It's said History is written by...

the winners.  

At the Little Bighorn Battlefield, there were no winners. 

The battle took place in June, 1876. This deadly struggle was the culmination of broken treaties, the uncompromising advance of Manifest Destiny, the clash of cultures who shared no common traits (other than being humans) and a few charismatic leaders. 

The White Folks were led by George Armstrong Custer. He was a Civil War General who led his troops from the front. He was fearless. He had eleven horses shot out from under him. He made great copy for the press. He might have been reckless and lucky. He was totally clueless on battling Indians who didn't follow standard military procedures. 

The Lakota,  Cheyenne and Arapaho were led by Chief Sitting Bull. He was more of a spiritual leader than an X's and O's military strategist. He called the Reservation Indians fools and suck-ups. He exhorted them to join him and his followers and return to their tried and true way of life. Many did just that. When you think about it, the Indians just wanted to be free to live their nomadic lifestyle. I can relate to that. 

Let the battle begin!

Custer's Crow and Arikara Indian scouts spot a large Lakota/Cheyenne/Arapaho  encampment on the banks of the Little Bighorn River. Custer didn't want this prize to escape. He divides his command. A tactic used often in the Civil War by General Lee. 

Major Reno led a surprise attack on the sleepy campers. When the Warriors woke up, Boy! Were they mad! The Braves rallied and chased Reno and his broke down command back across the river. The retreat was anything but orderly. Forty soldiers died trying to make it to higher ground. Captain Benteen's battalion joins Reno on the ridge top. They dig in with a siege mentality mindset. The soldiers hold on for a day and a half.

Custer and his battalion move north along the bluffs to get in front of the encampment.  About this time, the fog of war rears its ugly snout. Custer has lost contact with his beleaguered battalions. He and his 225 Cavalrymen were virtually on their own. No historian knows the moment when Custer realizes that the attackers were now being attacked. Many of his soldiers panic and try to escape the trap. They are cut down. About 41 horsemen and Custer make it to Last Stand Hill. There, they shoot their steeds to serve as breastworks. For a cavalryman, this is the final act of capitulation. The one sided onslaught is over in about thirty minutes. 

Now, all is quiet on this deceptively steep battlefield. White markers indicate the approximate points where the soldiers met their unexpected demise. Red/brown markers indicate where the Native Americans fell defending their way of live. 

The victory was a short lived one. The combatants would eventually end up on Reservations. 

Sitting Bull would die at the hands of his own people in 1890 on the Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota.

It's a place worth seeing and pondering over.

From the banks of the Yellowstone River near Livingston, Montana.

G' day!

Jeff

Forty-one years ago...

I walked into Diamond J Bar in Lovell, Wyoming, and made my way through the cigarette smoke, country music and cowboy hats to the main bar. 

I leaned toward the bartender and asked, "KenIhaveapitcherofCoors."

He looked at me funny. 

I had made my request in a rapid-heavy-handed Bronx accent. I might as well have been speaking Swahili. What we had here was a complete failure to communicate.

I tried this approach, "Can-I-have-a-pitcher-of-Coors? Please?"

"Hell! Why didn't you say so in the first place!" 

Well, I sort of did. This was my first realization that things were different in the West.  

I learned from this experience. I needed to speak Western States English. I had to change. The West was where I knew I wanted to be. 

Back to the point of the story:

The next morning, I began my first seasonal gig with the U.S. Forest Service in the Bighorn Mountains of north-central Wyoming. I was assigned to a tree marking crew. This meant we painted many cords of Engelman spruce trees in preparation for a timber sale. The unfortunate ones were painted orange. They would eventually fall to a loggers chainsaw. We were called "Timber Beasts" by our cohorts who had jobs less stressful to the forest than creating small clear cuts. I envied them. My job wasn't fun other than the times we got to spray paint a cow who wandered within our range. 

When the weekend came about, stumbling through the woods was the last thing I wished to do. I was then 21 years old, brimming with testosterone and energy. The bright lights, big city of Sheridan or Story or Lovell or Buffalo, Wyoming beckoned. I visited bars, drank beer and looked at pretty cowgirls. (I still like going to bars and looking at pretty women. Somethings never change.) 

In retrospect, I never got the chance to notice the beauty that was all around me. I was in the freaking work mode. I'm now making amends. I spent over a week and many trail miles in the Cloud Peak Wilderness. It is indeed an amazing place. 

See for yourself. 

BTW: In a round about way, my first gig as a Bighorny led to my eventual career as a firefighter. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/05/another-tribute-to-fallen.html

Yes, the West is still the best part of America. In the next few months, I'll prove this with words and photos.

From Garryowens, Montana

Cheers!

Jeff

PS. In case you missed my first post from Cloud Peak.

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/07/it-bad-sign.html

PPS.

Thank You,  LBJ for signing the Wilderness Act of 1964

 http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2014/10/lbj-is-known.html 

It's a bad sign...

when you wake up and see your tent resembling an igloo. 

My plan for the Cloud Peak Wilderness was to hike to the top of its namesake. Easy enough right? The Weather Channel promised me nothing but skin cancer causing sun. In other words great conditions for summiting the 13,166" mountain. 

I went to sleep the night before my hike with no weather concerns. Then I heard the gentle drip, drip, drip sound of Wet Death. It was followed by a Ginger Baker drum solo beating down on my rip stop nylon. Hmmm.  If there's a cold rain at 10,100" then it must be White Death above me. 

Sure enough, from my lower vantage point the mountain was looking like a Ku Klux Klan gathering. One big white cap. I took the Polly Anna approach. Maybe by the time I summited, the snow will be melted off. Good idea except there was more gray matter in the sky than blue matter. It wasn't warm either. 

Cloud Peak is comprised of angular granite boulders ranging in size from toasters to refrigerators. None of the stones reside on a level plain. Add slick White Death and ice to the blend and it makes for a dangerous rock hopping experience. I split my shins a few times when I landed wrong. At least this time, there was no spurting blood. 

I persevered to within 100" of the summit. At this point I had been in motion for four hours. There were no obvious straightforward routes to the top. (Lots of snow!) the wind was in tantrum mode , my shoes and gloves were iced over and ominous clouds were gathering. I retreated. The Mojo wasn't right. 

I get to live another day.

BTW. My first gig out of Forestry School was in the Bighorn National Forest. That was 41 years ago. I've come full-circle once again.

Good night from Ten Sleep, Wyoming 

Jeff

PS. Many of these pix were shot on the day I should have been on the peak.