Searching for the Promised Land

By Jeff Sambur

While cycling in Wyoming in 2001, I bumped into the Nez Perce Historical Trail northwest of Cody, Wyoming on the harshly named Dead Indian Pass. I hopped off of my bicycle and read a historical marker briefly describing the 1877 flight of the Nez Perce Indians, who were being hotly pursued by the U.S. Army (see cover story, May/June 2006). I made a “mental sticky note” to further investigate this bit of history.

WOW! What an epic tale it was! The story had all the makings of a classic: murder, revenge, broken treaties, deceit, short skirmishes, full-blown battles, and an eloquent spiritual leader named Chief Joseph. Included in all of this action was a cast of thousands.

The Historical Record
The Nez Perce (Nee-Me-Poo) were a peaceful tribe whose traditional homelands were what are now parts of Oregon, Washington and Idaho. Lewis and Clark’s Corp of Discovery met the Nez Perce in 1805 and found them to be a most agreeable tribe. The Nez Perce even watched over the Corp’s ponies as they ventured forth toward the Pacific Ocean, and supplied them with canoes and directions as well.

In 1855, the Nez Perce negotiated a treaty granting them seven million acres of Idaho, Washington and Oregon. Unfortunately, white folks began to trespass upon these lands and the inevitable clashes of cultures began. These conflicts escalated after gold was discovered on Nez Perce land in 1860. In 1863, a Nez Perce chief with the improbable name of Lawyer signed away 90 percent of the reservation. The Nez Perce allotment was shrunk to 700,000 acres. A few prominent chiefs, including Chief Joseph’s father, Chief Old Joseph, refused to sign, thereby creating the chasm between the “treaty” vs. the “non-treaty” bands of Nez Perce. In a huff, Chief Old Joseph tore up the Treaty of 1855 and retired with his band to the Wallowa Valley in northeast Oregon.

In 1871, before his death, Chief Old Joseph handed over the civil leadership role to his son, Heinmot Tooyalatkekt (Thunder Traveling to Loftier Mountain Heights--now that’s a name!), later to become famous as Chief Joseph. Before Chief Old Joseph’s spirit departed this earth, he requested that the new chief never sign over or sell the land to the U.S. government. (Appropriately, Chief Old Joseph’s burial site at Wallowa Lake is the beginning of the Nez Perce Historical Trail.)

During these years, more settlers began pouring into the Wallowa Valley, leading to more friction between the groups. Many unfortunate Nez Perce were injured or murdered at the hands of the whites. The judicial system sided with the newcomers and the perpetrators walked.

In May 1877, it all came to a head when General O.O. Howard issued an ultimatum commanding the non-treaty Nez Perce bands to move onto the reservation. They were given 30 days to quit their ancestral homelands. The five non-treaty bands of Indians saw the futility of taking on the U.S. Army and agreed to move onto the reservation. After crossing the nearby Snake River, a few angry and frustrated warriors sought revenge on a few innocent and not-so-innocent settlers. Panic reigned in the nearby communities. Ninety soldiers left from Fort Lapwai to coax the Nez Perce onto the reservation.

On June 17, the Battle of White Bird began. The scorecard showed that 34 soldiers were killed and three Nez Perce warriors were slightly wounded. And so began the flight of 800 Nez Perce Indians, along with 3,000 horses in tow, for 1,700 circuitous miles through four states in less then four months. In their wake was a chase group of 2,000 soldiers, volunteers and Indian scouts. Here was a saga that captured my attention and imagination.

The Author’s Parallel Journey
I began to see an analogy between my tribe, the Hebrews, and the Nez Perce Indians. In my mind, I compared the story of Moses and the Israelites’ escape from Egypt to Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce attempted escape to Canada. Both of these tribes were searching for that “Promised Land.” Unfortunately for the Nez Perce, the waters of the Missouri River did not part and smite their enemies.                                                                                                                                 

I started to think that this story needed a closer, more personal look. I wanted to see the Nez Perce lands and look over the battlefields and the rivers they crossed.  My mode of transport would be a metal steed, a 1981 Trek Touring Bicycle with many gears and a forgiving saddle. So with Cheryl Wilfong’s “Following the Nez Perce Trail” as a guide, I packed my bike box and panniers and caught a mechanical bird to Spokane, Washington. I knew that this was going to be a wonderful journey…

From the Spokane Airport, it took me a few days to get to Joseph, Oregon, and the trail’s beginning. I didn’t mind, there was plenty to see. I marveled at the undulating, lush-green wheat fields of the Palouse section of southeast Washington. That first night, I noticed the “Wheel-In” Motel in Steptoe, Washington, so I did just that. I was just following orders.

En route to Dayton, Washington, I continued to be amazed at the sedate beauty of the Palouse area. With a little imagination, I could almost visualize the Palouse Indians on those hills with their rump-spotted ponies. In Dayton, I was impressed with a business that was a combination bookstore and brewpub. Two of my favorite activities under one roof--drinking great beer and reading! The next day, the lovely Palouse lands yielded to the wide-open valleys of the Walla-Walla River. From here it was a jog up and over the Blue Mountains of Oregon. In the town of Elgin, I glanced at a sign for “Chief Looking Glass” Road. I was getting closer to the Nee-Me-Poo.

On top of unobtrusive Minam Hill, I had entered the Nez Perce’s ancestral homeland. Chief Old Joseph erected wood and rock cairns on the west side of this mound. It was his way of saying, “That side yours. This side ours.”  Locals claim a few markers are still standing sentinel on private land. I quickly picked up speed and I raced down to the Wallowa River Valley. I saw fields of grass on the south-facing slopes, and stands of pines, spruce and fir on the northern ones. Forage for horses and firewood lay in close proximity. The aroma of wild roses mingled with the forest scent. I immediately realized why the Nez Perce were in no hurry to leave.

In the town of Wallowa, I stopped at the Wallowa Band Nez Perce Interpretive Center. I spoke to Ms. Mary Knudson, who pointed at the confluence of Bear Creek and the Wallowa River where Chief Joseph held a council with the settlers in 1872. No consensus came out of that meeting. She gestured in another direction, toward Whiskey Creek, where the unfortunate Wilhautyah (Wind Blowing) was murdered at the hands of a few whites. A jury of their peers set the killers free. For the original landowners, it was another day, another culture clash.

I thanked Ms. Knutson for her time and continued to the town of Lostine. I spotted the junction of the Lostine and Wallowa rivers, where Chief Old Joseph was once buried. Grave robbers had twice pilfered his final resting place. His skull was later found in a dentist’s office in Baker, Oregon. In 1926, Chief Old Joseph’s remains were reburied at Wallowa Lake.

The next morning, I set out from Enterprise and rode past Joseph, Oregon, to the north end of Wallowa Lake. In a smallish cemetery, marked by an austere obelisk, was the burial ground of Chief Old Joseph. There were offerings of keys, bandanas, bones, stones, feathers and a cigarette lighter. I countered with a fuzzy and firm peach. I’d like to think the Chief might have savored its flavor. The gravesite represented the beginning of the Nee-Me-Poo trail. I pondered the thought of all those miles I had to ride before I arrived at the final battlefield.

I begrudgingly left the wonders of the Wallowa Valley and Enterprise. I got a rise out of the “Northern Exposure” quirkiness of some of its inhabitants. A few of the more memorable ones were the local bards reciting home-grown poetry at the “Terminal Gravity” Brewpub; the Clackamas Indian performing non-stop bird calls in the Town Square; and lastly, the old-timer who steered his riding lawn mower down Main Street to meet with his fellow cronies for breakfast.

I exited the valley on a forest-fire hazy day. It was a gentle climb toward the Whitman-Wallowa National Forest, where the grasslands yielded to evergreens. At mile 27, I came to Joseph Canyon Viewpoint. The Nez Perce called this area the “an-an-a-soc-um,” meaning “long, rough canyon,” an apt description of its 2,000-foot drop. The scenery was dramatic in this abrupt canyon country as I flew down toward the Grand Ronde River. The Nez Perce would set up a winter haven in these canyons to escape the cold. I laughed at the thought of my people changing latitudes in the frigid months by heading south to Florida. The Nee-Me-Poo just changed altitudes.

After a sandwich and coffee in the only restaurant for 48 miles, I began my 10-mile climb back to the forest and Rattle Snake Summit. I bypassed Fields Springs State Park, where the Natives gathered the parsnip-like kouse root. I didn’t want to dampen my appetite so I refrained from digging up the plants. I arrived in the village of Asotin, where its creek meets the lake-like Snake River. Chief Looking Glass and his band had over-wintered on Asotin Creek’s banks, while dining on the eels they caught. I felt that I was getting pretty close to the Nez Perce story. A mighty tailwind aided me on my final miles to Clarkston, Washington. Could it have been the result of that peach offering I left for Chief Old Joseph? Who knows, but from now on, I wasn’t taking chances…

Over the Snake & Into Idaho
On an early Sunday morning, I sauntered across a blue bridge and the barely moving Snake River. For the Nez Perce, getting across the Snake wasn’t this easy. Chief Joseph and his cohorts had to hustle after being issued an ultimatum from General Howard. They had to ferry themselves, their horses and their meager possessions across a spring run-off-swollen Snake River. The Chief described the scene this way: “We gathered all the stock we could find, and made an attempt to move. We left many of our horses and cattle in Wallowa, and lost several hundred in crossing the river.” Little did they know that when they risked their lives at the Dug Bar crossing, they would not be seeing their beloved Wallowa Valley again.

After crossing the blue bridge, I arrived in Lewiston, Idaho, and took a detour uphill to the library. As promised, I was able to make out the rifle pits built by the nervous townsfolk when they heard that the Nez Perce were on the move. The citizens of Lewiston could have saved themselves a lot of digging. The Indians never got closer than 40 miles. In Lewiston, I had breakfast for two, only for me, at the More Than Waffles Café. I took my bloated belly and proceeded east on Highway 12. In a short time, I saw a sign that informed me that I had just crossed into what is now left of the Nez Perce Reservation. About a half-mile later, I saw the ubiquitous Indian casino, which resembled a Nee-Me-Poo long house. The Nez Perce Historical Trail signs started sprouting up along the roadside, and I knew I was on the right track.

I turned south on Highway 95 and into the Nez Perce National Historical Center and Museum. There I met Judy, Jim Speer and Charlene, all working for the Park Service. I shared a laugh with Charlene, another wandering Jew from Chicago, before the Nez Perce history lesson began. In a short time, my knowledge of the Nee-Me-Poo was greatly increased. This was time well spent. They wished me good tidings for my journey, and then pointed me to the nearby Lapwai mission cemetery. They assured me it was a must-see for my continuing education.
The cemetery was on the high ground near the Lapwai Creek and Clearwater River confluence. The scene was tranquil with the creek gurgling by. I wandered over to the cemetery, and paid my respects to Josiah Red Wolf, the last survivor of the Nez Perce retreat. Mr. Red Wolf died one year short of making the century mark. Oh, the stories he must have been able to tell his grandkids.

I regained my bike and went food shopping in Lapwai, where whites and modern-day Nez Perce commingled over the produce. I chuckled to myself at the harmonious scene. Then I had to climb out of the Lapwai Creek drainage before dropping into the Lawyer’s Creek drainage near Craigmount, Idaho. This creek was named after Chief Lawyer, who dealt away 90 percent of the Nez Perce holdings in the treaty of 1863. Obviously, this is not the kind of lawyer you’d want to be representing your side in a divorce proceeding. Like a tornado in a trailer park, you would lose everything.

I finished off another glorious day of riding and learning in Ferdinand, Idaho (population 145). I pulled into the Half-Way Club, a combination bar, restaurant and motel. I spent the night in what Dennis, the owner, called the chateau. After cleaning up, I went downstairs and ordered up a manly steak-and-potatoes dinner and quenched my thirst with a few Buds. I spoke to the many locals who were coming and going this pre-4th of July night, many of whom were literally banging on the door to be let in.                                                                                            

One fellow named Rodger really got my attention. After I told him I was following the Nez Perce Historical Trail, he made mention that one of his ancestors had been killed by a few of the Nez Perce raiders. He explained, “He owned a store, and I guess he wasn’t very nice to the Indians. I think he kicked them out of his place a few times.” Later on, I checked out his story in Wilfong’s guidebook. This was no tall tale; Samuel Benedict was the ill-fated shopkeeper. I shivered a bit, thinking about how close I was getting to this story.

I awoke on Independence Day with a raging need for coffee. Dennis offered to take me to Green Creek for an all-American Fourth of July breakfast. I glanced at my map and alas, Green Creek was too insignificant to be on the Idaho map. Dennis assured me it did exist and said, “People are a bit different in Green Creek.”   
                                            
In a valley surrounded by emerald fields, we stashed Dennis’ Cadillac and wandered into Green Creek’s Grange Hall. Crowds filled their plates with mounds of eggs, potatoes, sausages and pancakes. Men-folk sporting baseball caps bearing the names of seed companies, filled cups and glasses with coffee and “bug juice.” A few of the cashiers were drinking wine-from-a-box out of teeny cups. An animated game of bingo was in full swing, with laundry soaps as prizes.  Dennis leaned over to me and said, “All these farmers will be back on their tractors this afternoon. It’s harvest season.”

I nearly laughed out loud while looking at this lively seven-in-the-morning scene. We finished off the rest of our meal and returned to the Caddie. I will always fondly remember that July 4th breakfast at Green Creek, Idaho.
After thanking Dennis, I returned to my bike and the road. Shortly after, I passed through Cottonwood. The town was pretty shuttered up this peaceful July 4th day. It was another story on July 3–5, 1877.

After their successful battle at White Bird, the Nez Perce got the drop on 12 soldiers under the command of Lieutenant Rains, killing them all. The next day saw more skirmishes between the two adversaries. On July 5, the “Brave Seventeen,” all citizen volunteers from nearby Mount Idaho, rode to the rescue of the embattled soldiers at Cottonwood. For their efforts, two met their Maker, and three were wounded. On Highway 95, a stone memorial in the shape of the state of Idaho names all the Brave Seventeen.

With the 17 volunteers on my mind, I decided to tough it out and ride the gravel road to see Tolo Lake. It was on June 3, 1877, at this unspectacular muddy pond, that the five non-treaty bands of Nez Perce held a council and gathered camas roots. It was also here that three hotheaded warriors left to seek revenge on a few of the whites near the settlement of White Bird. They achieved their goal, even killing the aforementioned shopkeeper, Samuel Benedict. There wasn’t much happening here this July 4, just a sullen boy fishing for perch. When news of the raid hit the camp, the Nez Perce, fearing an Army reprisal, decided to beat-feet from Tolo Lake. Three bands split for White Bird Canyon (including Chief Joseph’s); the other two hustled back to the reservation.

White Bird Battlefield
I left the lake and continued along Highway 95 to the top of White Bird Hill. I stood in awe as I viewed the plunging terrain before me. I let gravity do its thing as I flew down the 15 switchbacks of Old Highway 95 to the White Bird Battlefield. I locked my steed to a fence post, and began walking the battlefield trail.

Captain Perry and about 100 men had descended White Bird Hill on June 17 in an attempt to cut off the Indians from crossing the nearby Salmon River. A group of Nez Perce went out to meet the soldiers under a white flag of truce in order to parley. Unfortunately, a trigger-happy volunteer opened fire on the would-be peacemakers and the battle nobody wanted began.

The battlefield was made up of scraggly, rock outcroppings, hump-shaped hills and ravines. It was a choppy landscape. I walked along, hearing the rustling of the grasses in the constant breeze. It seemed to be a small area where 34 soldiers lost their lives. The term “the fog of war” came hauntingly into my mind. The Nee-Me-Poo escaped the fracas with a few minor wounds. They chased the soldiers back to Mount Idaho, and later gathered up the arsenal of guns and ammo the troops had abandoned. I unlocked my bike, and shook my head thinking about how easily this war could have been averted.

I continued my descent of White Bird Canyon to its confluence with the wild and free-running Salmon River. It was here that the Nez Perce played a cat-and-mouse game with General Howard after the White Bird battle. The Natives made feints and reversals across this river in buffalo-skin boats, giving the General and his followers fits. On July 2, the Indians continued their retreat on the north side of the Salmon. Howard and his command muddled behind.

I returned to the town of White Bird (population 106) and found a motel room. While dining at White Bird’s only open restaurant, I met Brian, Barb and Theresa. They quickly invited me to join them for a night of fireworks viewing and beer-drinking in the upstream town of Riggins. The enthusiastic crowd appreciated the rockets-red-glare and those bombs bursting in the air, all of it silhouetted and reverberating against the river’s canyon walls. It was an impressive display. Later on in a crowded bar, Brian announced to me that he was a descendant of O.O. Howard. Can things get any stranger on this trip?

After a meager three-hour sleep on a lumpy couch, I groggily began my ascent up White Bird Hill.  By the time I made it up this formidable eight-mile climb, I had sweated out all the beer from Independence Day. I passed through Grangeville where General Howard stayed on July 10. He was trying to ascertain where his wily prey had disappeared. The next day he surprised the Nez Perce on the south fork of the Clearwater River. The Nez Perce warriors were able to regroup and hold the Army in check while Chief Joseph and company retreated northward to Kamiah, Idaho. The battle was a drawn-out affair of a day and a half.

All that remains of the site is a National Park Service sign, which sits across the river from the actual site. Day lilies, trees and cultivated fields obscured the lay of the land. It was difficult to imagine a battle raging in this now-peaceful landscape. I stopped before Kamiah in order to pay my respects to the “Heart of the Monster.” There, at this humble mound of rock and vegetation, lies the equivalent of the Nee-Me-Poo’s “Adam and Eve” story. The legend goes that this is the place where Coyote created the People. I listened intently as a Medicine Man told the tale in a lilting voice via a push-the-button recording. I reckon that this Genesis story was as good as the others, maybe even a bit more credible.

In Kamiah’s Riverfront Park, I saw where the Nez Perce forded the Clearwater River on July 13. A few Nez Perce negotiated with Howard in order to give the remainder of the tribes some breathing room. While these phony talks were going on, the Nee-Me- Poo scurried away. I believe they might have learned that trick from the white man.

That evening in Kamiah’s Moose River Grill, I glanced out the window to see a Nez Perce Tribal Police car go by. In the local news, I read an article about a Mr. Black Eagle. There were also advertisements for Chief Looking Glass Optical. I felt that I was definitely on the reservation. In the morning, my soiled clothes screamed for a proper washing. In the laundromat, I exchanged pleasantries with an elderly Nez Perce man. The Mormons believe that Native Americans are the remnants of the Lost Tribes of Israel. Other then my sunburnt skin, try as I my, I could not see any resemblance between he and I.
 
With panniers full of flesh-smelling clothes, I retreated back toward Kooskia and the start of the Lolo Pass Motorway. The Nez Perce traveled upon the old Lolo Pass Trail, which runs north of the present-day bucolic, two-lane Highway 12. As I pedaled up the majestic middle fork of the Clearwater, admiring the surging waters, the Indians had to plow through the downed timber on the actual trail. A Lieutenant E.S. Farrow described what he saw as the Army trailed behind: “They (the Nez Perce) had jammed their ponies through, over and under the rocks, around, over and under logs and fallen trees and through the densest undergrowth, and left blood to mark their path, with abandoned animals with broken legs or stretched dead on the trail.”

A few miles later, I noticed the confluence of Clear Creek and the Clearwater River, where Chief Looking Glass’ band was turned from being as neutral as Switzerland into a true non-treaty adversary of the Army. After the break-up of the bands at Tolo Lake, Chief Looking Glass returned to this chosen site on the reduced-sized reservation. A brief skirmish with a troop of testosterone-laden soldiers harried the band into regrouping with Chief Joseph and company. Looking Glass assumed the roll of leader and guide while the Nez Perce followed the Buffalo Trail over Lolo Pass and into Montana. Having Looking Glass along turned out to be a mixed blessing for the retreating Nee-Me-Poo.

Shortly afterward, I passed a sign that informed me I had just left the Nez Perce Reservation. I would be moving along a scenic byway, while the Nez Perce had traveled a highway to hell. I had an easy pedal up the Lochsa River Valley with the aid of a steady, western tailwind. The Nez Perce named this river, which translates into “rough waters.” After seeing the river churn, tumble and beat its way through and over log jams and boulders, I understood why. I arrived at Powell, a former Nee-Me-Poo fishing camp where they speared, gaffed and netted the spawning salmon. I don’t believe they had catch limits in those days.

Lolo Pass & Bitterroot Valley, Montana
The next morning under a Monet-blue sky, I headed up toward the top of Lolo Pass. On this divide, the Nez Perce descended east into the Bitteroot Valley of Montana. General Howard had been stumbling along on the chase. At this point, I had ridden my bike over 350 miles of the former Nez Perce Empire from the Treaty of 1855. Was it any wonder that the “non-treaty” bands had issues with the new boundaries that quit over 75 miles west of where I now stood? That was a lot of land that had gone missing with the swipe of a pen.

At the Lolo Pass Visitor Center, I scored a nifty Nez Perce button and patch. It was then time to set my watch forward for a new time zone, and new state, Montana. I dropped down to Lolo Hot Springs where the air temperature informed me it was too toasty to sit in a hot tub. I decided to take a lunch break. I figured if General Howard loitered here, so could I. Afterward, I continued east with that shameful tailwind providing the speed to the site of Fort Fizzle. It was here that Captain Charles Rawn, under orders from Howard, hastily threw up a pile of logs to bottleneck the “hostiles.” The Nee-Me-Poo were 700 strong at this point. Rawn showed up with 35 soldiers and 150 volunteers. I don’t believe he had the spirit of the fight in him, and after a few days of going-nowhere meetings, those clever Nez Perce went wide left of these soldier corrals. Thusly, the Fort was christened “Fizzle” by a few sarcastic locals. Could it have been that both sides realized there was no need for more bloodshed at this point? I stood in the replica of the breastworks and imagined the sight of all those people, horses and gear moving up and out of range of those defenders. My face lit up with a smile, as I got back upon my steed.

The Nez Perce entered the Bitterroot Valley mistakenly thinking they had left the war behind them. Unfortunately for them, General Howard had other plans. At the modern town of Lolo, I turned north toward Missoula. I was hoping to see the remnants of Fort Missoula. Well, not really; I wanted to spend a night in a college town and drink beer in a brewpub. I would rejoin the pursuit in the morning.

I began my up-valley ride under clumsy, gray skies. The Bitterroot Valley was once the home of the Flathead or pleasanter-sounding Salish Tribes. The Nee-Me-Poo had a long history of peace and cooperation with them. Now the Salish are long gone and have been replaced by many Anglo settlers and their sub-divisions. The wildness of the Bitterroot Mountains loomed large on my right, the mellower Sapphire Range rose gently to my left. A marching line of trees marked the northbound path of the Bitterroot River. The whole scene was very pleasing to the eye.

In Stevensville (named after the same Isaac Stevens who wrote up the Treaty of 1855), I stopped at the corner of Main and 3rd to see the former site of the Buck Brothers Store. It was here that the Nez Perce went on a two-day spending spree. When they left this town, their wallets were over $1,000 lighter. Now a new bank occupies that corner alongside a macabre rusted-junk-metal statue entitled “Chief Two Left Feet.” It seemed to me that in the Bitterroot Valley, the Nez Perce weren’t drawing the publicity that those two fair-skinned heroes Lewis and Clark were getting. Along with the bounty from the Buck Brothers, the Nez Perce came away with another invaluable commodity, a Nee-Me-Poo/French blend man named Lean Elk. He and his band joined up with the Nez Perce in the valley. Lean Elk would prove to be worth his weight in gold dust to the retreating bands.

Chief Looking Glass believed falsely that they had left their troubles behind along the Lolo Trail. They were quite unaware that Colonel John Gibbons and company had spilled into Stevensville a few days after the Indians had departed. Colonel Gibbons received intelligence reports concerning the “hostiles” from Father Ravalli of the St. Mary’s Mission. (A county in Montana now bears the Padre’s name.)

The valley began to narrow toward the town of Darby. I stopped in the visitor center and had the pleasure of meeting Dot Goodrich, a spry, Q-Tipped-colored-hair, 95-year’s-young wealth of local knowledge. She regaled me with tales on Darby’s history and its characters. I enjoyed hearing about the time Ms. Goodrich was caught speeding 37 mph in a 25 mph zone. The marshal gave her two choices “Dot, you can pay me the $50 fine, or pay Nancy, the town clerk.” She gave the youngster a bit of guff, “I’ll pay Nancy. I like her a lot more than I like you.” Later on as an after thought, she added, “I think I could have out run him if I were driving my Olds Toronado.” It was an entertaining, one-hour visit.

Chief Looking Glass and his charge decided to continue toward the Buffalo Country via the Big Hole Valley. I, too, would be following along. The Big Hole decision would prove to be a disastrous blunder for the fleeing Nez Perce. I took Highway 93 south and crossed clear-running Rye Creek. It was near here that a few excitable Nee-Me-Poo helped themselves to coffee, flour and two shirts from Myron Lockwood’s ranch. Looking Glass insisted that the young braves leave seven horses in payment for the pilfered goods. Mr. Lockwood felt that this wasn’t just compensation and went on to battle the Indians at Big Hole. There he was wounded. Maybe he should have settled for the horses.
 
Five miles later, I came across a Salish Medicine Tree, or what remained of it. The Indians held this snag in great reverence. There were a few offerings left at its base. I dropped off a pudgy apricot. I wasn’t taking any chances; I wanted to stay on the good side of all the spirits. I moved along the east fork of the Bitterroot River and into Ross Hole. A few of the retreating Nee-Me-Poo warriors got the willies here and pleaded with Looking Glass to make haste. Sadly, listening to advice was not one of Looking Glass’ strong points. The bands continued to meander along.

A few miles prior to the summit of Lost Trail Pass, I pulled off to see the actual trail the Indians had been on to gain access to the Big Hole Valley. The thin trail was surrounded by thick stands of lodgepole pines. A deer ambled across my field of vision. It was hard to imagine a horde of Nee-Me-Poo and their ponies moving quickly through this. After climbing up Lost Trail and Chief Joseph passes, I descended into Big Hole country. The Big Hole has the nickname of “Land of 10,000 Haystacks.” It’s easy to see why. This is a natural grassland park hemmed in by the Bitterroot, Beaverhead and Pioneer mountains. It encompasses a whopping 15 by 50 miles of deer, hay, cattle, mosquitoes and antelopes. There are not many people, hardy enough to call this valley home.

Big Hole Battlefield
I stopped at the Big Hole Battlefield National Monument and watched a well- documented video about the battle. It made me a bit teary-eyed. I regained my composure while wandering around the museum and then rode down a long grade and parked my steed. I intended to hike to the sites of the actual battlefield. I climbed a ridge overlooking the location where 89 teepees had stood and saw where a Howitzer cannon had heaved two rounds into the fray. Later on, a few braves killed the artillerymen and dismantled the weapon. I then dropped down to where Nez Perce snipers counter-attacked and held the battle-weary troops in check. The surviving Nee-Me-Poo used this time to make an escape. There’s still evidence of the many rifle pits the soldiers dug and crawled behind.

Lastly, I went down to the north fork of the Big Hole River, where replicas of those 89 teepees stand. The breeze seemed to be a bit gentler and a sad silence marked the site. Over to the west, the ponies would have been peacefully grazing on the lush hillside. I could see where the troops and volunteers crossed the river to shoot indiscriminately into the teepees with their sleeping occupants. I could almost hear the cries, wails and the exhortations of both white and red men. The Nee-Me-Poo warriors were able to rally and chase the attackers out of camp. However, by that time it was too late; 90 band members lay dead, mostly women, children and the old.

A few of the replica tepees had signs announcing who had slept there. Chief Joseph’s had an abundant amount of offerings: U.S. flags, bandanas, feathers and tobacco pouches. I dropped off a nickel with its buffalo depiction on one side. At Chief Looking Glass’ teepee, the offerings were noticeably lacking. The ambush might have been avoided if he had just taken some advice and posted sentries and had a few rear guard scouts. After this slaughter, Looking Glass was busted down a notch and Lean Elk assumed leadership of the bands. I returned to my bike feeling pretty sad.

I resumed my ride with an eastbound tailwind pushing me to the town with a unique name, Wisdom. This miniscule town (population 120) got its moniker from Lewis and Clark, who named the nearby river in honor of Thomas Jefferson’s “cardinal virtues.” The river had its name changed to Big Hole, but the town’s latter-day residents decided to stick with Wisdom.
Inside Lefty’s for dinner, my sun-scorched nose and raccoon eyes had the locals wondering. Finally the bartender had to ask, “Are you a fisherman or a cyclist?” When I admitted to riding bikes, the bartender’s wife piped up, “See? I told you so.” I suppose when you live in Wisdom, you tend to be somewhat curious about strangers. I retreated back to my motel room, dodging mosquitoes on steroids and plopped myself down in bed. My last thought before sleep overtook me: What a day this has been! 

In the morning, the air was crisp and bracing as I left this 6,000-foot-high town. I followed the road, which led me up and out of this True Grit valley and eventually dropped me into the Beaverhead Valley. The Nee-Me-Poo had angled due south with Lean Elk pushing his people along at a good clip. He was trying to stay ahead of Howard, who had picked up the chase. Colonel Gibbons had been wounded and was no longer in the fight.                           

I decided to overnight in the thriving metropolis of Dillon, Montana. While there, I saddled up to the venerable Metlen Hotel, built in 1897. You have to love a bar where a local crooner serenades the crowd with a rousing rendition of “I love white sheep-sess.” Is Montana great or what?

I hit it early the next morning knowing I had 17 miles of Bannock Pass dirt and gravel to negotiate. I jumped on Interstate 15 southbound to the Clark’s Canyon Dam exit. Twelve miles later, I took a second breakfast in Grant, Montana, (population 19) inside a canvas-walled café. Eating in a glorified tent was a first for me and I was compelled to stop. Besides, I would never pass up a meal in these under-populated spaces. West of Grant, I hit god-awful road destruction while passing a few old homesteads. At this point, the Nez Perce had lost-that-lovin’-feeling for the white settlers and killed four unfortunates. They helped themselves to their horses, too. When the pavement ended, I noticed the Donovan Ranch, where another rancher had been murdered. I felt I was very close to the story once again.

Back Into Lonely Idaho
My ride toward Bannock Pass took me through sage, cattle and horse country. It was a lonely land, with less then a handful of worn-out pick-up trucks passing me by. An old country-western tune about lost loves, trains, and Moms popped into my head. This all was so Old West. I topped out on top of the stark pass (elevation 7672”) and headed down into Idaho and the Pacific watershed once again. I was entering the wide and dry Lemhi Valley, which lies between the Bitterroot Range and the Lemhi Range to the west. The scenery was nothing short of awe-inspiring, like the never-say-die-winds.

I relaxed in Leadore (pronounced Lead Ore), Idaho, in the town’s one motel. It had all of four rooms. When I checked into the last available domicile, I asked the proprietor the population of Leadore. He thought for a moment, “The sign says 90, but I think there are about 70.” It’s safe to say that Leadore does not experience a rush-hour traffic problem.

Once there was a town named Junction a few miles east of present-day Leadore. The Nee-Me-Poo had camped there and helped themselves to a few “dinner cows.” Unlike their more aggressive counterparts in the Bitterroot Valley, these locals didn’t seem to mind as much. The Indians continued peaceably in a southerly direction. Here they parleyed with the Lemhi Shoshone band. They wished to express their just-passing-through intentions. The Shoshone said fine, just don’t dawdle. Fortunately, Lean Elk wasn’t going to allow a Looking Glass mosey to occur again. I soon passed Nez Perce Creek and knew that I was on the right track.

At the Birch Creek campground, I saw a humble rock memorial for five “massacred” teamsters. On it was the names of three out of the five. The remaining teamsters were described as “two others.” Isn’t it strange that when the Nee-Me-Poo killed a white man, it’s a massacre, but when a white man murders a Nee-Me-Poo, it’s a battle? History is written by the winners. A short time later, I saw the Lemhi and Bitterroot ranges evaporate into the Snake River plains. I decided to quit the trail for two nights of minor league baseball in Idaho Falls, Idaho. Heck, even the Nez Perce had a few hours of recreation on their retreat. Why shouldn’t I?

After seeing the Chukars win two in a row, and getting a chance to meet some friendly locals, I was ready once again to join in the chase. I made inquiries to the Idaho Highway Department and realized that a visit to the Camas Meadows Battlefield wasn’t going to happen for me. I’d have to contend with too much gravel for my skinny-tired bike. Many folks weren’t even sure if a sign marked the site. From what I read, it wasn’t much of a battle, unless you were poor Bugler Brooks, who was the sole fatality.
 
At Camas Meadows, the Nez Perce went on the offensive and made off with 150 of Howard’s mules. They wanted to abscond with horses, but in the dark and confusion they rustled pack animals instead. I’m sure there were many jokes about “asses” and warriors at the Nee-Me-Poo campfire that evening.

On Highway 20 northbound, I saw Henry’s Lake off to my left. Both hares and hounds slept there. At the lake, Howard wanted to give up the pursuit, reckoning the Hostiles were out of his jurisdiction. General of the Army, William T. Sherman, tuned him up and in essence called Howard a wimp. The tired general bucked up and continued the chase across Targhee Pass and the Continental Divide. There’s a modest spring named after Howard on the west side of the divide.

Into Yellowstone Park
Lean Elk and his charges were now heading to the five-year-old Yellowstone National Park. For the retreating Nez Perce, this was not going to be a sightseeing trip. That didn’t stop me from admiring the wonders of Yellowstone’s lakes, meadows, rivers, geysers, elk, buffalo and mountains a mere day’s ride would bring to me. It is nature’s Disneyland. At Nez Perce Creek, I pitched a shiny buffalo-headed nickel into its sparkling flow for another offering.

The Nee-Me-Poo took a few unhappy campers as prisoners here. They roughed up a few but released most of them. One fellow named George Cowan managed to get shot in the head, hip and leg. He then crawled 14 miles in five days to salvation. Now that’s a tough guy. I suspect that after the Big Hole Battle, the Nee-Me-Poo considered all whites to be potential enemies.

I, on the other hand had only to be mindful of renegade Winnebago motor homes as I hugged the road’s narrow shoulder. I made it unharmed to Grant’s Village on the banks of the immense Yellowstone Lake. My neighbors at the campground had RVs with sputtering generators and mouthy tykes. I was hoping for it to be a peaceful night with no prisoners taken. I woke the next morning feeling tired and sore. No wonder I have given up camping out of a backseat to motels. I stretched, drank a reservoir of coffee and headed to Canyon Village via Fishing Bridge. I passed the site on the Yellowstone River where the semi-English-speaking Lean Elk allowed three prisoners to go free. He told them to strike out for Bozeman, Montana, and not look back. Later on, I stopped at Mud Volcano with its churning brown-gray waters. The pursued and the pursuers moved through this out-worldly wonder a few days apart. I navigated through the Hayden Valley while watching gangs of buffalo graze and loll around. My sightseeing day ended when I got a chance to view up-close the incredible rush of the Upper and Lower Yellowstone Falls. While riding the final miles toward the Canyon Junction campground, a thought came into my mind: what is up with the Japanese women tourists who wear white gloves and “bandito” kerchiefs around their milk-white faces?

I woke feeling doubly groggy and pained and decided I needed a real bed and a town. I turned toward Gardiner, Montana, via Mammoth Hot Springs for a few bonus miles. A raiding party had traveled to hot springs and murdered Richard Dietrich as he stood in the doorway of a motel. He was another innocent victim of the Indian’s retreat. I was worried more about the increase in traffic and the decrease in road width than a hale of bullets. I made the plunge down to Gardiner to escape the maddening, summer crowds, and secure a soft mattress in a motel. After a few beers while watching the sunset cast a golden hue on the sun-burnt hillside, I was feeling relaxed. I was very glad Lean Elk was not plodding me along through Yellowstone.

I gulped down a hurried breakfast in order to beat the heat. First, I had to go under the famous Roosevelt Arch in the rising sun. The arch was constructed in 1903 to mark the northern gateway to the park. Teddy was on hand to place the cornerstone. On top of the structure are the words, “For the benefit and enjoyment of the people.” I felt that I was doing both. I regained the altitude I lost and arrived back in Mammoth. I stopped at the Yellowstone Cultural Center to speak to Rosemary Sucec from the National Park Service. I had met Ms. Sucec via e-mail. It was her suggestion to lug around the two-pound “Following the Nez Perce Trail” guidebook for my journey. Unfortunately, Ms. Sucec was very busy and did not have time to banter. I did score a cool beaded pen from her, though.

From Mammoth, I ventured out of the Gardiner River drainage and headed due east to the wide-open Lamar Valley section of the park. The traffic had subsided and the views were pegging the “10 Scale.” It was in this valley where the Nez Perce scouts raced ahead of Howard. I watched from a safe distance as a few buffalo wallowed in the dirt. I was glad I was not beneath them. The valley narrowed and swung along Soda Butte Creek to the northeast entrance of the park. I was a bit sad to be leaving the park. I had seen a lot of beauty in four days. I am not sure why Lean Elk decided to run through this rugged, challenging and wild country. But I was sure glad he did. From Yellowstone, it was a short pull to Cooke City (population 70), with the very vertical Absaroka Mountain Range surrounding me. I was smiling at the glory of it all.

Howard and his troops came through Cooke City, where he found heavily armed miners with nasty attitudes. As usual, the Nez Perce were somewhere else, about 10-15 miles south of this mountain hamlet. I spent the night in this easy-going town. In the morning, I found myself looking forward to the day’s journey. It would not only be Rocky Mountain scenic but also the site of the Nee-Me-Poos’ great escape.

A Close Escape at Clarks Fork, Montana
I crossed five miles of road construction and the summit of Colter Pass and fell into the Clarks Fork River drainage. Howard thought he had his bases covered by ordering Colonel Sturgis to wait in the flats where the Clarks Fork empties out of the mountains. Howard had taken a longer, although easier, northern route. Howard thought he had the Nez Perce in a big pinch. But, Sturgis grew impatient and moved south toward the Stinking River (now nicely called the Shoshone River). The coast was now clear for the Nee-Me-Poo to slip through the vise via the Clarks Fork drainage.

While riding, I made a point to gaze downward into the Clarks Fork Canyon. It’s almost impossible to believe so many people and horses could move through that tortured landscape. It must be that people on the fly can do miraculous things when they are running for their lives.

I stopped at Dead Indian Campground where a few of Howard’s Indian scouts helped hasten the demise of a wounded Nez Perce who had been left behind, scalping the poor guy. It was then up and up the switchbacks to the top of Dead Indian Pass. The views of Sunlight Basin and the Absorokas and Beartooth ranges were calendar-photo quality.

It was on the downhill side of the pass where Howard’s “A” Team tracker figured out that the Nez Perce had left the mountains the hard way via the Clarks Fork Canyon. This is what Howard had to say: “The mouth of the canyon, which debouches into the Clark’s Valley, was not more then twenty feet across from high wall to high wall. And one may imagine the scene of cavalry, infantry and pack-mules crowding through it, and admire the quick wit of an Indian who had the hardihood to try the experiment, and break the almost impassible roadway.” I get the sense that General Howard admired the pluck and guile of the Nee-Me-Poo.

As I bounded out of the mountains and into a treeless expanse, I caught glimpses of Heart Mountain to the east. This prominent landmark signified the traditional boundary of the Crow Indians. The Nez Perce had made it to Crow country. Luck was not on their side; the Crows had sided with the white folks. The Nee-Me-Poo now knew they were on their own.

In Belfry, Montana, Boy Scout Troop 53 placed an informational sign displaying the fact that the Nez Perce crossed the Clarks Fork nearby. At that time, Howard and the misguided Sturgis were both involved in the chase. What took me 104 miles and many hours of motion had taken the hare and hounds over one week of travel time. As I sat in Bridger, Montana’s only motel feeling pretty beat up after my long day’s ride, I could not imagine the exhaustion those Indians and troops must have felt.

After sleeping like a comatose patient, I awoke refreshed. A vast quantity of coffee didn’t hurt either. I leaped upon my steed and proceeded along the Clarks Fork to its junction with the Yellowstone River. The temperature was cool for a change as I admired the buttes and cornfields by my side. At the Riverside Park in Laurel, Montana, a historical sign denotes the approximate location of the Nee-Me-Poo’s probable crossing site. Now, a monstrous petrochemical plant overlooked the scene. I crossed the Yellowstone without getting my wheels wet and entered Laurel. About four miles north, I emerged into a world of wheat. This was the area where a few warriors hijacked a stagecoach and went for a little joy ride. Some warriors just wanna have fun. Things got a bit more serious about five miles later when Sturgis and his boys caught and fought the Nez Perce at Canyon Creek. For his efforts, four soldiers were killed and eight wounded. Once again, the warriors had performed a very successful rear-guard action as the main body of Nez Perce retreated north. A simple plaque placed by the Yellowstone Historical Society now marks the location. I left behind another buffalo-headed nickel offering.

I turned east toward Billings, Montana, where a Nez Perce raiding party created some murder and mayhem in an effort to draw the soldiers away. I decided to stay the night and create a tiny bit of personal mayhem by quaffing a few locally brewed beers.

Headwinds, Politicos & The Missouri Breaks
The next morning, I jump-started my ride in the pre-dawn light to escape the projected headwinds and heat. The high temperatures never materialized but the wind did, in Mach Two force. I had entered Big Sky Country. I worked my way to Broadview, where I was able to sight a prairie “sky scraper” from 10 miles away: a grain elevator. Then it was a struggle to descend into the Musselshell River valley. The scenery improved a wee bit, but I was too busy cussing the maelstrom to notice it. In Lavina, Montana, I ate my second breakfast and mentioned the wind to the waitress. She deadpanned, “This is nothing. It’s worse near Harlowton” (My destination).

She was right. The wind achieved rattle-you-while-standing-still status as I made my slow, torturous way to Harlowton. At Ryegate, a somber, granite monument announced that the People crossed the Musselshell River here in 1877. Nearby, Sturgis and his command were taking a blow while waiting for Howard to show up from a sightseeing trip to Pompey’s Pillar on the Yellowstone. I wonder if General Sherman knew about his excursion.

An eternity later, I made it to Harlowton. Oy! I felt thumped on as I drank a cold beer and reclined on a soft bed, two of life’s simple pleasures that neither soldier nor warrior would enjoy on their mission. The next day the Weather Channel promised me tailwinds and mild temperatures. Both predictions proved to be true. I climbed away from the Musselshell River drainage and into rolling terrain. I bypassed ripe wheat fields, wind farms and missile silos. A few black Ford Expeditions with the words “Security Forces” imprinted on their sides kept trailing me. Did I stand out in this land of funky pick-ups and rusty sedans?

From a goodly distance, I was able to make out the line of travel the Nez Perce took through Judith Gap. It’s a natural split between the Little Belt and Big Snowy Mountain ranges. Bison once roamed in this basin; now hay, wheat and bovines occupy the site. I took a break in the Judith Gap Mercantile, where I met Jim Peterson, the state representative of House District 30. Like a good politician, Mr. Peterson shook my hand and told me a bit about himself. “I represent about 9,000 people. My district extends from Judith Gap north to the Missouri River.” I hoisted a still-warm cinnamon roll and an OJ as Representative Peterson spoke. “I own a small ranch, only 6,500 acres. The wheat goes to the Asian markets.” He then looked at his watch and exclaimed, “Well, time to go to work. You be careful and have yourself a good time.” I took his advice.

I completed my ride to Lewistown early enough to do a load of laundry and take a nap. The Nee-Me-Poo came through this area when the only thing around was a shady trading post named after its unscrupulous owners, Reed and Bowles. Now, the town sports elderly stone buildings and the Montana Tavern, the only drinking establishment I have ever been in where you can watch a creek flow by in their “basement.” I watched a trout wag its tail to the beat of the music to an appreciative crowd. I wouldn’t order the fish from the menu, though. All and all, it was a good and gentle Sunday.

On Monday morning, I headed into a crumpled landscape with coast-to-coast horizons. I continued my ride on Highway 191. The Nez Perce had turned north at Hilger while making their way to the Missouri River. I took a long lunch break at the Legion Hall in Roy (population 150); this would be the last real town I’d see for 125 miles. En route, I saw snow and wind-beaten homesteader cabins swaying at lopsided angles in the empty landscape. This was a vacant and lonely land.

While riding, I enjoyed the two-finger-lift-from-the-steering-wheel waves I was receiving from the infrequently passing vehicles. I made sure I returned a grin and a friendly nod, especially to the pick-ups with weapons in their gun racks. I then began to drop into Missouri Breaks Country. This was a land fractured with gullies, gulches and ravines. I turned into the James Kipp Recreational Area to camp on the banks of the slate-gray Missouri River. The Nez Perce crossed this waterway at Cow Island, 23 miles west of where I now sat.

Cow Island was a freight depot for supplies awaiting transport via “Bull Trains” to Fort Benton. A few warriors asked for provisions to feed the hungry tribe. A sergeant handed over a paltry amount of hardtack and bacon. The warriors decided to help themselves to the goods. A small group of soldiers and volunteers tried gunplay to shoo-away the Nee-Me-Poo. It was to no avail; they took what they needed and torched the rest. Once again, no shots needed to be fired--the Nez Perce had been willing to buy the provisions to forego the violence. Luckily for all parties, no fatalities occurred.

While the People were taking the supplies, they were quite unaware that Colonel Miles had been dispatched from Fort Keogh. In fact, this up-and-coming colonel was a mere 40 miles east of them at the confluence of the Musselshell and the Missouri rivers. The retreating Nez Perce never did figure out that trouble can come from all the compass points.

I broke camp before sunrise, feeling a tad nervous. It wasn’t the 93 miles of riding that concerned me. It was the possibility of riding 65 miles of it sans coffee. I was hoping to escape before a coffee withdrawal headache consumed me. I went clipping along at a sluggish pace through rolling sage country. A prairie chicken rose awkwardly from the roadside. I turned north on Highway 66 and skirted west of the island-like Little Rocky Mountain Range. A short time later, I entered the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation, home to the Gros Ventres and Assiniboine tribes. I began to notice signs bearing the possibility of a cup of old Joe. “Martins Store: Cigarettes, Gas, Ice.” Why not coffee? I reasoned.

I turned into a gravel driveway and burst through the store’s front door. “Do you have coffee?” I queried. A Scottish woman who ran the joint saw the desperation in my eyes. “I’ll go and make you a pot!” She said and slipped off to the back room. After two strong cups, I felt much better and began to pour on the speed. The 15 MPH tailwind didn’t hurt either. At Harlem, I turned hard left on US 2, a cross-country road with a fine nickname: the High-Line. I got a kick out of seeing signs near the northbound roads, simply announcing “Canada.”

I arrived in Chinook, where I met the delightful Jude Sheppard, curator of the Blaine County Museum. She was very cordial to me despite my lack of a shower for 170 miles of riding. I might have been a bit ripe. She was impressed by my soon-to-be-completed ride of the Nez Perce Trail. Ms. Sheppard then made a phone call to arrange a personal tour of the Bear Paw Battlefield for me. After wandering around the museum and admiring the well-done Nez Perce exhibits, I thanked the kind curator and went in search of a bed.

Oh my God! All the motel rooms in Chinook were filled. There were railroaders, wheat harvesters, geologists and Shriners in town. Well, actually there were no Shriners, but still no rooms either. I had to set up my tent one last time, while performing the mosquito-slapping dance. Later on, I found solace in the Past-Time Pub. I took my usual seat near the door in case it turned out to be a rough place. Nearby, two local women were competing in a Lewis and Clark trivia contest. I felt compelled to intervene. I chimed in, “That was Charbonneau and the baby’s name was Jean Baptiste.” Before I knew it, I was handed a prestigious “Guest Bartender of the Past-Time” T-shirt. It was a difficult job, but someone had to do it. Between sips of a frou-frou drink named a Colorado Bronco Buster, I poured a few shots. During a break in the action, I retreated back to my rightful side of the bar. Even now, I proudly wear that shirt on many occasions.

Final Action: Bear Paw Battlefield
When I awoke, it was time to go and see the final stop along the Nez Perce Trail, the Bear Paw Battlefield. I rode south of Chinook for 16 miles over a rough-and-tumble territory. I crested a small hill and saw “Old Glory” stretched out in the constant wind. In the parking lot, I met Mr. Jim Magera, National Park Service Ranger, history teacher, Nez Perce expert and overall Renaissance Man. I had struck the “mother lode” for my Nee-Me-Poo finale. We shook hands and Mr. Magera launched into his lesson plan. “See that black ridge on the northern horizon? That’s Canada. They were that close to freedom.” He pointed to a nearby ridge. “That’s where Miles and his cavalry charged down to the Nez Perce camp. Over there on that opposite hill, the 2nd cavalry captured the majority of Nez Perce ponies.” From this informative beginning, Mr. Magera exuded on for over two hours on topics as diverse as native plants and their nutritional and medicinal properties, strategy and tactics of the Nez Perce, placement of rifle pits, geology of the Bear Paw Mountains, Native American lore and a side order of bird sightings.

We strolled the trails while northern harriers glided overhead. The teacher would stop to make a point, “After the initial attack and the great losses on both sides, Miles decided to lay a siege. He blocked the exits from the coulees where the Nez Perce could escape.” As we continued on, a harrier donated a feather to use as an offering. I placed it at the site where Lean Elk had succumbed to “friendly fire.” At the time of the siege, Chief Looking Glass had regained control of the retreating Indians. I think the final outcome would have been different if Lean Elk could have held on for a few more days. Lean Elk was my favorite Nez Perce character; maybe it was because I could relate to his “Let’s go!” attitude.

On we went as the saga unfolded. “Over there is where Chief Joseph’s brother Ollokot fell.” He wheeled around and pointed again. “That’s the final resting place of Chief Looking Glass.” Later, “That’s the direction of flight Chief White Bird and his band took to get to Canada.”  We finally arrived at the finish line. ”Here’s where Chief Joseph handed over his rifle to Miles and Howard.” After six days of hunger, misery, cold, daily sniping and cannon bombardment, Chief Joseph had surrendered. Mr. Magara opined, “I believe he gave his eloquent speech up on that hill, not down here at this sign.” He then recited Joseph’s speech word for word. He hinted that some of the prose might have been “Hollywoodized” by overly eager newspaper men. Nevertheless, Chief Joseph would “fight no more forever!”
In retrospect, could it be that Chief Joseph--camp master and guardian of the young, the elderly and the women--made history as being the last chief standing?

I placed a few more buffalo-headed nickel offerings at the surrender site. We returned to the parking lot and overlook where I snapped a few photos of the battlefield and Mr. Magera. I asked the historian to smile for the camera. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he said. It was a quiet drive back to Chinook in Mr. Magera’s pick-up. He maintained his roll as the scholarly teacher when he asked, “Any questions?” The tour was so complete I had absolutely none. Back in Chinook, I thanked Ms. Sheppard and Mr. Magera for their time and hospitality and regained my steed for my long ride home to Colorado.

For Chief Joseph and the surviving Nez Perce, it wasn’t this simple. Of the original 800 non-treaty Nee-Me-Poo, only 480 were left to lay down their arms. They had retreated 1,700 miles only to be captured 30 miles south of Canada and sanctuary. From the final battlefield in Montana, they were exiled to North Dakota, Kansas and finally, Oklahoma. They did not thrive in these foreign lands. In 1885, Chief Joseph was able to successfully plead his band’s case and was allowed to return to the Northwest Territory. They were placed on the Colville Reservation in north-central Washington. Chief Joseph and his followers never were allowed to see their beloved Wallowa Valley again. Chief Joseph’s remains are buried on the Colville Reservation, where he died in 1904.

This Hebrew tribesman had lots of time to think about things on my 1,500-mile retreat back home. I looked back upon my pursuit of the Nee-Me-Poo as an eye opening historical, cultural and True West scenic journey from the past to the present. If you are c