lady who once saved me from the river that flows behind the now dilapidating houses. I would stop back by here on my way out of town, but for now, I drove on.

The entrance to the National Bison Range rose on my right just around a bend after the agency. A hand-carved brown buffalo stood statuesquely inviting all to visit. A wooden sign advertising one and three hour driving tours tugged at my mind, but, I couldn’t stop yet. Not yet. The most magnificent still lie ahead.

I grabbed gears as I sped on down the road; my heart pulsed, to the beat of long ago. Around the next bend, I spied a hawk soaring high over open ground. It swooped on its prey and rose again. For a moment my spirit soared with him.

At the top of the next hill, though I’d seen them many times before, the majestic snow-capped, glacial Mission Mountain Range of the Rockies standing stoically above towns and valleys below, stole my breath away. These glorious mountains are home to all manner of woodland creatures, but especially nature’s greatest beast, the grizzly. In complete awe of this glorious sight, I breathed a quick silent prayer of praise to my Creator.

Through the little town of Charlo, I again slowed my car. A man in a cowboy hat tipped his head toward me as I skirted around him on his big bay horse. The sign on the edge of town announced the annual 'Rocky Mountain Oyster Festival' for this Saturday night. I noticed the sheriff’s department road block hardware sitting on either end of Main Street in preparation of the event that would fill the town. I mentally noted the event as something else I might do before leaving.

I drove on past Ninepipe Wildlife Refuge. My gaze swept the area. I hoped to see one of the many species the refuge played host to. I spied a flock of northern geese swimming peacefully near the center of the crystal blue water and a red-wing black bird sang to me from his perch in cattails near the edge. I sighed.

At the intersection I turned right on to highway Ninety-three toward Ravalli. I took a deep breathe, only a few miles left. The last few highway miles went fast. I watched for the post marked “Encampment”. There I swung off the highway on to a well trod dirt road, over a wooden bridge, past a small old brown trailer house, into the woods I pushed.

Brimming with anticipation, barely able to contain myself, I let the car bounce quickly over the rutty old road. I drove on through the entry gate and off to the left of the circle of primeval looking buckskin Tipis that circled the center of grounds and parked with other cars near an old stand of pine trees.

Searching old familiar faces, I trod through the crowd of over two hundred people all dressed in holiday garb. Finally, I found my parents sitting in the shade of the canvas-topped dance pavilion, each on a padded folding chair, each wrapped in an old faded Pendleton blanket.

“You made it.” They cried. They held my hands and pulled me close for kisses, then quickly motioned me to sit and be quiet. Though over forty years old, I dropped near their feet like a child to sit quietly attentive with my legs crossed, hands in my lap. My dad smiled his approval.

Glancing up at them, I noticed they had grown old. Dad’s dark face, creased deep by the wrinkles of time, made him look wise. Mother’s hair had grown white and, though she braided it, many white wispy hairs escaped their hold. Even all wrinkled and crinkled though, they looked good to me, eyes sparkling happiness.

A deep drum beat steady and strong signaled the start of ceremonies. A man older than my father, bent and stooped, made his way to the center of the pavilion. All eyes were on him when the drum beat stopped. He held us in total silence for a moment before he began.

Arms in the air he started. “We gather to give thanks to the Creator. We are blessed and have much to give thanks for. We complete another year of life on this earth. We have much to give thanks for.”

He lowered his arms and folding his hands in front. He waited while the crowd followed suit, then he continued, “I thank the Creator for young and old alike. I thank the Creator for the land given us to live on. I thank the Creator for food that has sustained us. I thank the Creator for the wild animals that share our space. I thank the Creator for family and friends to gather with. I thank the Creator that all of us have been able to gather in this dance celebration. I give this in thanks to the Creator.”

A young man in full dance dress held a large sea shell in front of the elder. Another young man in full dance dress handed the elder two braids of grass (one of sage and the other sweet grass), one at a time. In the background, the drum beat started again low and deep. The elder held first the sweet grass for all to see, then he lit it with a match. As the smoke rose he used an Eagle’s feather to fan it; first to the north, then south, then east, then west. As he fanned, He said a quiet blessing in his native Salish. When he finished the blessing he placed the burning grass in the sea shell where it continued to smolder. He lit the braid of sage next and did the same. The familiar smoky scent comforted me like an old teddy bear. I leaned against my father’s knee. He patted my shoulder.


“Good you’re home.” He whispered, “Good you’re home.”


When the old man finished with the sage he bowed his head. At that, one of the singers called out in an eerie, high pitched voice, “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, YEA, YEEEEEEEE, yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”. The elder bowed his head for a moment then called out, “Let the ceremonies begin!”

The pavilion filled with all participants for the Round dance. Dancers varied in size and age from babies barely walking to very old elderly. Dance regalia were as varied as the dancers themselves in all manner of color and design. For this one dance, the Round dance, all people present danced together. After this the dancers would divide and compete with others in their own division. The drum beat, the singer sang, my heart and feet couldn’t help but join. I danced.

My father, mother, family, friends and I remained together that great day and two more.

We filled ourselves with tribal foods. I delighted in delicious, slippery, greasy bear meat pulled up after roasting for over a day deep in a ground-pit. My mouth enjoyed chewy fry bread, spicy home-made chili, truly dry dried meat and all kinds of other treats.

We played stick games in the game area. It's such a game of trickery. Two teams of five or more, including a drummer each, sit facing one another. To the beat of the drum the players on one side pass a small bone piece from one to another while the other team watches. A poker face is required. When the drum stops the players on the one side try to guess what member of the team on the other side is hiding the bone. My mother is a master of this game. I bet my money on her and it paid.

Story-telling time came late in the evenings when little orange fires glowed all around the Teepee grounds. Some, like my father, used the shadows of the flames and the sounds of the forest to make their stories come alive. His stories were of old times and usually taught a lesson or two. He saved these for the last night.

Others, like my old Friend, Don Yellow Pup, told stories so humorous we lay in side-splitting agony at the end. This night, he told his:

"We were up in the South Fork horn hunting, my brother, Terry and me. He was a ways down the trail. The bear were thick that year. One 'bout every three mile or so. I'd seen a couple a ways off and was thinkin' we might want to get off that mountain as many as there were. That's when I saw it… A cub only a few feet away. When it saw me it let out a bawl like a baby. I knew I was toast. I stood there a minute wondering what I was going to do. I knew a baby that little, it’s mama was pretty close. Sure enough, that’s when I heard her crashing through the brush headed toward the cub and I. Well, that mama took a snort at the cub sending him up a tree and charged, teeth bared, right at me."

He chose that moment to take a cigarette out. Tense with anticipation, we all waited as he took his time lighting it with a shiny silver Zippo that flashed in the fire light. I felt the fear of the moment in his story, but the twinkle in his eye, his half grin told and the fact that he was here to tell it, let me know, it would be all right. Still, we hung in the air like the smoke of his cigarette, waiting for his next words.

“I only had my forty-five pistol, not much, not much at all against a full grown mad mama Grizzly. Not much at all.” He stopped again to take a deep drag. "I thought fast and cocked the lever back on that pistol. I let squeeze a round, not at the bear, but low on the trunk of the tree that baby climbed. I shot and prayed. When that bullet hit the tree it let out a loud ZING! The sound or the impact, maybe both, caused the baby's bottom to fall off the limb, but that cub still held on. He hung there by an arm. a-hollering and a-bawlin to beat the band.
‘Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaa, maaaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaa.’ it cried.
"Well that mama stopped dead in her tracks. She looked from me to the tree and back again. She didn't know whether to keep charging me or go back and see what was going on with her cub. Seeing my luck, I took one more shot toward that ole tree.
"Zing!" The second time I hit the tree behind the one the baby was in. That baby dropped to the ground then and let out another bawl. ‘Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.’
"That made up her mind. She ran for the baby and quick as my legs could go, I skedaddled on out of there, found my brother and got us both off that mountain.”

The campfire erupted with laughter.

"Lucky ole son of a gun." My father said through his laughter while slapping his hand to his thigh. Soon hunting stories were flying all around. It would have gone on in to the wee hours of the morning, except, after a while, my dad stood.

"These ole bones are gettin' tired, it's time for bed." He said as he waved his arm in the air. “You can all go on, but, you’ll have to go to another campfire. I’m off to bed.”

The gathered people reluctantly dispersed. Making a long round of good-nights short, my dad doused our campfire with a bucket of cold creek water. I led him and mother into the dark tipi.

Inside the dark cavern of our tipi I smelled the familiar scents; lantern oil, old canvas, dirt, grass, tanned hides, sage, sweat grass, rawhide and my parents own scent. I filled my lungs deeply, making it, once again, a part of me.

Separating the darkness, dad lit an old green lantern. Peering through the dim light, I noticed on one side of the fire pit, their bed made of an old mattress set up on a worn box spring. It looked very cozy all covered in comfortable quilts and pillows, many made by my mother and grandmother's own hands. With a gesture of his hand, my father directed my attention to the other side of the fire pit.

“I can’t believe you still have all that old stuff!” I exclaimed rushing toward my own old bedroll.

"We still bring it every year." mom said quietly.

Unrolling it, I examined my old things. First, the bottom layer was an old bear skin; the first I ever tanned on my own. The second layer was an old military sleeping bag I’d picked up on a trip to Billings my junior year of high school. The other two layers were made of an orange and black wool Pendleton my grandfather gave me and a red and black quilt my mother had made for me.

Just like years ago, I quickly laid it all out on the grass floor and snuggled in. In a flick, dad turned out the lantern. Laying back, hands behind my head, I stared up at the star-filled sky through the smoke hole in top of the tipi. As I listened to my parents breathing turn to soft snores the safe, comfort of my childhood cradled me. I was home.

Though my mother and father’s spirits have since gone on, and I still reside in a world apart; forever, the beat of the drum, the song of the singer, the blessing of the elder, the rise of the mountains, the song of the bird, and the rhythm of the rez daily keeps me until I return home again.