Thunder Bull

Maybe I was day dreaming about something in the past when the jolt of the aircraft hitting the runway brought me back to reality. It had been a long time since I had been in Billings, Montana as a member of a traveling basketball team playing tournaments and visiting friends among the Crow and Cheyenne people. My wife and I were going to visit the mighty Yellowstone country and attend a special ceremony near Lame Deer on the Northern Cheyenne reservation. It was also an opportunity to look over new hunting grounds for our next planned trip into the mountains by horseback. Those hunting trips usually take at least a week and if you are not accustom to being in the saddle for several hours a day everyone will notice your new zombie walk during the evening camp set up. It usually takes about two days of riding before my body adjusts from bucket seats to the saddle seat. But past experience tells us when we first sight the big mule deer buck or bull elk all ills are miraculously cured. I have always the loved the smell of horses, especially the breath coming from those big nostrils on a crisp mountain morning. And there is not a better pillow than a well used saddle on which to lay your head after a long day. I have always wondered as we travel those mountain trails what Cheyenne warrior or Holy man left those story telling symbols on the rocks so long ago. Is he watching us as we now make our way through his hunting grounds and what he thinks about our new Mathews bow?

We rented an automobile and headed west through what seemed to be miles of treeless uninhabited country until we reached the foothills of this great mountain range, and its majestic beauty seemed to explode in front of us. We spent the night in a small village and entered the Yellowstone National Park the next day. As we climbed twisting roads that circled those huge mountains, like a tiny ant trail, I could not help but wonder how man could carve roads and make cities out of what appeared to be such impregnable terrain. What great achievements mankind has made since life was first breathed into his nostrils, and he was given dominion over the earth. As I pondered on the progress of man and his miraculous accomplishments, we found ourselves on the top of the mountain range, sitting on top of Bear Claw Pass. The view was absolutely spectacular and its magnificence can leave one rather speechless. It becomes terribly difficult to really comprehend the majesty of it all. However, what man has been able to accomplish pales when you put things in their proper perspective. Man is a temporary commodity in the short time he is here and the wind sweeps away his very memory into oblivion. It is the Creator of man and the Yellowstone who is the real miracle. From Bear Claw pass you can see winding rivers and wonder why they do what they do, and who can make them stop, and in spite of his dominion man is still at the mercy of Mother Nature.

As we descended to lower elevations and rolling hills with flat green valleys, there he was! I wondered when he would appear. He stood well over 6 feet tall and weighed nearly 2000 pounds. His head like a battering ram and a body of armor. When in a full charge he has the power of a freight train, the stamina to run for many miles and a burst of speed equal to the fastest horses. The Cheyenne call him THUNDER BULL! Biologists refer to him as Bison. Back in the day, by some accounts, he numbered in the millions and roamed freely throughout the plains, but today only a few thousand remain, mostly on protected national parks. The Creator designed him and placed him here in this sacred land to travel where he pleased, to roam free and be subservient to no one. We stopped the car to look at him a little closer as I wished to talk with him for awhile. He was standing on a small dirt mound and stared arrogantly as if he was looking straight thru us at something in the distance. There was a look of defiance in those huge black eyes as if I was of little importance to him. He was a Thunder Bull, a powerful warrior who can survive unforgiving Montana winters, deadly enemies, brutal mating battles and the never ceasing encroachment of man who almost drove him into extinction. When civilization and thoughtless men pushed him to the brink of destruction the Creator saw his distress and gave him a sanctuary in the Yellowstone where he would be FREE once again.

He was an older bull sporting both old scars and new ones from intense brutal battles with rivals during the summer mating seasons.  He was alone probably signifying his reign was coming to an end, and a new younger and stronger bull was now the victor. He told me it was time for him to move on as his power was declining. He would find the peaceful area where other older bulls with whom he had probably fought with a vengeance had gathered. He slowly shook his big head from side to side and seemed to smile as he looked back toward the herd, remembering those times when he gathered cows into his own harem and sired many of those now grazing along the river. He said; when in his prime all the bulls ran when he approached and he was both feared and respected by everyone living on the Yellow Stone. When challenged he bellowed, pawed the ground throwing dirt in all directions and exploded into a devastating charge that sounded like THUNDER in the mountains.  He told me in some ways he was glad it was over and it was the uncanny peaceful silence of the Yellow Stone that now called him as it did his ancestors before him. He shook his big head and looked at me with those big black eyes that reflected pride, arrogance and a little sadness as he slowly walked across the road. He paused on the other side of the road and looked back at me several times beckoning me to follow him. I could not follow him…….not this time.

Our next stop was the Little Big Horn. The place where George Armstrong Custer commanding the 7^th Cavalry made the fatal decision to attack a contingent of Cheyenne and Sioux camped on the Powder River. Historians have written many varying accounts of what happened in the battle at the Little Big Horn. It was the Sioux Spiritual leader Sitting Bull who told of the upcoming battle given to him in a vision long before it happened. He was allowed to look into the future of his people and tell the story of things to come.  Some Cheyenne elders who were present at the Little Big Horn battle gave a different story about George Armstrong Custer and his position in the battle. They say Custer remained on the hill with a small contingent of men over looking the battle where he was later killed. It was told Custer never left the hill and did not lead the men of the 7^th cavalry charging into the battle. Apparently, historians have had little interest in what any Cheyenne Dog Soldiers version of the battle might have been. 

The Platte River separated the Cheyenne into the Northern and Southern clans. The Southern Cheyenne ranged from the Platte river to the Colorado area and the Northern Cheyenne from Nebraska to the Dakotas where they were closely aligned with the Arapaho and Sioux. It was the westward expansion of another brand of civilization that brought the Iron Horse rumbling though an otherwise unblemished and pristine land. An unavoidable conflict over this great country was inevitable between the American Indian and the encroaching new Americans who were moving westward. The enormous pressure applied to the Cheyenne and their free way of life was soon to drive them to near extinction along with their beloved Thunder Bull.

Our next stop was the old Mercantile (General Store) building on the Crow Reservation. That old store with wooden floors, bar stools, and an inventory of goods last seen in the Twilight Zone has a history of its own.  Grand Father Time waits for no man and discussions with the proprietors revealed most of my old friends were no longer around but many of their families still resided on the reservation. The conversations were rewarding but it was time to depart for Lame Deer. Lame Deer is a small community about 50 miles South West and is the tribal center for the Northern Cheyenne.  These small reservation communities are historic in appearance and nothing the contemporary average citizen could identify with.  At Lame Deer we entered a typical General Store on Main Street with a 1920’s wooden interior.  If you love Wal Mart and elbow to elbow impersonal crowds of hurried shoppers you would not be happy here. This quaint old store had three customers and a lady standing behind the counter. Everyone stared at us with unblinking eyes; at two total strangers who were now standing in their midst. After a few minutes our surprising and unexpected entry subsided and the gracious lady behind the counter gladly gave us directions to the encampment on the Tongue River. However, the other three had neither moved nor blinked, remaining as unmovable objects until we left the store. Strangers are really strangers in that old wooden store that holds stories of a life time. If we had the time, I would have probably lingered there much longer and sat on one of those tattered bar stools or even the old rocking chair by the wood burning stove. Maybe, I could hear one of the old stories that were told during the time of the Cold Moons when snow buried the land. The winter nights were cold but the Tipi’s were warm and ready for story telling. The land would be cold and silent except for Brother Wolf whose long lonesome howl echoed across the mountains. Today his mournful howl signals his return to the Yellow Stone after surviving near extinction at the hands of modern man. He is telling us of his dilemma as the resentment toward him continues to grow from those who would once again see him dead or removed from the land our Creator gave him. It is difficult for those outside the sacred circle to understand the Wolf has Power. The domesticated dog has no Power but the Wolf does. The buffalo has Power but domesticated cattle have no Power. The Wolf belongs here, it is his right, and this is his place in this world. It is not my wish to confuse our readers with such unusual things but if you can see… the other side of money, greed and materialism the gift of understanding is now yours.

We traveled West down a wide picturesque gravel road in the direction of the encampment. She told me; you will know it when you see it and hopefully your friends will meet you there. And there it was. It was a step back into the pages of history with the exception of a small wooden church whose white paint had faded away many years ago. The tiny old church brought back a story told to me many years ago by a Cheyenne elder when we were discussing spiritual things. He said; in the old days Cheyenne’s were very curious why and how God could fit into a tiny wooden building and sometimes they would go there to see if he was inside. But just as they had thought; HE was not there. It was only a man shouting about fire, death and other things very difficult for them to understand. The Creator of their “People” was a peaceful, majestic spirit who gave life abundantly to the Cheyenne and every living thing found on this earth and in the heavens. They did agree “Moses” would have made a good Indian because he went alone to the top of the mountain. He remained there for many days, until he received his vision from the Great Spirit and then returned to share it with his people.

We finally arrived at the encampment on the Tongue River and it looked much like a condensed version of the “Dancing with Wolves” movie staring Kevin Costner, with a slight touch of modernization. The ceremonial lodge was near the center and surrounded by several Tipi’s. Modern day tents were also present with several automobiles bearing out of state tags parked in the field.  Meat was drying on lodge poles, children running and playing, a young Cheyenne girl was leading a pony with three small children riding bareback and clinging on to each other. The actual Sun Dance ceremonies will not be discussed here in honor of the privacy expected by my Cheyenne friends.

The Tongue River rolled lazily along and in many parts was only a stream near the encampment. In the green grassy bottom a pony herd grazed contently, the men and women were busy preparing the camp and the children were running and playing as children every where do. The camp cooking fires sent swirls of smoke down the river and the camp was at peace. There he was …..standing on a bluff over looking the camp “Thunder Bull”.  It was as if he were magic and suddenly appeared. I know he wasn’t there a few moments ago. He looked like the old bull I met several days ago, but that would be impossible. I shook my head and looked again…. he was gone, vanished, what did he want? Crazy stuff, I know, but this is Cheyenne country and I learned as a young boy not to disregard such mysteries for the secrets are held by the ONE who sent them until the time of understanding has come.

We left the encampment on the Tongue River returning with some regret to the airport in Billings. As I look back what a great experience the creator had given me, and to see the Thunder Bull free to choose his own destiny. He is FREE once again and……….so are the CHEYENNE’S!!!!!!

May God continue to bless you and America
vom Kervinshof
Shelby L. Kervin