3-1 A Sign from the Past

August 1

Vernon County, WI

When I looked at my busy calendar, trying to figure out exactly when I would be able to take my 'Journey Home', with all the memories that I had collected along the way and the spirits who heard my prayers and decided to guide me and walk with me, there was a moment of enlightenment that struck me with the force of a wave crashing into my consciousness.  Of course, the trip must take place on August 1st.  I pulled out a calendar to check, and against all odds, it conveniently fell on a Friday.  I was so excited I could hardly wait to tell my husband about it when he got home.  He was a little slower to comprehend, but eventually he agreed that it was the perfect time, and so we made our vacation and travel plans.  August 1st was the anniversary of the start of the final massacre.  There could be no better day to be there, to revisit the important places, to give prayers and offerings for the lost and healing for the earth.

For months we made plans for taking our boat and our bicycles and spending hours and days traveling south along the river, hugging the Great River Road.  It was meant to be a celebration of life, a rejoicing and reunion of spirits, a grand, and enthusiastic adventure south along the great and mighty Mississippi.  Of course, as the days grew closer, life interceded and we were not able to make the final preparations necessary to carry off our ambitions, but there was no question about taking the trip - it just needed to change a little.  Gone was the boat - our journey would have to be on land.  Gone were the carefully laid plans, the daily itinerary - we would have to take it as it came, letting our path be guided by the forces of the universe and the spirits of The People.  As always, trips turn out better that way.

As you may recall, our previous journeying left a few things undone.  When we reached the edge of the Mississippi River earlier this year it was swollen beyond its banks, leaving us unable to visit the last sign in the C.V. Porter series.  The river finally receded in mid July but before we took those final steps together to stand in front of that last, terrible sign on August 1st, we decided to revisit the other signs along the way and leave more prayer sticks as we went.  Also - if at all possible, we were bound and determined to reach the edge of Six Sisters Pond and spend some time with them and Two Eagles.

On the morning of August 1st, my husband and I loaded up and drove to Vernon County, where the rest of our adventure was set to begin.  I felt no need to revisit the first sign, though I cannot explain why.  Instead we drove straight to markers 2 and 3, the place which told the story of the Six Sisters, as I have come to know them.  Of course we stopped and spent time at the sign, but we really wanted to find the pond. We drove carefully around the area again, and looked for the place where Two Eagles had called to us, and I'm fairly positive we found it, but we also found directly across the farm road a farmer in his front yard doing earthwork, and he gave us long, hard stares as we slowed down to stare into his fields.  He was not going anywhere, and he did not give the impression of being a man willing to let two weirdos on a spiritual journey cavort around on his land.  There was too much negative energy, so we decided instead to drive to the other side of the property and come in from the south.  We drove to the Cemetery, parked in the back and started walking downhill towards the field.

Now - I am not one who is easily detracted by a few bugs, and as far as I'm concerned, fences are made for climbing.  That said, between us and the edge of the woods was a broad, mowed stretch of grass at the edge of the cemetery and a wide stretch of field absolutely swarming with gnats, and then an electric fence.  This was a daunting barrier, and I was beginning to feel that for whatever reason this just wasn't supposed to happen, or at least not today.  I felt no calling from the Six Sisters or from Two Eagles, just barriers in our way.  I knew that if I drove a quarter mile to the south I would be able to cross a cornfield and get to the back side of the fence, which wasn't electric I knew because I had been there before, but this was all wrong.  I decided to listen to what the universe was telling me and once again offer my prayers from afar.  Despite the bugs, I went as far as I could towards the pond and secured a prayer stick to the fence post, promising to return someday and conquer these barriers.  If you are disappointed reading this, you can imagine how I felt.  I cannot tell you how many people have read my blog and have told me in person or in writing how much they were looking forward to our return to Six Sisters Pond.  I'm afraid they and you and I will have to wait a little longer for that part of the story.

Thwarted, we returned to the car and made our way to each of the Porter signs, in order, leaving the last sign, the one we had not yet visited, for the very end.  Before we went there, in the heart of Blackhawk Park, we took another trip up into battle hollow to view the battle site and the hillsides.  There is something eerily fascinating about staring at a hillside and knowing that one hundred and eighty some-odd years ago to the day, a band of hundreds of exhausted Native people poured over the top of the ridge, within sight of the Mississippi River that was to be their salvation, only to be caught once again at the edge of the water.  Amazing, too, staring at the edge of Battle Bluff, a ridiculously steep and towering bluff face knowing that when the fighting between the militia and the Indians was in full force, a barely restrained brigade of Army troops plunged over the edge and somehow descended the precipice without anyone getting killed by the effort.

I kept my eyes open for signs from my spirit guides, but nothing made itself obvious to me, and so I continued my tour of the area, and the last couple historical markers.  I'm pleased to say that at one of the markers, my prayer stick was still there, the feathers blowing gently in the breeze.  Thank you, to all the people who saw it, and left it there.

So, as the day was starting to draw towards evening, I finally turned once again into Blackhawk Park, to reach and visit the very last of the Black Hawk Trail markers, even though this was not where Black Hawk himself ended his trail.  We drove slowly down the road, reaching the place where the raging river had prevented our passing earlier this year.  Though the water was gone, flowing once again within its banks, the evidence of recent flooding was obvious and everywhere.  As we passed the place where we had before seen a great blue heron fishing on the road, there was once again a tingling sense that overtook me, starting at the back of my neck.  I was here.  I was there. I was then.

The road through the park is long, and winding, and though it was obvious that the water never would have been any deeper than one or two feet, had we decided to wade along the road earlier in the year, the river could not be trusted.  There were places where whole trees, liberated by the flood waters, had washed across the road, crashing into and sometimes leveling the structures and obstacles in their path.  And then, suddenly, we were there.  A parking lot full of cars, and just a little northwest of where we parked, the last of the C.V. Porter Black Hawk Trail markers stood covered by its tiny shelter, telling a story of long ago on the evening of August 1, 1832.  With 62 carefully crafted words, Porter paints a portrait of brutal murder, intentionally or otherwise giving the false impression that the great Sac warrior's life ended on the shores of the nearby island.

I stood, facing the sign, and for the very first time on this journey, my heart was not filled with the heaviness of those dreadful events of the past.  I was saddened, certainly, as anyone would be reading about the needless slaughter of 22 people, and more so knowing that the figure was only a fraction of the final tally, but something else was there.  As I looked around, I saw people fishing, laughing, laying on the beach and wading in the water.  Some people were putting up a tent, in preparation for events scheduled the next day.  What I felt - the thing that had been missing all along my journey - was happiness and peace.  This was no longer a place filled only with the memory of great tragedy and bad energy.  The healing had started, and the celebration had begun.  I knew that there were many people, Natives like myself and others, who had come to this place to perform healing ceremonies, and to work with the spirits of the dead.  With a sudden lifting of my soul I reached out to touch the air around me, and feel the calming effect of the sun and the water, the earth and the sky coming together in this one place to draw joy like a magnet.  The very earth was using its powers to draw positive energy to this place and heal itself.  I could feel the effect washing over me like the fragrance of apple blossoms.  I walked to the edge of the river and placed my staff in the healing waters.

Makataimeshekiakiak - I have followed your footsteps to the edge of the great river. You have taught me many things along the way, and I am grateful. I once believed that I was taking this journey to help lead your spirit home. Now I have discovered that all along the way it was you who was leading me to this place of healing, so that I could learn your story and spread your message of peace.

Today, on the eve of the blackest day in the history of your people, I feel the warmth of sunlight as it touches my skin and dances off the waves. I am surrounded by the gifts of nature, that bring to me the joy that your people and family once shared along these banks.

Tomorrow I will return, and I will mourn once more for your people, and I will offer my prayers and healing energies to this place, and I will call to them and honor their memory. And then I will begin my journey anew, and I will sing your song, and I will travel to Saukenuk along the river that was your home. Tomorrow I will dance once more. Ah-ho

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(Key Terms: Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak, Black Sparrow Hawk, Black Hawk, 1767, Saukenuk, Pyesa, Rock Island, Black Hawk’s Watch Tower, Black Hawk State Historic Site, Hauberg Museum, Sauk, Sac, Meskwaki, Fox, Rock River, Sinnissippi River, Mississippi River, War of 1812, British Band, Great Britain, Treaty of 1804, Treaties, Ceded Land, William Henry Harrison, Quashquame, Keokuk, Fort Armstrong, Samuel Whiteside, Black Hawk War of 1832, Black Hawk Conflict, Scalp, Great Sauk Trail, Black Hawk Trail, Prophetstown, Wabokieshiek, White Cloud, The Winnebago Prophet, Ne-o-po-pe, Dixon’s Ferry, Isaiah Stillman, The Battle of Stillman’s Run, Old Man’s Creek, Sycamore Creek, Abraham Lincoln, Chief Shabbona, Felix St. Vrain, Lake Koshkonong, Fort Koshkonong, Fort Atkinson, Henry Atkinson, Andrew Jackson, Lewis Cass, Winfield Scott, Chief Black Wolf, Henry Dodge, James Henry, White Crow, Rock River Rapids, The Four Lakes, Battle of Wisconsin Heights, Benjamin Franklin Smith, Wisconsin River, Kickapoo River, Soldier’s Grove, Steamboat Warrior, Steamship Warrior, Fort Crawford, Battle of Bad Axe, Bad Axe Massacre, Joseph M. Street, Antoine LeClaire, Native American, Indian, Michigan Territory, Indiana Territory, Louisiana Territory, Osage, Souix, Potawatomi, Ojibwe, Ottawa, Ho-Chunk)