US 13: Little BigHorn Massacre to the City of Presidents

Morning dawned crystal clear and pleasantly cool with a thin cover of cirrus cloud. A good day for our ride from Billings past the site of the Little BigHorn Massacre to the City of Presidents. I’d woken and gone looking for coffee just before the sky in the east started to show the early signs of a new day. To my great relief I’d discovered that Days Inn, like the Holiday Inn, had twenty-four hour coffee. I poured myself a Columbian and slipped back outside. Easing myself onto a bench under the reception portico, I lit a cigarette; and pondered the stuff I’d read about Billings while Mel had been sorting through his day’s photographs last evening.

A rose by any other name

The Crow, indigenous to the area, had named the settlement, Ammalapáshkuua, meaning ‘where they cut wood’; evidently because early white settlers had built a sawmill there. The earliest Anglo-American name for the area was Clarks Fork Bottom; a reference to the river – Clarks Fork Yellowstone. Had this name stuck, however, it is difficult to imagine what the 21st century would have made of it. Doubtless it would have been the butt, if you will excuse the pun, of much mirth and hilarity. The founding fathers ultimately saved the city this indignity; they settled on the current name in honour of a former President of the Northern Pacific Railway, Frederick H. Billings

South Dakota Oil

Though not the capital, Billings is the largest city in Montana. With a population of around a hundred and ten thousand, it is the County Seat for Yellowstone County. Originally founded as a railway town in 1882, it has, in more recent times, been given the nickname Magic City; because of its very rapid growth. With one of the largest trade areas in the US, Billings is distribution centre for Northern Wyoming; the western areas of North and South Dakota; and, most of Montana east of the Continental Divide. Of course, underpinning this growth was the Bakken Oil Development, the largest oil discovery in US history; and, the Heath Shale Oil discovery just north of Billings.

The place certainly looked well heeled as, in fact, had most of what we’d seen of Montana: good roads; neat and tidy towns; farms that looked productive and successful; and, other properties that looked distinctly affluent.

A ride plan . . . sort of

Our usual approach to road trips meant that we generally didn’t bother to book accommodation in advance. We would just ride until we’d had enough or until a place piqued our interest. Then we would check-in to whatever accommodation was available. However, given the Sturgis Bike Rally, this strategy was not likely to work so well. With this in mind, I’d checked online and booked three days accommodation in Rapid City; since none appeared to be available in or around Sturgis

Our ride for the day was going to be a little over three hundred and fifty miles [565 km], and we’d probably do most of that on I-90. We’d head east and cross the Little BigHorn River just after Hardin; and then push on through Garryowen and Wyola to the Wyoming State Line. From there it would be on to Sheridan; where we would probably break for lunch. Then we’d ride on through Buffalo, Gillette and Sundance to South Dakota. Pretty straight forward but not riveting stuff.  

Over the previous few days on the road we’d noticed an increasingly large number of motorcycles heading north. There were probably a couple of dozen in the parking area; and as we pushed on east towards Sturgis, I was sure that we would encounter many more. Noticeably, and quite unlike Australia, there was an overwhelming predominance of Harley Davidsons. But, as I wandered the park, I noted that the Motor Company did not have exclusive ownership of the area. Parked at the far corner, next to a twin-cab GMC, was a metallic green, mean machine – the Boss Hoss.

V8 Motorcycles

Now, if you want to ride something that will stamp your authority on any day’s ride, road trip or club meeting, the Boss Hoss is the way to go. This motorcycle will put an end to any debate about cubic capacity, power at the rear wheel, or torque. It will provide you with bragging rights that are unlikely to be trumped. It is a motorcycle with a very serious attitude and a ton of muscle. The metallic, lime green machine in the parking area was a seven litre model; and, if that wasn’t enough, it had been enhanced with nitrous oxide – a V8 powered motorcycle on steroids.

Boss Hoss Cycles

Boss Hoss Cycles, founded in 1990 by Monte Warne, is based in Dyersburg, Tennessee. It builds high-performance machines equipped with V8 engines.  The power plants, built by Chevrolet, range in size from 350 cubic inches [5.7 litres] to 502 cubic inches [8.2 litres], and are equipped with semi-automatic transmissions. I think you see what I’m talking about – serious muscle. The company sells around three hundred vehicles yearly and, it is said that there are now just under 9,000 on the road. 

I’ve never ridden one of these monsters, and I have no idea what one would cost. I suppose the old adage applies: if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. While Boss Hoss Motorcycles are known for their power and size, they also have a reputation for low vibration levels. The damping effect of the huge engine mass; relatively high number of cylinders; and very tall gears of the semi-automatic transmission, produce what is described as ‘vibration-free acceleration’. These monster motorcycles are reputed to be remarkably compliant, well-balanced and manageable on the road. I have no doubt that, with a twist of the wrist, you could rip your arms out of their sockets; and probably pass anything on the road – except, perhaps, a service station.

Up and at it

Having completed my parking lot tour, I wandered back to the portico to finish off my coffee and cigarette. Then, after I’d checked and ‘Liked’ all of Mel’s Facebook posts from the previous night, I poured another coffee for myself, and one for him, and headed back to the room. When I got there, the lights were on; he’d packed his gear; the shower was running; and it had only just gone 7am. You see, just when you’ve got used to a routine, something changes and throws the whole system out of kilter. On the other hand, maybe it was just that Mel was as keen to get to Sturgis as I was.

Breakfast and all that

Because the Days Inn tariff included a complimentary breakfast, we wandered over to sample the offerings. While not the best breakfast we’d had, it was a long way from the worst; Mel even thought that the coffee was OK. Over our meal, we chatted about the accommodation I’d booked and what might lie ahead for the day. We did have the option of leaving I-90 just before Garryowen and taking US 212; no shorter but it was a road less travelled. In the end, though, we opted for the Interstate. It would be the most simple and efficient means of getting where we wanted to go. And both of us were looking forward to a couple of days of kicking back, almost as much as were anticipating Sturgis

We took our time with the final packing, loading and checking; so it was almost 9am by the time we found the on-ramp for I-90. The number of motorcycles streaming east was greater than we’d seen anywhere on our road trip to this point. We pottered along in the right lane for long enough to allow our V-Twins to reach normal operating temperature. Then we cracked open our throttles and accelerated to keep pace with the eighteen wheelers. Eighty miles per hour seemed to be the unwritten normal for heavy transports on Interstates. We decided that we just had to stay ahead to avoid the bow waves.

Garryowen

We’d only been on the road for about an hour when we noted signs marking the exit to Garryowen. Now, I didn’t know anything about the place at that point; but it was a good excuse for a smoko break. So we took the off-ramp and cruised into a parking area fronting what looked like a large souvenir shop.

Well, Garryowen was a goldmine of information. It is, in fact, tiny private town in the middle of a very large First Nations reservation; located on the southernmost edge of the land where Sitting Bull’s camp was just prior to the Battle of the Little Bighorn. We were parked a few hundred yards from where the opening shots of the battle had been fired. With a population of less than ten, Garryowen consisted mainly of one large building that housed a petrol station; a convenience store; a Subway food outlet; an arts and craft store called The Trading Post; and, the Custer Battlefield Museum.

Garryowen is the title of an old Irish air adopted by the 7th US Cavalry as their regimental marching song. In 1895, the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad built a station on the Little BigHorn River and named it Garryowen; in honour of Custer and the 7th Cavalry Regiment he commanded. At the time, the station was used to take on water; and, offload US Army troops, supplies and mail for delivery to nearby forts and homesteads.

The Battle of Little BigHorn

Quite accidentally, we’d found ourselves at the site of a battle that still polarises opinion more than a hundred and fifty years later. To mainstream America, Custer’s Last Stand is a symbol of the nation’s fighting spirit; its tenacity, and willingness to strive against overwhelming odds. To First Nations People, it is a symbol of an their indomitable fighting spirit and of a victorious struggle against oppression.

Not far from where we were standing, two hundred and ten men of the U.S. Army’s 7th Cavalry led by Colonel Custer confronted thousands of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors on June 25, 1876. The engagement was one of the last in a series of battles and negotiations between Plains Indians and the U.S. Government over control of the Western Territory. In less than an hour, the Indians had won the Battle of the Little Bighorn; and massacred Custer and every last one of his men.

We browsed around in The Trading Post; had a look through the Custer Battlefield Museum; and bought a couple of T-shirts. We then adjourned to a bench outside in the shade to drink our coffee; and, in my case, have a cigarette. That done, we refueled, fired up and headed back out onto I-90 and towards Wyola and the Wyoming State Line. As the miles slipped away under our wheels, it was impossible to avoid thinking about Custer; his 7th Cavalry; and, of course, the Indians’ last ditch defence of the land on which we were riding.

After looking through the museum, it had occurred to me that a great deal of effort had gone into polishing Custer’s reputation; and glorifying his Last Stand. 

Custer . . . makings of a disaster

George Armstrong Custer was born in Ohio in 1839. He’d qualified as a teacher and then gone on to enrol at West Point; where he graduated absolutely stone, motherless last in the Class of 1861. During the Civil War, however, he’d proven himself to be a reliable soldier and had been repeatedly promoted. By the end of the war he held the rank of Major General. It was apparent that he’d not been afraid of getting his hands dirty; and had always led his men from the front.

In 1864, Custer has married Elizabeth Bacon and in 1866 he received a commission, as a Light Colonel; in charge of the 7th Division US Cavalry, to fight in the Plains Indian Wars. His first assignment had been to assist Major General Hancock with a shock-and-awe campaign designed to overwhelm the Indians. At the end of this campaign, however, he deserted to join his wife at Fort Riley. The US Army court-martialled Custer and suspended him without rank and pay for a year. 

Despite this damaged to his reputation, the army still needed commanders to fight Indians. So, in September 1868, Custer returned to duty before the expiry of his court-martial and resumed command of the 7th Cavalry. On November 28 of that same year, he’d led a campaign against the Cheyenne in Yellowstone; killing all the Indian warriors present and earning for himself a reputation as a ruthless Indian fighter. 

The Plains Indians

Notwithstanding this success, Custer was beginning to find that fighting Indians was not the same as fighting Confederates. The Plains Indians knew the terrain better than Custer ever could; they knew how to spread out, and remain elusive. Ferocious and determined warriors, they were fighting for their land, livelihood and way of life.

The Great Plains proved to be the last stronghold for American Indians. Before the end of the Civil War, few settlers had put down roots there; because of the dry climate and large Indian population. After the Civil War, however, as land became scarce, the US Government made land grants on the Plains to settlers and the railroads, and a confrontation with the Indians became inevitable. 

By the late 1860s, the US Cavalry had forced most Indigenous Americans onto reservations or killed them outright. Determined to avoid the same fate, the Plains Indians dug in for a determined and savage last ditch defence of their traditional way of life.

Buffalo shooting . . . and bad faith

Then, in a cynical strategy designed to deprive the Indians of their livelihood, the Government allowed the railroads to kill scores of buffalo herds as they laid tracks. Hunters, encouraged by the government, killed as many buffalo as they could; trains often stopped to allow passengers to massacre animals for sport. As the number of buffalo needlessly slaughtered grew, so did Indian anger. The result was that an increasing number of brutal attacks targeted settlers and railway workers. By the time Custer arrived on the scene in 1866, there was open warfare between the Cavalry and the Plains Indians. 

Against this background the government, in 1868, had signed a treaty recognising South Dakota’s Black Hills as part of the Great Sioux Reservation. But, after the discovery of gold in the Black Hills in 1874, the government broke the treaty and took back the land. Custer’s commission was to relocate all Indians in the area to reservations by January 31, 1876. Any Indian who didn’t comply was to be considered hostile. Understandably, the Indians didn’t respond passively to this treachery. Those that could, left their reservations and traveled to Montana to join forces with Sitting Bull [pictured] and Crazy Horse; thousands strong, the group settled on the banks of the Little Bighorn River.

Little BigHorn

The U.S. Army dispatched three columns of soldiers, including Custer and his 7th Cavalry, to round up the Indians; and return them to their reservations. The plan was for Custer’s cavalry and Brigadier General Terry’s infantry to rendezvous with troops under the command of Colonel John Gibbon and Brigadier General George Crook. They’d then find the Indians, surround them, and force their surrender.

Crook was delayed but Terry, Custer and Gibbon met in mid-June; and found an Indian trail that appeared to be headed toward Little Big Horn Valley. It was decided that Custer would move in, surround the Indians and await reinforcements. At around midday on June 25, Custer’s scouts located Sitting Bull’s camp. But instead of waiting for reinforcements, he planned a surprise attack for the next day. As events transpired, however, the planned attack was brought forward because Custer believed that the Indians had discovered his position.

Custer’s divided hi six hundred men into four groups. One small battalion was to remain with the supply train. The other two, led by Captain Benteen and Major Reno, were to attack from the south; to prevent the Indians escaping. Custer was to lead a battalion of two hundred and ten in an attack from the north. Reno’s group attacked first but retreated quickly when he realised that they were hopelessly outnumbered. By the time they’d regrouped, thirty men were dead. Benteen’s troops came to Reno’s aid and the battalions joined forces on what is now known as Reno Hill; and, contrary to Custer’s orders, that is where they remained. Neither Custer nor anyone from his battalion survived.

More than enough tragedy to go round

Of course, once news got out about the massacre, the full force of the US Military was deployed against those deemed responsible. Sitting Bull fled to Canada for four years, but surrendered in 1883. Assigned to Standing Rock Reservation, Indian Police shot him in 1890. Sitting Bull died at the age of fifty-nine. With his tribe decimated by cold and starvation, Crazy Horse surrendered to General Crook at Nebraska’s Red Cloud Indian Agency in May, 1877. Sent to Fort Robinson, Crazy Horse was killed in a scuffle with soldiers trying to imprison him.

I guess truth really is the first casualty of war. The truth, for me, seemed to be that this massacre was culmination of a series of tragic realities; the settlers’ insatiable hunger for land; the Indians’ determination to hang on to their land, livelihood and way of life; the treachery and duplicity of the Government; and, the arrogance and impulsive behaviour of Custer.

We pushed on towards South Dakota through the magnificent, peaceful, rolling countryside of forests interspersed with open, green grassland. But, I felt a pervasive and overwhelming sense of sadness: about damaged lives and livelihoods; about the desperate plight of the Plains Indians; and, about the overall ruthless disregard for justice, fairness and equity.

Lakota Sioux v United States

Generations later, in the late 1970s, the descendents of these same Plains Indians, launched an action against the Federal Government in the US Supreme Court. And, in United States v. Sioux Nation of Indians [1980], the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that the Federal government had, indeed, illegally stolen the Black Hills from the Indians when the government unilaterally broke the treaty guaranteeing that the Black Hills belonged to the Lakota Sioux. 

As a consequence of this ruling, the Federal Government offered a financial settlement. But the Lakota declined on the principle that acceptance would validate theft of their land. And all these years later, while the settlement funds accrue interest, the Lakota continue to demand the return of the land. The demand in question includes Rapid City, which is by far the largest modern settlement in the Black Hills. As I pondered a the years of Plains history, it seemed that the Lakota Sioux definitely possess the moral high ground; sadly, history would suggest that this is unlikely to be enough.

While in my early twenties and studying for postgraduate qualifications, I undertook an investigation of the development of Afro-American Literature as part of my Major Study. In the course of that study, I had come across James Baldwin’s work. In particular, a comment that he’d made about the role of religion and the ‘white’ colonisation in Africa. He’d said: A hundred years ago, when the white man came to Africa, the black man had the land and the white man had the Bible . . . and now, a hundred years later, the white man has the land while the black man is still choking on the Bible.

Choking on the scriptures

In thinking about the long and bloody interactions between the First Nations People and the governments of the day, there seemed to be a certain aptness to Balwin’s statement. I couldn’t be sure if First Nation People were choking on the Bible, but they had certainly lost their land, livelihood, and traditional ways of life. Even now, I think the stand taken by the Lakota Sioux is highly principled, even admirable, but I am less than optimistic about the ultimate outcome of their demand for the return of their land. Possession, it seems, is still nine tenths of the law.

We crossed the Wyoming State Line and pushed on under increasingly cloudy skies. There was a little wind but nothing like what we’d experienced during our ascent to BearTooth Pass. It was another good day to be on the road and we were making excellent time; not so much because we were in a hurry but because we were hooking along at a fair clip in an effort to stay ahead of the heavy transports. At around 1pm we took the exit to Sheridan and slowed as we entered the town.

Sheridan

Named for the Union General, Sheridan is the Seat for Sheridan County. Prior to the town’s establishment, the surrounding region had seen protracted hostilities between US Cavalry and the Plains Indians; the Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Shoshone, and Crow Indian tribes throughout the 1860s and 1870s.

Although initially settled by farmers, the town’s survival and future had been cemented by the arrival of the railway in 1892. Rail maintenance facilities provided significant employment and the railway itself created numerous side industries and export opportunities for raw materials. Subsequently, coal mines opened along the Tongue River north of Sheridan, and sparked both immigration and a major building boom. By 1910, Sheridan boasted one of the nation’s few electric streetcar lines: connecting the nearby mining towns of Monarch, Dietz.

Refuelling . . . bikes and bodies

But enough of all that. We were on our way to Sturgis and had taken the exit to Sheridan mainly for fuel, food, coffee; and in my case a cigarette, and a chance to stretch our legs. We cruised in, pulled up outside a likely looking place, and parked.

It was a great little place that appeared to have been there since the early 1920s. A picture rail shelf topped dark, solid wood panelling and solid wood slabs formed the table tops. Clearly, a local taxidermist had been busy; an amazing array of the stuffed heads of game adorned the walls.  I don’t remember what I had to eat though I’m fairly certain it would have been whatever Mel had ordered. Having said that, I’m sure the food must have been fine, because I would have remembered if it hadn’t been. The coffee was unusually good, in an American sort of way.

After lunch, and a mandatory cigarette for me, we refuelled, got right back to I-90. And, with literally dozens of other motorcycles, accelerated east towards the South Dakota State Line. Given the general speed at which we were travelling, I expected we would cross the State Line around mid-afternoon; depending, of course, on what stops we took along the way.

The way it used to be

As the miles drifted by, I thought about the way this land must have been before settlers; railways; and miners. I pictured Indian warriors on horses riding the country that stretched away towards distant mountain ranges; buffalo herds grazing in open fields of lush green; smoke from campfires drifting upward in the still air over Indian villages; mothers smiling indulgently over children as they played and mimicked adult hunting skills.

As we continued past Buffalo, I saw the sign for Interstate 25. Had we chosen to ride directly north from Cheyenne, this is where we would have intersected I-90; but we’d taken the road less travelled. Cloud cover continued to increase through the afternoon; and, a stiff breeze had picked up by the time we cruised past Gillette. We had become part of a veritable battalion of motorcyclists stretching out into the distance: behind and in front.

Sundance

At Sundance, Mel took the off-ramp and pulled into an establishment that looked like a dedicated biker bar. The expansive parking area at the front of the bar was almost completely occupied with parked motorcycles. When I pulled in, he grinned.

‘Smoko break Mate,’ he said as he hoisted his leg over the T-Bar on the pillion seat.

Our two anniversary motorcycles, the Lowrider and Deuce, looked almost diminutive in the line up. Big cruisers, Road Kings, Ultra Glides Indian Chiefs and a range of custom machines, were the motorcycles of choice; and most had received liberal customising attention with chrome accessories and booming sound systems. Bikers were gathered in enthusiastic anticipation; talking and laughing, around the bar and at benches outside. The atmosphere was buzzing and contagious.

Now, if you have been following this odyssey for a while, you will know about Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Well, before Harry Longabaugh had linked up with Butch, he had worked for a time as a farm hand in and around Sundance. Records show that, while so employed, he stole a horse and saddle and, subsequently, was arrested. Of course this little gem is of absolutely no importance at all, except that it explains the origin of the name Sundance Kid.

And so, to the City of Presidents

Mel finished off his steak sandwich and diet coke while I guzzled down a regular coke; and, savoured the last couple of draws on my cigarette. Then, we climbed back onto our motorcycles, fired up and headed back onto I-90 towards South Dakota.

We didn’t stop at Sturgis after crossing into South Dakota but chose, instead, to head straight into Rapid City. And, at a sign indicating the exit for La Crosse Street, we decelerated; took the off-ramp; turned right and headed towards the Grand Gateway Hotel – our home for the next three days.

Most people’s response to any suggestion of a struggle to stay awake on a motorcycle road trip is, Yeah Right. But, take a well formed straight road with only a few sweeping corners, a pleasantly warm afternoon and the steady low beat of a V-Twin and you can, actually, find yourself struggling to stay awake. Mel hated riding Interstates and wherever possible avoided riding them, and I wasn’t too keen on them either. That having been said, I-90 East had delivered us quickly and virtually effortlessly to South Dakota and Rapid City. We parked, unloaded and checked in to the Grand Gateway Hotel on Lacrosse Street.

Just a thought . . .

The only thing we learn from history

is that we don’t learn from from history

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