Seven Days on the Rez
Last summer a team of University of Wisconsin-Madison student and alumni volunteers spent a week in Browning, Montana, on the Blackfeet reservation. They endeavored to make a difference — both on the reservation and in their own lives.
By John Allen
In the tiny village of Heart Butte, in northwestern Montana, stands a rare example of a metaphor made literal.
Tucked in an out-of-the way corner of the Blackfeet reservation, Heart Butte is one of the sites where UW-Madison sent a SALA — Service and Learning Adventure — team last summer. The students and alumni who took part in this journey had come to mend fences — to learn about the Blackfeet and themselves, and to give aid where it's deeply needed. And mending fences is just what they did, digging eighteen-inch-deep holes in the rocky soil (or, as John Vasudevan x'02 puts it, "more like soily rock") so they could string chain link fence around a playground.
They spent a week on the reservation, and in that time they learned a little of the physical strain of construction. They learned some of the difficulties that the Blackfeet face in life. And they gained insight into their own preconceptions about themselves and others.
"It was," says Sarah Baker-Siroty x'02, "a different kind of education."
By John Allen
In the tiny village of Heart Butte, in northwestern Montana, stands a rare example of a metaphor made literal.
Tucked in an out-of-the way corner of the Blackfeet reservation, Heart Butte is one of the sites where UW-Madison sent a SALA — Service and Learning Adventure — team last summer. The students and alumni who took part in this journey had come to mend fences — to learn about the Blackfeet and themselves, and to give aid where it's deeply needed. And mending fences is just what they did, digging eighteen-inch-deep holes in the rocky soil (or, as John Vasudevan x'02 puts it, "more like soily rock") so they could string chain link fence around a playground.
They spent a week on the reservation, and in that time they learned a little of the physical strain of construction. They learned some of the difficulties that the Blackfeet face in life. And they gained insight into their own preconceptions about themselves and others.
"It was," says Sarah Baker-Siroty x'02, "a different kind of education."
The fence-menders were one of three teams that SALA sent out in its inaugural year. Sponsored by several UW-Madison organizations, including University Communications, the Wisconsin Alumni Association, the Wisconsin Union, the Morgridge Center for Public Service, and the Office of the Chancellor, the program aims to give travelers something more than sightseeing. Offering a combination of volunteer service and educational programming, it creates teams out of people who have little in common except a present or past connection with the UW, teams that work together and learn about the genuine lives of their hosts.
"What defines this as unique to UW-Madison," says Patrick Strickler, director of University Communications, "is that connection of alumni and students. SALA brings together people who have the freedom to travel with younger people in the student body. Both groups can learn from the exposure."
SALA organizers worked with a service travel company called Global Volunteers to put together three trips in 2002 — two to Blackfeet country and one overseas, to Ireland's Glencree Centre for Reconciliation. The Centre works to heal the rifts caused by the conflict in Northern Ireland, and the SALA volunteers painted and did maintenance work so that those who run the facility could be free to focus on their mission.
"What defines this as unique to UW-Madison," says Patrick Strickler, director of University Communications, "is that connection of alumni and students. SALA brings together people who have the freedom to travel with younger people in the student body. Both groups can learn from the exposure."
SALA organizers worked with a service travel company called Global Volunteers to put together three trips in 2002 — two to Blackfeet country and one overseas, to Ireland's Glencree Centre for Reconciliation. The Centre works to heal the rifts caused by the conflict in Northern Ireland, and the SALA volunteers painted and did maintenance work so that those who run the facility could be free to focus on their mission.
The teams that worked with the Blackfeet stayed in Browning, Montana, the reservation's largest town. Global Volunteers has extensive contacts in the Browning area — the company's co-founder, Michele Gran, spent ten summers of her childhood living and working in the nearby community of Saint Mary. With the aid of Gran and her company, the SALA team stayed at the local Head Start facility, camping out more or less on the floor and performing manual labor at a variety of locations, including tiny Heart Butte.
The SALA team I joined was the largest of the 2002 groups — the one that strung fence in Heart Butte. It included six students and fourteen graduates, as well as faculty adviser Gary Sandefur and his spouse, Kathy. Though Sandefur isn't an expert on the Blackfeet, he is a professor of sociology and American Indian studies, and he's a registered member of the Chickasaw Nation. He knows more than a few things about reservations, and could add context to what volunteers saw and heard.
As organizers hoped, chemistry developed between students and alumni. "The energy of the young folks is infectious," said Lindalea Ludwick '67. And Hannah Baker-Siroty x'02 found inspiration in working beside those she would usually think of as "professors, coaches, parents — people who would be so distant in another setting, but here they are friends, partners.
The SALA team I joined was the largest of the 2002 groups — the one that strung fence in Heart Butte. It included six students and fourteen graduates, as well as faculty adviser Gary Sandefur and his spouse, Kathy. Though Sandefur isn't an expert on the Blackfeet, he is a professor of sociology and American Indian studies, and he's a registered member of the Chickasaw Nation. He knows more than a few things about reservations, and could add context to what volunteers saw and heard.
As organizers hoped, chemistry developed between students and alumni. "The energy of the young folks is infectious," said Lindalea Ludwick '67. And Hannah Baker-Siroty x'02 found inspiration in working beside those she would usually think of as "professors, coaches, parents — people who would be so distant in another setting, but here they are friends, partners.
"People did such fabulous things, and by doing them, we all helped each other become better people," she says. "I was so moved watching Elinor [Gbede MS'73]. She is so hard core."
Through the course of their week on the reservation beginning in late July, members of the SALA team found more than lessons about history and culture. "Interacting with this wonderfully unique culture," says Vasudevan, "has helped me redirect my focus and concentrate less on the details that separate
and aggravate, and more on the needs and feelings that strengthen common human bonds."
The team had seven full days on the reservation, and the following seven stories explore a little of what the volunteers discovered.
Standing on Divide showed many of the volunteers Montana at its best. "It's the closest thing to heaven I've ever experienced in my life," says Jennifer Jennifer x'04. "My breath was deep, my brain alert, my body like a feather."
Through the course of their week on the reservation beginning in late July, members of the SALA team found more than lessons about history and culture. "Interacting with this wonderfully unique culture," says Vasudevan, "has helped me redirect my focus and concentrate less on the details that separate
and aggravate, and more on the needs and feelings that strengthen common human bonds."
The team had seven full days on the reservation, and the following seven stories explore a little of what the volunteers discovered.
Sometimes the earth plays tricks on us. Sometimes the surface is so beautiful that there are no words for the view. Glacier [National Park] is one of those places. There is serenity there. Peace. And mountain goats.On Monday evening, after the volunteers had put in their first day of work, Michele Gran took several of them hiking on a tumbled pyramid of blasted stone called Divide Mountain. Divide stands on the eastern edge of the Rockies, a dozen or so miles from Browning and just visible on the horizon on a clear day. If you were to stand on Divide's peak and look to the west, you'd see Glacier National Park. To the east, sloping away on the Great Plains, you'd see the Blackfeet reservation. The real estate to the west, all deeply cut valleys and everlasting snow fields, is some of the most beautiful and highly valued in America. The real estate to the east isn't.
From the journal of Sarah Baker-Siroty x'02
Standing on Divide showed many of the volunteers Montana at its best. "It's the closest thing to heaven I've ever experienced in my life," says Jennifer Jennifer x'04. "My breath was deep, my brain alert, my body like a feather."
But 196 years earlier, when the Blackfeet made their entry into U.S. history, the scene was far from heavenly. Meriwether Lewis, the first official American representative to make contact with the Blackfeet, thought of those "irregular and broken" mountains as an obstacle, not a destination.
Lewis was tramping through Blackfeet country on his way home from seeing the Pacific, and he was having a bad time of it. His partner, William Clark, had taken a different route, and now rivers weren't flowing the way Lewis wanted them to. His chronometer had broken. It was raining. And, having come with his own preconceived notions about the Blackfeet, he was desperately anxious not to meet any.
"A vicious, lawless, and rather an abandoned set of wretches," he called them, believing "they would steal our horses if they have it in their power and ... will most probably attempt to rob us of our arms and baggage."
Lewis was tramping through Blackfeet country on his way home from seeing the Pacific, and he was having a bad time of it. His partner, William Clark, had taken a different route, and now rivers weren't flowing the way Lewis wanted them to. His chronometer had broken. It was raining. And, having come with his own preconceived notions about the Blackfeet, he was desperately anxious not to meet any.
"A vicious, lawless, and rather an abandoned set of wretches," he called them, believing "they would steal our horses if they have it in their power and ... will most probably attempt to rob us of our arms and baggage."
He and several companions stopped at a site they called Camp Disappointment, and they were soon bitterly disappointed indeed. Very shortly, Lewis and company ran across a small Blackfeet hunting party. Diplomatically, they all decided to share a campsite for a night. Undiplomatically, a scuffle broke out over weapons. Two Blackfeet ended up dead, one shot through the stomach by Lewis himself.
Two centuries later, Browning now lies just a few miles from the spot Lewis had named Camp Disappointment. The camp isn't a major tourist attraction. But Browning's Museum of the Plains Indian is, and it features a map showing the diminishing lands held by Native Americans. The Blackfeet once ranged over all the land east of the Great Divide, from the Yellowstone River north well into Canada. Now their U.S. reservation stretches for only about two million acres, bordered on the west by Glacier National Park and on the north by Canada.
Two centuries later, Browning now lies just a few miles from the spot Lewis had named Camp Disappointment. The camp isn't a major tourist attraction. But Browning's Museum of the Plains Indian is, and it features a map showing the diminishing lands held by Native Americans. The Blackfeet once ranged over all the land east of the Great Divide, from the Yellowstone River north well into Canada. Now their U.S. reservation stretches for only about two million acres, bordered on the west by Glacier National Park and on the north by Canada.
Life in Blackfeet country, even without Meriwether Lewis and his guns, can be harsh. According to members of the Blackfeet Tribal Business Council, the reservation's governing authority, unemployment stands at 71 percent, though some residents put the rate as high as 80. Alcohol and substance abuse are a deeply destructive force in the community — in just the first half of 2002, alcohol-related auto accidents took the lives of thirteen of the reservation's teenagers: the reservation's total population is 8,500.
In only one week, the SALA team couldn't hope to make even a dent in any of these problems. The goal, rather, was for volunteers to provide a little community service, to learn about themselves and others, and to experience the world outside of middle-class, Midwestern Madison. Or, in the words of Gary Sandefur, simply "to help, to learn, and to have fun."
In only one week, the SALA team couldn't hope to make even a dent in any of these problems. The goal, rather, was for volunteers to provide a little community service, to learn about themselves and others, and to experience the world outside of middle-class, Midwestern Madison. Or, in the words of Gary Sandefur, simply "to help, to learn, and to have fun."
There just isn't a lot you can control on an Indian reservation.The day we arrived in Browning, our Global Volunteers representative, Michele Gran, gave one very clear warning: be wary of expectations. No matter how good our volunteer intentions were, we were under the direction of our Blackfeet hosts and should respect their goals and follow their decisions — even if we'd like things done more aggressively.
Michele Gran
"There's a different style of organization around here," she said. "There will be times when keeping a sense of humor might be really useful."
For the most part, the SALA team found the physical labor "extremely rewarding," in the words of Elinor Gbede, who spent much of the week doing manual labor at different Head Start facilities around the reservation. "You could see immediate results."
Over the course of the week, volunteers did landscaping, painting, maintenance, and food service. They dug postholes, set up fences, tore out weeds, shoveled, and hauled gravel. At a local senior center, they pulled up potentially hazardous tile in anticipation of a federal inspector's arrival. They traveled as far away as Babb, near the Canadian border, to tear down a swing set that a safety inspector said was too large for its
playground.
When they were working together, says John Vasudevan, tasks "that appeared to be futile and difficult slowly changed to possible and rewarding."
When there were too many volunteers and not enough work, two of the students, Jennifer Jennifer and Caty Patton x'05, created their own activity, encouraging local children to paint rocks as a beautification project.
playground.
When they were working together, says John Vasudevan, tasks "that appeared to be futile and difficult slowly changed to possible and rewarding."
When there were too many volunteers and not enough work, two of the students, Jennifer Jennifer and Caty Patton x'05, created their own activity, encouraging local children to paint rocks as a beautification project.
It was "a pivotal point in some kind of self-realization," says Patton. "I wanted to do it all day — sit there and play, laugh, and make a mess. And when we announced we had to leave, [the kids] all reluctantly groaned and looked at the pile of colored rocks that were drying in the sun with little faces of total happiness."
But Gran's warning wasn't entirely in vain, as Alex Barton '98, a Chicago marketing executive, and Jen Imm, a pharmacy graduate student, discovered. They went to the Browning diabetes clinic to help draw up marketing plans. Diabetes, particularly Type II, is a widespread problem on the reservation, affecting perhaps a thousand residents. And yet at the clinic, there are only four regulars who show up consistently for treatment.
But Gran's warning wasn't entirely in vain, as Alex Barton '98, a Chicago marketing executive, and Jen Imm, a pharmacy graduate student, discovered. They went to the Browning diabetes clinic to help draw up marketing plans. Diabetes, particularly Type II, is a widespread problem on the reservation, affecting perhaps a thousand residents. And yet at the clinic, there are only four regulars who show up consistently for treatment.
"We have to get people in before they need amputations," said one clinic worker. "Because once we start chopping, they've only got about two years left."
Barton and Imm expected that they'd be targeting various populations in need of service, planning a mailing campaign, or drawing up some sort of time line.
"Very quickly, we had to lower our expectations," says Imm. "All we got accomplished was to type up a protocol for making a form letter on Microsoft Word from an Excel spreadsheet. And then the outreach worker didn't even want to try it. Comparatively, the manual labor was gratifying. You could see the results of your labor. But at the clinic, sometimes it seemed like we were spinning our wheels."
Barton and Imm expected that they'd be targeting various populations in need of service, planning a mailing campaign, or drawing up some sort of time line.
"Very quickly, we had to lower our expectations," says Imm. "All we got accomplished was to type up a protocol for making a form letter on Microsoft Word from an Excel spreadsheet. And then the outreach worker didn't even want to try it. Comparatively, the manual labor was gratifying. You could see the results of your labor. But at the clinic, sometimes it seemed like we were spinning our wheels."
You cannot be disappointed by something you didn't expect. Even if you don't reach your expectations or goals, chances are you'll end up better off than you started.Sometimes the most frustrating work can lead to unexpected discoveries. One of the projects that Michele Gran had been most enthusiastic about stalled, but it offered an education in modern reservation politics nonetheless.
From the journal of John Vasudevan x'02
Gran had hoped to use the UW's highly educated, professional volunteers as an example of the sort of long-term benefits that her company and SALA could offer the Blackfeet.
"We can continue to send teams to dig holes," she says, "but little by little, we want to build up our competencies in other areas." And so she asked Gary Sandefur to speak to the members of the Blackfeet Tribal Business Council and to their influential vice chair, Jimmy St. Goddard. St. Goddard's authority had expanded considerably after recent tribal elections in which he and like-minded candidates had swept the old administration out of office. The former chair, Earl Old Person, had presided nearly continuously since the 1940s, and now St. Goddard and the new chair, William Talks About, promised big changes.
At first the council was receptive. They listened to Sandefur and asked him to return for a more formal discussion. Gran asked Sheryl Facktor '85, an attorney and investment banker, and me to accompany him. Beginning on a Tuesday, Sandefur, Facktor, and I staked out St. Goddard and the council. We sat outside their chambers in Browning. We chased them to a meeting in Heart Butte. From one day to the next we waited, but always we were deflected — the council was either in closed session or St. Goddard was deep in meetings. Gran would have to court the council without us.
But though we never got in to speak to the councilors, we found something else, instead. We found a chance to talk informally with others who were also waiting in hope of seeing the council. One of these was Pat Schildt, a Blackfeet entrepreneur who operates a convenience store in Browning. He told us about the way the council works, the rise and fall of various tribal enterprises, and the difficulties of running a business in Browning these days. Even with such high unemployment, worker turnover remains a problem. One of the first things Schildt does for new employees, he says, is to give them an alarm clock, maintaining that many of them may have difficulties adapting to a fixed schedule.
But though we never got in to speak to the councilors, we found something else, instead. We found a chance to talk informally with others who were also waiting in hope of seeing the council. One of these was Pat Schildt, a Blackfeet entrepreneur who operates a convenience store in Browning. He told us about the way the council works, the rise and fall of various tribal enterprises, and the difficulties of running a business in Browning these days. Even with such high unemployment, worker turnover remains a problem. One of the first things Schildt does for new employees, he says, is to give them an alarm clock, maintaining that many of them may have difficulties adapting to a fixed schedule.
"You can learn a lot talking to people like this," says Sandefur. "They'll tell you all sorts of things that you'd never hear from official sources. It's a real education about the way things work on a reservation."
Rodeo
Stopped at the Western Curio Store and I got a cowboy hat, all in preparation for the rodeo in East Glacier.
From the journal of Lindalea Ludwick '67 The Montana trip may have been dedicated to service and learning, but adventure played more than a small part. One evening, many of us drove to East Glacier to take in one of Montana's great traditions: the rodeo.
In the rural West, rodeos are about as commonplace as high school football games in the Midwest. The one in East Glacier was nothing out of the ordinary — local kids rode various surly beasts for an audience of their parents, friends, neighbors, and us. We tried to blend in.
"It was obvious that we were tourists from Wisconsin," says John Vasudevan x'02, "because of our absolute obnoxiousness."
Still, it was a friendly sort of obnoxiousness. We simply tried to play along. When little children were auctioned off, we bought one, even before we learned exactly what we were buying. The small boys and girls rode sheep in the night's opening event. Winning children would split their earnings with their "owners," sixty-forty. We took a bath on the deal.
"We bought a boy named Alonzo Skunkcap," says Sarah Baker-Siroty x'02. "I knew he wouldn't win. But who ever heard of such a thing as buying a little boy?"
Rain sent most of the volunteers home early, but those who stayed saw the full range of rodeo experiences: barrel racing, hog tying, and riding sheep, steers, and broncos. And tragedy. "One bucking bronco bucked so hard that finally his rider fell off," says Elinor Gbede. "Then the horse fell over."
"We bought a boy named Alonzo Skunkcap," says Sarah Baker-Siroty x'02. "I knew he wouldn't win. But who ever heard of such a thing as buying a little boy?"
Rain sent most of the volunteers home early, but those who stayed saw the full range of rodeo experiences: barrel racing, hog tying, and riding sheep, steers, and broncos. And tragedy. "One bucking bronco bucked so hard that finally his rider fell off," says Elinor Gbede. "Then the horse fell over."
The response of the rodeo crew was swift and professional. They huddled over the rider, and after a tense pause, he stood up, to a round of relieved applause. Then it became apparent that the horse wasn't able to get up. The crew drugged it and quickly dismantled a gate to use as a travois. Then they dragged it out of the arena to await a vet. Rumor had it the horse had broken its back.
That's rodeo life. One Blackfeet woman we met, Maria Wagner, cataloged the injuries her sixteen-year-old son had received riding steers a month earlier: stepped on, gored, dragged, stunned, fifteen stitches in the face. He was back in the arena that night.
"Well," she says, "is he a boy?"
That's rodeo life. One Blackfeet woman we met, Maria Wagner, cataloged the injuries her sixteen-year-old son had received riding steers a month earlier: stepped on, gored, dragged, stunned, fifteen stitches in the face. He was back in the arena that night.
"Well," she says, "is he a boy?"
"Indians" are who white people were looking for when they found us.
Margaret Yellow KidneyIf you asked Browning residents what the best thing about their town is, they'd likely say it's the Indians.
The Indians are the boys basketball team at Browning High School. Actually, every team at Browning High is called the Indians, but the boys basketball team is special. The squad has won Montana's Class A state tournament for two years running, which makes them a hot ticket.
In politically correct Madison, having an Indian for a mascot would be unthinkable. Some of the volunteers, like Lauralyn Schellin '61, MS'62, who's seen Native American names removed from many places near her home in Oregon, were surprised to see "Browning Indians" plastered on walls and T-shirts. But in Browning, the term Indian is used almost universally, and it doesn't seem to bother anybody.
Not much. But then there's Margaret Yellow Kidney, a nurse at Browning's Head Start, who has a different take on the issue. Though not Blackfeet herself — she was born to a white father and a Chilcotin mother on a reserve in British Columbia — she is deeply involved in the traditional life of the Blackfeet. Her father-in-law, Buster Yellow Kidney, was a renowned figure in the Native American traditional spiritual community until his death in 2000.
Margaret and her spouse still carry on his work at sun dances and sweat lodges, and she came to discuss traditional practices with the volunteers one morning. The details of native culture are important to her.
"I'm what's called a 'breed,' " she says. "With my father's people, I'm a squaw. With my mother's, I'm a white man's child." So she's clear on her terminology, and she prefers the term "native" to refer to the people whose ancestors predate Columbus. "Sometimes I say Indian myself, but we're native."
Margaret and her spouse still carry on his work at sun dances and sweat lodges, and she came to discuss traditional practices with the volunteers one morning. The details of native culture are important to her.
"I'm what's called a 'breed,' " she says. "With my father's people, I'm a squaw. With my mother's, I'm a white man's child." So she's clear on her terminology, and she prefers the term "native" to refer to the people whose ancestors predate Columbus. "Sometimes I say Indian myself, but we're native."
With Indian time, the day is taken at a leisurely pace, appointments and deadlines have less urgency, and people rarely question a sudden change in plans.Indian time is one of those concepts that I'd heard a lot about. It had often been mentioned by both Gran and Sandefur in the meetings before the SALA team left for Montana. But I didn't really understand it — I hadn't really experienced it — until I spent a morning in the lobby of Browning's Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) office.
From the journal of John Vasudevan x'02
I — along with the rest of the SALA team — was supposed to hear a lecture from the BIA supervisor, Cliff Hall, on the history of relations between the Blackfeet and the federal government. We had an appointment with Hall at 9:30, but when we arrived — after an eight- or ten-block walk through the Montana morning chill — we found he was out, possibly inspecting irrigation works. The receptionist told us he'd be back soon, or maybe in the afternoon, and we could wait if we wanted. We did, for twenty minutes or so, before deciding to head back to the Head Start facility.
A couple of us stayed behind to help photographer Michael Forster Rothbart pack up his camera and equipment. By the time we were ready to go, news arrived: Hall was in the building. We sent word to Head Start to tell everyone to turn around. Michael began replacing photographic equipment, and I stood around in the BIA lobby, waiting so I could conduct the team back to Hall's office.
As I stood there, contemplating my shoes, a Fed Ex driver bumped into me. I felt guilty, because he was overloaded with packages, and I was basically just an obstacle. So I jumped out of the way, opened a door for him, and said: "Sorry about that — I know you absolutely, positively have to be somewhere before 10:30."
He looked at me, shrugged, and said, "Not in this town, I don't."
That's Indian time.
As I stood there, contemplating my shoes, a Fed Ex driver bumped into me. I felt guilty, because he was overloaded with packages, and I was basically just an obstacle. So I jumped out of the way, opened a door for him, and said: "Sorry about that — I know you absolutely, positively have to be somewhere before 10:30."
He looked at me, shrugged, and said, "Not in this town, I don't."
That's Indian time.
We found a dog. He's beautiful.Blackfeet country is a perilous place. There are many natural hazards: there are bears and coyotes and very cold nights — on mornings even at the height of summer, you might find frost on a car's windshield. There are mountains to fall off of and canyons to fall into. And, too, there are unnatural predators: vandals, aggressive panhandlers, and the drunk drivers who make the roads a terror.
From the journal of Hannah Baker-Siroty x'02
These are scary enough, but they're nothing when it comes to real danger — the sort of thing that can catch you off guard, throw your whole life into turmoil and leave behind nothing but wreckage.
They're nothing, that is, compared to the dogs. There must be hundreds of them, wandering stray, some technically owned, others nomadic, abandoned, or completely feral. These animals are a menace, because dogs — and this has been proven by science — are cute. Especially to college students and alumni who think of themselves as socially responsible people. To a traveling group of such tender-hearted creatures, a stray puppy is an albatross, a barnacle, an implacable parasite. You'll never get rid of it. And Browning, Montana, is the capital of stray puppy country. The Blackfeet love dogs, and they don't like leash laws.
It took less than forty-eight hours for the SALA team to be captured by a local pup. The panhandler who introduced — then abandoned — him said his name was Ralph. Ralph looked healthy, though he had no tags or collar, and the panhandler's claim of ownership seemed noncommittal at best. So the team took Ralph in — and immediately changed his name to Montana, Monty for short.
It took less than forty-eight hours for the SALA team to be captured by a local pup. The panhandler who introduced — then abandoned — him said his name was Ralph. Ralph looked healthy, though he had no tags or collar, and the panhandler's claim of ownership seemed noncommittal at best. So the team took Ralph in — and immediately changed his name to Montana, Monty for short.
As the days passed, the dog grew from a sort of mascot to a distraction. He chewed on Caty Patton's sleeping bag and devolved various socks into balls of yarn. His name changed again, first to Madison, then to Rusty, back to Madison, and then to Two Socks, after the eponymous beast in Dances with Wolves. Two of the students, Hannah and Sarah Baker-Siroty, phoned their parents to ask if they might bring him home with them.
But it soon became clear that no one on the SALA team could give Two Socks a permanent home, so we prevailed upon Darrell Wippert, a maintenance and security worker at the Head Start facility, to take him in. Wippert said he would, as a last resort.
But it soon became clear that no one on the SALA team could give Two Socks a permanent home, so we prevailed upon Darrell Wippert, a maintenance and security worker at the Head Start facility, to take him in. Wippert said he would, as a last resort.
At the end of the week, fate intervened. As Ralph-Montana-Monty-Madison-Rusty-Madison-Two Socks was playing outside of Wippert's trailer, a van pulled up. In the van was a little girl, and on that little girl's mind was her missing dog. It turns out that Two Socks was an imposter. He was actually named Cinnamon, and he came from Great Falls, though no one seemed to know how he'd traveled the 128 miles to Browning. He went home shortly before we did.
For many of the travelers, the attraction of SALA had been the opportunity to see life on a reservation, but what they took away was connections — and not just with canines. "This trip was an opportunity for me to extend myself beyond my classmates, to connect with people other than my peers," says Hannah Baker-Siroty. "It was amazing to be on a trip with such varying ages and life pursuits. We all have a great deal to teach each other."
For many of the travelers, the attraction of SALA had been the opportunity to see life on a reservation, but what they took away was connections — and not just with canines. "This trip was an opportunity for me to extend myself beyond my classmates, to connect with people other than my peers," says Hannah Baker-Siroty. "It was amazing to be on a trip with such varying ages and life pursuits. We all have a great deal to teach each other."
