2-2 Honoring Black Hawk - A Walking Meditation

February 14-15, 2014

Rock Island, IL

Black Hawk State Historic Site

Hard night had fallen in Rock Island, IL. The air outside felt frozen into a single, fragile mass that somehow failed to shatter as it moved forcefully through the hills and trees of Black Hawk Forest Nature Preserve. The Preserve is a tiny green space dedicated to the memory of the now-romanticized Indian leader. It is a deeply wooded stand of ancient trees, covering both hilltop and vale, laced with trails collectively referred to as Black Hawk State Historic Site Trail. The Park's Valentine's Day event featured a 'moonlight walk', which was in fact a route over a footbridge and into the forested areas of the Preserve, guided by a series of lighted candle-bags.

We walked, my companion and I, past oak trees that clearly fell into the 200-year-old category and beyond. These very oaks, with their massive boles soaring 40 to 50 feet before the first main branches could be seen, were a part of the landscape when Black Hawk was born and grew up in these very hills. Those young trees have watched over this glade for over 200 years, and have witnessed much by way of change. Almost none of it for the better. We walked, we two, hand-in-hand through the bitter night air, with most of the candles blown out, and most of the people huddled indoors near sources of heat. Though the Sauk did not winter in this location, it was nonetheless bitter cold in their winter homes, and they, too, would have been shut up inside their winter lodges, huddled by the fires or in furs for warmth. We walked on. The moon was full, and the path was easy to follow, even without the candles. We didn't travel far, or long, but we felt the village around us, hearing the whispers of the past. Tomorrow we would return to remember and honor The People.

We stayed overnight in a small motel on the hill overlooking the confluence of the Rock River, Sinnissippi to the Saukenuk residents of so long ago, and the Mississippi River.  That very location was within the confines of the thriving and bustling Saukenuk Village, and It was interesting to think that we were there among the spirits of the people who once lived off its bountiful generosity.

I have spent most of my life in one fashion or another preparing for this day. Today, I begin my journey with Black Hawk. I cannot begin to explain in words, or in any logical sense, why this is important to me, or what I will gain by taking such a trip. I can only explain by stating that all my life I have felt a longing I could not define, a mission I could not explain, an ache that would not heal, an untold story I could not express. I have felt urged to do things I could not explain, and yet I have done them. Nothing shameful, or improper - just places I had to go, and information I had to seek out. I have come to understand this as a spiritual quest, and I was recently given a clue that would take the wild and wandering loose threads of my life and weave them together into a rich and wonderful cloak. I sought council from wise and respected leaders at my local American Indian Resource Center (Megwetch! Dylan and Naomi), who helped me to interpret the signs I have been given, and the visions I have seen. I have asked for and received help from the spirit guides and animal guides who influence my life. I have bared my mind and soul to my husband, my companion, and asked for his feedback. I have read books, and sought wisdom from religious leaders of all denomination seeking some measure of 'truth' and 'wisdom'. All of my life I have sought the answer to some great mystery, an answer that would finally give me a sense of direction and purpose, and I now believe I understand, at least in part, what all these things have meant. So I wrapped myself in my warm, spiritual cloak and began preparing for my journey. That preparation took almost two more years until finally, this winter, I knew I was ready to begin.

How do I explain how I have come to the belief that my lifelong spiritual quest will be satisfied by coming to the long-dead village of Saukenuk, and following the footsteps of Black Hawk, the Indian warrior, as he led over 1000 followers to their deaths? I cannot, for my understanding of this quest is internal in a way that cannot be adequately expressed through words. In some measure, I hope to explain to the reader of this story not only what I did, but also how I was personally affected by the journey, connecting you as I go, with the many loose threads of my life, and exposing my innermost self for the sake of the story, because in the end, I believe that this is my quest. I am here to tell the story, as I have come to know it. And insofar as there is one Great Story, and we are allowed only to tell one small part of it, let us say that this part, my story, begins on February 15th, 2014, on a cold winter morning in Rock Island, IL.

Sinnissippi Banks, Saukenuk Village

We returned to Black Hawk Forest Nature Preserve, intent on skiing or snowshoeing through much of the wooded area and then visiting the Hauberg Indian Museum. As I researched and prepared for this trip, I had always intended to begin here, walking these trails as a ceremony of communion, listening for the voices of the Sauk People.

In preparation for the trip I had made a drum, with a medicine wheel painted on it; a sacred walking stick of tag alder and decorated with hide from a deer that had given its life to sustain me, with sacred feathers I had collected, and with a strip of pelt from a river otter, trapped by one of my fellow Indians. I prepared an amulet bag with items of spiritual and personal significance, a fire kit for ceremonies, and a small bag to carry supplies to give food, tobacco and other offerings. As always, I had followed my instincts and listened to my visions and spirit guides in preparing for the journey. When I knew I was ready, I planned our departure and made travel arrangements, only to have a sudden and overwhelming last-minute urging from my guides that I needed a rattle. I asked around at the AIRC, and I was told that only men are supposed to use a rattle, and that they didn’t have any around anyway. No one was able to help me, yet I still felt the urge just as strongly. I told Black Hawk that if I was supposed to have a rattle, he would have to help me find one.

On our drive, I asked my husband if he had any strong feelings that he should have a rattle, and he responded no, but that he would help me look for one. I told him we wouldn’t have to look hard – if we were meant to have a rattle, we would find one. Even so, as we traveled our final day before arriving at the Preserve, we stopped at a music store, and were informed that while they did indeed stock a pair of wooden rattles similar to the ones we were asking about for a good many months, those very rattles had been sold less than a half-hour earlier to another person and that they had no rattles left to sell us. I decided that this, too, should be interpreted as a sign that I indeed did not need a rattle for my trip. We went on without it.

It has been many years since I have gone cross-country skiing, and I found the act of gearing up for it unfamiliar and awkward. I persevered, however, and just before we left the parking area we heard the unmistakable hammering double-tap of a Pileated Woodpecker just down the trail. We headed in that direction slowly, with me trying to clear my mind and get to a place where I could do what I came here to do. The woodpecker continued his relentless tapping, and we slowly progressed down the trail.

The trails are theoretically all 'skiable', but when we tried to put that in practice, we quickly found that the trail was not only ill-suited for skiing, but would in fact be impassible, with stone stairs, and hairpin turns. As my husband moved down the trail a little farther to confirm once and for all if it could not be safely skied, I closed my eyes and listened to the insistent whack-whack, whack-whack, whack-whack of the woodpecker who remained very close by, using the sound to focus my mind in the same way I had intended the rattle would do. Suddenly I realized that my ‘rattle’ was being provided for me. I did not need a rattle of my own, but instead needed only to listen for the natural rattle that would be provided for me. As my eyes opened, I looked to the ground, and sitting gently and brightly in the trail just inches in front of me was a single red feather from the head of the Pileated Woodpecker.

Pileated Woodpecker

Despite the light breeze, this tiny vermillion feather held fast to the trail, as obviously out of place as a drop of blood on a white linen cloth, and just as startling. I reached down and picked it up, studying it, and then thanked the spirit of the woodpecker for offering me this beautiful gift. It is rare that feathers fall from the head of the woodpecker, and rarer still that this should occur in the depths of winter just where I was standing. I gave a tobacco offering in thanks.  We resumed our prayerful walking-meditation down the trail, hiking.

The trail quickly descended the bluff, and went all the way down to the river's edge.  We walked along the river for a while, for here the river was frozen. I saw the tracks of a raccoon, as it meandered along, seeking whatever it needed to survive another day in the cold.
Down here at the river's edge, life has not changed much since Black Hawk's time.  If you remove the power lines in one direction and the bridge in the other direction, you can see the land and river for what they are - unchanging, as measured in human scale, and silent witness to all that passes through, above, below, along, and across its banks and hills.  If only those trees and hills and rivers could talk.  If you listen with your heart and mind instead of your ears - the can.

Ma-ka-tai-me-she-kia-kiak - I am here to honor your people. I am here to listen to your story. I am here to hear your words as you truly spoke them, or at least to feel their meaning. I am here to see your beautiful home, Saukenuk, and understand why you fought to keep people from forcing you away from your village. I am here to learn of your childhood - to run among the trees and laugh with the river. I am here to know the home you intended for your wife, Singing Bird, and your children, and to visit with your ancestors who are buried here. I am here to bring prayers of peace to your spirits - to offer tobacco and honor your ancestors and Mother Earth and Father Creator. I am here to learn your story - and to tell your story. 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)