Finding Peace

It was 1884. A young outdoorsman followed the bank of a river, allowing the gurgling water to erase his thoughts. He had a lot of thoughts crowding his mind lately. His heart gave a pang of grief. His mother was gone, and so was his wife. In a horrible twist of fate, the two women he loved the most had died in the same month. The pain was too much to bear. Out here, though, he found it easier to breathe. Surrounded by cottonwoods and prairies, his heart could have peace. 

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/exKHH6VDsb5uha3w8

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June 1st, 2024 - Dakotas Day 9

It is 2025. The land where the outdoorsman wandered now bears his name. Just as they welcomed his grief, the badlands and meadows opened their arms to us too. The national parks welcome everyone, irrespective of their place in life. You may be mourning or rejoicing, aged or young, disabled or fit. The parks have a place for all. Here, you can feel at home. 

At the Fort Union Trading Post, this feeling was especially evident. In the early 1800s, the large fort dominated the banks of the upper Missouri River. The busiest trading post in the region, it drew many people into the embrace of its tall white walls. Steamboats bearing goods from the East would dock on its shore. Native American tribes bearing pelts and furs would appear over the nearby ridges. From 1829-1867, the fort was the primary hub for the fur trade in North Dakota and Montana. The Assiniboine, Crow, Cree, Ojibwa, Blackfoot, Hidatsa, and Lakota people brought buffalo robes, beaver pelts, and furs to the fort to trade. They exchanged these for the goods of white men. It was common for cultures to clash in the trade industry. Grudges traded hands just as readily as goods. At Fort Union, however, everyone was held to a standard of peace. As a truce zone, the fort mandated that no disputes be held within its walls. The master of the fort was responsible for understanding the traditions and mannerisms of each Native American tribe. When a tribe arrived at the gates, the people would be accommodated and welcomed according to their customs. A full day would be spent in ceremonies, gift giving, and speeches. This shared time in community fostered relationships and trust-building between the traders. The following day, the fort master and the tribes would barter prices for the furs. The Native Americans would exchange their goods for guns, fabric, knives, beads, and alcohol. In return, the fur traders would ship the buffalo robes and beaver pelts back East to feed the booming fashion industry. The trade was mutually beneficial and remarkably amiable. I found it to be personally encouraging. 

Do we have peace now? In America, we may have become disillusioned by wealth. We have the Internet. We have fast cars. We have advanced medical care. We have rovers on Mars. But peace? Peace like they had at Fort Union is hard to find. Is it because our era has become too complicated? In the 1800s, it was easier to focus on what united people, not divided them. Perhaps it was easier to just see people for people too. I’m no psychologist, but there is one thing I can say for certain. They had something truly special at Fort Union. I wish we could find it today too.

We visited a second fort while we were in the area, but it wasn’t as quite a profound experience. The Fort Buford Historic Site was once a military fort. Little remains of what was once there, so we mostly just enjoyed a stroll on the parade grounds. We were halted halfway across the field by a man standing stock still and staring at the ground. When he noticed us, he grinned with a mixture of fear and admiration. Pointing at a mound of dirt, he whispered, “There’s a badger.”

As far as I know, we don’t have badgers in Ohio. After encountering one for the first time, I’m glad we don’t! The creature was a squat, striped thing with an upturned nose and mean eyes. His little nose lifted above a snarl lined with pointed teeth. Strangest of all, he hissed. It carried the venom of a snake’s rattle. I had no doubt that if we approached him, he’d barrel out of his hole and sink those pointy teeth into my ankle. Not loving the idea of getting a badger bite in North Dakota, we settled into comfortable squats and waited for the angry guy to calm down. It became a battle of patience. The badger was full of the primal urge to hunker down and outwait the enemy. He would creep out, inch by inch, to see if we had gone. When he realized we hadn’t, he would duck back down into the hole with another angry hiss. We were at an impass. The badger wanted to cross our trail to a bigger, safer hole. We just wanted to get past without being assaulted by the striped evil groundhog. The badger finally had enough. With a final, especially dramatic hiss, he scurried out of the hole, across the trail, and dove into the ground. I think we all sighed a little. The battle had come to an end. 

Strange wildlife encounters become a hallmark of the day. While hiking on a trail back to a historic ranch owned by Theodore Roosevelt, a piercing shriek came from a thick patch of grass. We both jumped a mile into the air. We were the only ones on the hiking trail. There were no living things on the trail ahead or behind, yet, the animal screech sounded as if we had just stepped on something. Startled, we froze. The scream came again, accompanied with a massive movement of grass. I crept a little closer to Tyler. Was it another badger? Finally, we saw it. A spotted fawn, ears plastered to its head in alarm, was stepping quickly away into a tree line. Casting us a wary glance, it opened its delicate little mouth and screamed again. I had never heard such a huge sound from a baby deer. Clearly we had scared it, and it scared us! We watched the fawn melt into the woods with some reverence. Our hearts were still thumping from the initial shock. I felt a little bad for scaring the fawn, but also confused. Weren’t fawns supposed to hide in the grass and stay quiet? If he hadn’t screamed, we never would have seen him. Somehow, I don’t think Bambi understood the assignment! 

My favorite wildlife encounter of the day happened near sunset in Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Tyler had found us a neat trail that descended from the top of a grassy mesa into a hilly valley of badlands. Characteristic of the park, there were bison everywhere. The large herds enjoy endless grazing and federal protection within the boundaries of the park, so they have indirectly learned to amass where the people are. They use trail markers as scratching posts and hiking trails as paths. In many ways, Theodore Roosevelt National Park belongs more to the bison than the visitors. They have left their mark so indelibly that we mistook a bison path for the start of our hiking trail. That was my fault. I always run Alltrails on my phone and Tyler, bless him, trusts my navigational skills enough to follow me. Despite poor wayfinding experiences in the past, he still lets me run the map and get better at it. One of these days, I’ll keep us correctly on the trail! This particular trail, however, was not my best moment. The real trailhead was a few yards ahead, but I had already pocketed my phone. Seeing a clear path descending into the valley, I didn’t hesitate twice about taking it. Almost immediately, the trail dropped steeply down a sandy embankment. We slid and stumbled our way down to flat ground, noticing the proliferation of footprints and bison patties as we went. 

“Boy, the bison must really like to use the hiking trail,” I remarked.

Just as the words left my mouth, the bull bison appeared. He was big, and I mean BIG. His head was the length of my torso and twice as wide. His horns were thick and sharp. His furry chest swung as he walked, nearly brushing the ground. He was a force to be reckoned with. He was plodding slowly up an adjacent trail, leveling his tired, red-rimmed eyes on us as he approached. Tyler and I realized two things at once. 1) The bison was on the real hiking trail, and 2) he wanted on the bison path that we currently occupied. I wanted no part with him. I had watched too many videos of people getting spontaneously airlifted by bison in Yellowstone, and I wasn’t about to let us become the next victims. Being the smaller vehicles on nature’s highway, we decided to yield to the bison. Turning tail, we scurried away down the bison path.

The bison path was very narrow, not characterized by the signposts or tennis shoe footprints we were accustomed to. As we pushed through the brush, we kept glancing over our shoulders. Had the bison taken offense to our presence on his turf? Was he galloping after us to make us trail pancakes for our crime? Luckily, the sluggish old bull didn’t seem to care about the two skittish Ohioans scurrying away. 

Soon, however, our minds were consumed by another distraction: ticks. Ticks are everywhere in the Dakotas. This makes sense given the enormous amount of grassland, but somehow, we had underestimated the abundance of the horrible bugs. Following the little bison path, our legs were constantly brushed by grass. Every few paces, we would stop to stomp off another creepy crawly that had hitched a ride on our shoes or legs. Having already gotten Lyme Disease once in my life, the ticks were making me tense. I really didn’t feel like getting it again. We stomped and brushed and tiptoed our way through the badlands until our path collided with a broader trail. I stopped, checked for ticks one last time, and then pulled out my phone. 

“Oh good. We’re back on the hiking trail now. The real one this time!” I grinned apologetically to my ever-patient husband, who was still fishing out the last tick who had taking a liking to his sock. I turned my attention to a family who was approaching. They were a cute family, a mom and dad with three little girls. The girls wore adorable shorts and sundresses. I grimaced a little internally, hoping that the ticks hadn’t terrorized the girls as much as they’d crawled all over my pants. The family smiled politely to us, then turned to journey down the path we had just finished.

”Oh, I wouldn’t go down that way if I were you. It’s not a real trail, and there’s a huge bull bison a ways down!”

“Oh?” The family paused. The dad looked unconvinced. I tried again.

”Yeah, he was a big boy! He’s right on the trail too. We only took this way to get away from him.”

”Oh really?” To my dismay, the dad looked excited about this. The little girls looked at each other with wide eyes and big smiles.

”There are a ton of ticks too,” Tyler added, standing up after a final brush-off of his legs. “We wouldn’t recommend it.” 

“Ah, well, I’m sure it will be fine. Thanks though!” The dad waved cheerily and off they went, right down the trail we’d just warned them against. 

Tyler and I looked at each other in surprise. 

“I wouldn’t want to mess with that bison,” I commented. “Or the ticks,” I added, thinking again of the girls’ bare legs. Poor kids. 

Shaking our heads a little, we continued on the main trail, mildly worried about the fate of the family. We didn’t have to worry for long, though. After a few minutes, we saw them returning down the bison path. They had turned around. Phew! No trail pancakes on our watch! Sometimes I still wonder though. What made them turn around? Was it the ticks, or was it the bison? 

We love the national parks because of days like this. In the same span of time, we can learn a powerful lesson about peace-keeping, get screamed at by a baby deer, and gain a new respect for bison and ticks. Our national park experiences are often a wonderful combination of history, nature, and weird encounters. No experience is ever the same, nor can they be replicated. They are uniquely, wonderfully, our own.

Hiking trails:

River Bend Overlook 

Caprock Coulee Trail 

Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site

Fort Buford State Historic Site

Elkhorn Ranch trail 

Painted Canyon trail