THE BATTLES FOUGHT
Tired and thirsty, the pony soldier stands next to his horse. He takes a drink from his canteen. What little water left is warm and has a canvas taste. The 7th cavalry has ridden hard all night, the horses are tired and the men are worn out. They are not used to the high desert plains of Montana or the scorching heat in this the last week of June. They have finally arrived at the Little Big Horn and at the head of the column General Custer is talking with his scouts. A large Indian camp has been spotted and they have been sent here to force the Indians back to the reservations. Below them the Little Big Horn River winds through the valley, its cold, clear water beckons them. Their eyes follow up steam to where the river comes out of the canyon of the Bighorn Mountains. The sun reflects off of the snow and glaciers covering the high peaks, and the hot and tired soldiers dream of the cool refreshing air. Little did they know that these comforting thoughts would be some of the last they would ever have.
Tired and thirsty, the pony soldier stands next to his horse. He takes a drink from his canteen. What little water left is warm and has a canvas taste. The 7th cavalry has ridden hard all night, the horses are tired and the men are worn out. They are not used to the high desert plains of Montana or the scorching heat in this the last week of June. They have finally arrived at the Little Big Horn and at the head of the column General Custer is talking with his scouts. A large Indian camp has been spotted and they have been sent here to force the Indians back to the reservations. Below them the Little Big Horn River winds through the valley, its cold, clear water beckons them. Their eyes follow up steam to where the river comes out of the canyon of the Bighorn Mountains. The sun reflects off of the snow and glaciers covering the high peaks, and the hot and tired soldiers dream of the cool refreshing air. Little did they know that these comforting thoughts would be some of the last they would ever have.
I am sitting in the shade of a large pine tree on the banks of the head waters of the Little Big Horn River. To my back and above me are the glaciers and snow of the Big Horn Mountains. Below me, an elk herd has come out of the timber and is grazing on the new green grass. My father and I have made this hike and fished these waters since I was able to walk. My earliest memories are of me on his shoulders being too small and too tired to walk any more. Now in his 80's, I marvel at his determination and ability to make this trip. I push back the emotions that this will be our last trip together, and it may be me that will carry him. With grandchildren of my own I watch their great grandfather raise and lower his fly rod, casting a fly over a pool. I watch the motion of the fly rod. The movement of his arm and wrists are like watching a skilled dance. The fly softly lands on the pool and then the line gently settles on the water. The line tightens and the rod bends and another rainbow has been fooled. He draws the fish in close and reaches down and releases it. As he stands up and looks around this beautiful valley he spots me in the shade of the tree. He washes his hand in the cold clear water and starts up the knoll to come and sit with me. As he sits down beside me, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out the Snickers, a traditional meal for this trip. We sit and visit about the beauty, the elk herd and about all the great trips we had made to this spot. After a refreshing break, we decide to fish for two more hours upstream and then make the long climb out and slowly make it back to our camp.
The climb out of the valley is slow and difficult. My father can only walk about 50’ at a time. He is constantly apologizing for taking too much time. No matter what I tell him he doesn’t believe me that I am in no hurry and the time it takes is irrelevant. He does not know that I wish this day would not end. We stop and take many breaks as I go over to where he is sitting to help him up. My foot steps on some loose rocks and as I look down an Indian arrow head is lying on the ground next to him. He picks up the arrow head and polishes it with his hands. I look at it and wonder. Who lost it? Was it a hunting party or was it a war party on the retreat from a battle fought in the valley below us many years ago?
