2-15 A Prayer for Mother Earth

April 13, 2014

Lakes Mendota & Monona

Madison, WI

In the midst of war fever, on the hunt for an enemy first engaged only hours before, there fell to the soldiers a sight so breath-taking that they momentarily set aside their lust for blood and took it in.  I will share, uninterrupted, the writings of John Wakefield, surgeon’s mate, as he recalled the sight of the lakes for which the Four Lakes region is famously known.

“Here it may not be uninteresting to the reader, to give a small outline of those lakes.  From a description of the country, a person would very naturally suppose that those lakes were as little pleasing to the eye of the traveler, as the country is.  But not so.  I think they are the most beautiful bodies of water I ever saw.

“The first one we came to [Lake Monona], was about ten miles in circumference, and the water was as clear as crystal.  The earth sloped back in a gradual rise; the bottom of the lake appeared to be entirely covered with white pebbles, and no appearance of its being the least swampy.

“The second one that we came to [Lake Mendota] appeared to be much larger.  It must have been twenty miles in circumference.  The ground rose very high all around; - and the heaviest kind of timber grew close to the water’s edge.

“If those lakes were anywhere else, except in the country they are, they would be considered among the wonders of the world.  But the country they are situated in is not fit for any civilized nation of people to inhabit.  It appears that the Almighty intended it for the children of the forest.

“The other two lakes we did not get close enough for me to give a complete description of them; but those who saw them, stated that they were very much like the other.”

* * * * * * *

I am a former long-term resident of the Four Lakes region in Madison, WI.  During my lifetime, I watched as the lakes gradually declined in both health and beauty.  As a child, I swam, sailed on, and played in these lakes, which were clear to great depths, spending my summers turning my skin brown and my hair blonde.  Now when I return to Madison, I cannot imagine swimming or playing in those waters, especially in the late summer, when visitors are greeted not with crystal clear waters and forested hillsides, but with floating masses of mold growing directly on the surface of the lake, with dangerous algal blooms nourished by fertilizers, and with the stench of choked and rotted fish.

Native Americans lived in this area for thousands upon thousands of years, in harmony and balance with nature, leaving Mother Earth exactly as they found her.  In a few hundred years, European settlers have covered this continent with 300 million people, consuming all available resources at a staggering rate.  In less than 200 years, we have turned the Four Lakes of De Jope from one of the natural wonders of the world to a cesspool unfit for use.


Sometimes, I lose hope.

Makataimeshekiakiak - How many tears must Father Sky shed before the memory of mankind’s abuses are washed away? All the rain for a thousand times a thousand years may not be enough.  But Mother Earth will be here forever, long after man has been wiped from the planet, and forever is a very long time.  The earth is patient, and she will shine again in all her glory.  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)

2-14 The Story of Deer Heart and Yellow Flower

April 12, 2014

Law Park, Lake Monona

Madison, WI

“On the bank of the Third Lake, near where the Lake House in Madison now stands, our advance guard killed an Indian, who, the Winnebago Indian before alluded to, informed us was sitting upon the grave of his wife, who had perhaps died of fatigue, hunger, and exhaustion, and her disconsolate companion had resolved to await the advancing foe, and die there also; and he boldly bared his naked breast , and presented a full front, as a willing target for the balls of the scouts. He but too soon met the death he coveted.”

These words, written in 1856 by Captain Daniel M. Parkinson, a participant in the Black Hawk Conflict of 1832, spoke of the first Indian warrior killed by direct contact during the final chase across the territory by the troops under the command of Generals Dodge and Henry.

There are many accounts of this murder.  Some details vary with the teller but all agree on the same, basic theme.  The killing was unnecessary, given the circumstances.  Not one account describes the warrior as threatening in any way, only as an abject and broken man.  Most express regret, even if only to be followed by the justification of extenuating circumstances.

Parkinson continues his recollections, “This may be thought to have been cruel on the part of the scouts; but it will be recollected that our motto was, ‘no quarter’, and besides, in such an exciting pursuit, there was little time to deliberate as to their course of action in such a case, even had they been aware of the attending circumstances.”

No quarter.  “Our motto was ‘no quarter’.”  This is a military expression, and for those unfamiliar with the term, it has the same general meaning as ‘take no prisoners’, which is another way of saying their intent was to kill every living human being they pursued, be they man, woman or child.  It would be easy to be persuaded by the plaintive words of the soldiers, explaining that they were scarcely provisioned themselves, that they had been marching for days through heavy rains through the most extreme conditions, and that they were under extermination orders issued by the U.S. Government - that they had no time to think, only to react.  I am not persuaded.  This was an act of hate, brought on by mob mentality.  Worse, it was an act of indifference, where in their minds the very act of murder itself was no more than the culling of a wild animal.  There are two more details about this act of murder which bring to light the shameful character in which it was carried out. I will quote from three additional recollections of this event.

Major John A Wakefield

“We had marched not more than five miles, before Doctor [Addison] Philleo came back, meeting us, with the scalp of an Indian.  He had been on ahead with the front scouts, and came on this Indian who had been left as a rear guard to watch our movements.”  [Please note that this assertion is untrue.  He was not left as a 'rear guard'  – several accounts confirm that the Indian was found sitting on the grave of his wife, who had died from the chase.]  “There were several shots fired at him about the same time, and I suppose all hit him, from the number of bullet holes that were in him; but Doctor Philleo scalped him, so he was called Philleo’s Indian; which reminds me of the hunters:  He who draws first blood is entitled to the skin, and the remainder of the carcass, if there are several in the chase; which was the case at this time.”  -  Major John A Wakefield

“In a few minutes the shot was explained by the appearance of the regimental surgeon [Philleo] bearing in his hand a trophy in the shape of a fresh Indian scalp, reeking with blood.” … “Seeing the Indian fall, he rushed from cover, and, gaining possession of his tomahawk and scalping-knife, began to rend the scalp from the head. The pain partially revived the victim, which elicited from the surgeon the following, ‘If you don’t like being scalped with a dull knife, why didn’t you keep a better one?’”  -  Lieutenant Magoon

This is but one of the two atrocities in this murder.  Here was a despondent man, sitting upon the grave of his wife, whom he had just buried, and who had chosen death rather than a life that continued without her.  After being shot by numerous soldiers, only one of whom was brave enough years later to recount how the warrior had bared his chest to the muskets, this surgeon rushed forward to claim the first scalp.  Grabbing the man’s own knife, which had been dulled by digging for roots and cutting bark from the trees to eat, as well as by digging the grave of his wife, he was scalped while still breathing, and then mocked and tormented while he died.

The second atrocity can only be understood by carefully reading the statement of Professor C. B. Chapman, written in 1859. In his account he states, “When they arrived at this point … an Indian was seen coming up from the water’s edge, near the present watering place, below the Lake House, who seated himself upon the bank apparently indifferent to his fate.  In a moment after, his body was pierced by several balls, one of which passed in at the temple and out at the back part of his head.  From Mr. [Abel] Rasdell’s description of the position of the wound, I have little doubt that the skull of this Indian is now in my possession.  He said the Indian proved to have been seated upon a grave, where he probably seated himself with the heroic intention of ending his days upon the grave of some dear friend or kindred.”  … “The Indian was seated with his back partly towards the party, and was turning, apparently to look at them, when he received the shot.”

The words of the Professor slip by so quickly that it would be easy to miss the fact that at some point after the murder of this man, his head was separated from his body, the flesh boiled away, and the shot-damaged skull found its way to the curio collection of some college professor.  I cannot begin to share the outrage I feel at this desecration of a human being.

The location of these events is easy to find, even today.  The historic documents include the names of streets, businesses and buildings, and call out in detail the exact spot where the murder took place.   I spent many hours researching the exact location, reading accounts, studying old plat maps, City Directories and photos of historic Madison.  I am confident that had I stood on this very spot in 1832, I would have been an eye-witness.  I stood on the shore of Lake Monona, on a tiny spit of green space at the very end of Law Park, near where Williamson Street joins John Nolan Drive.  The sky was gray, the rain threatening to fall, as it had been on and off through the whole day.  I stood, eyes closed, feeling the damp wind on my face and listening to the birds and the water.  When I opened them, I found that I was staring at a small Cedar tree along the shore, and I chose the lee of that sacred tree as the site for our ceremony.

My husband prepared a small ceremonial fire and beat the drum, as we joined our voices, singing songs to the spirits of these two lovers who had been so tragically misused, leaving behind a prayer stick to send our thoughts of love and peace.  As we sang, a mated pair of mallard ducks came swimming up and walked up onto the shore to sit within a few yards of us.  Everything felt completely at peace.  When the fire burned out, we gave the ashes to the lake.

Courageous Warrior – A year ago I had a dream, where an Indian Warrior came to me, handing me a letter.  He said it was from his wife.  I opened the letter, but I could not read the words, for they were written in a language I did not know.  Even so, as I held the letter, the meaning became clear to me.  It said, 'Thank you for bringing my husband back to me.'  Only then did I see the symbol on the page.  I asked the warrior what it was, and he told me, 'It is a gift to you from my wife'.  Puzzled, I looked closely at the symbol, as it grew larger in my mind's eye.  It was the shape of a heart, and in the upper left corner, in the center of the lobe, was the shape of a deer, colored as if by a rainbow.

I awoke with this symbol in my mind, though I did not understand it's meaning.  When I read your story, I finally understood all.  The heart was the symbol of love, and the deer in the corner was you.  The message was sent from your wife, who now held your hand again in the next world.  The symbol was a gift to me, telling me that I must cherish my mate - my beloved - every day, because even in death, it is possible to be separated for a time. 

Courageous Warrior - I never learned the name you used in life, but I know who you are because you came to me in a dream and shared with me the story of your love.  To honor your death, and your life, I will call you Deer Heart, so that I may remember you, and those that hear of your story may have a name to remember you by.

At the start of my journey, I was given a feather from the head of a Pileated Woodpecker.  This feather now sits inside a tiny carrying pouch, which was made from a piece of deerskin cut into the shape of a heart.  Where the rainbow-colored deer was in my dream I beaded a small yellow trillium. This talisman now rests inside my amulet bag, which hangs around my neck and sits above my heart even as I write.  I never learned the name your wife used in life, but I know who she is because she gave me a gift which I now carry with me.  To honor her death, and her life, I will call her Yellow Flower, so that I may remember her, and those that hear of her story may have a name to remember her by.

Deer Heart and Yellow Flower – We call to your spirits and thank you for sharing your story with us.  The smoke from our fire carries our prayers to you.  We cried when we heard your story, but we feel joy now as we watch the ducks preening themselves.  They are at peace in this beautiful place.  We pray that your spirits are also at peace, and that you have found happiness together in the next world.  We pray that you will always be at peace, and will give comfort and solace to those who sit in this place.  Come with us, Deer Heart and Yellow Flower, guide us as we follow the trail of your people.  Celebrate with us when we finish walking the trail of sorrow and take the joyful Journey Home - to Saukenuk.  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)

2-13 Fly!

April 12, 2014

Crawfish River to Madison, WI

“Fly! Let not the swift wait for the slow! Ride!”

What must it be like, to run unto death? Not, as a soldier might, to run into battle knowing that death faces him in the form of an enemy, adrenaline coursing through his body. Instead, to run when you cannot run. To run when it is impossible to run. To run when your body has depleted itself beyond reserves and is in the act of consuming its own flesh and bones in an effort to sustain life. To run when the very act of running ravages your starving, exhausted body, numbs your mind, tears at your lungs, and eats away at your very spirit. To run in this condition, side-by-side with those you love, those you have known all your life, knowing that to help them may mean your own death? What would it be like to watch them falter, stumble, and fall, knowing they may not get up again, and to be too afraid to go back and find out?

What if you were in your 50’s or 60’s? What if you were a woman with children, used to hard work, but not conditioned to running? What if your child that you were nursing died because you were no longer able to give milk? What if you had to toss the small, lifeless body aside – not even be able to take the time to bury this flesh of your flesh – and keep running in hopeless desperation, in fear that a great mounted force would hunt you down like game, shoot you, and scalp your still-breathing and bleeding body only to be left laying out for the wolves to eat?

What if you were running through thickets and swamps, lost in a place you did not know, facing heavy rains, and sleeping in wet grass on the open earth, while the temperature raged in the 90s by day, and fell into the 60s by night? What if you were one of the people in Black Hawk’s fleeing band who had lost all hope, and knew only the primal instinct to run as if your life depended on it, as it surely did. What if you were one of the people who simply ran until your heart stopped beating, your chest stopped gasping for air, and the blood stopped running through your body? What if you were forced to run unto death?

They knew that they were only a day or two at most ahead of their pursuers. They left the Rock River Falls area either July 16th or 17th, and headed west in an all-in race to the Wisconsin River, where they hoped to follow that river south and back to their new home across the Mississippi in Iowa. They managed to get as far as the Madison Lakes, a distance of approximately 60 miles, by the 20th of July, before the pursuing troops were close enough to warrant defensive action.

I drove the distance from the Crawfish River in Aztalan to Madison in far less than an hour, along the paved and impersonal miracle of engineering we so casually refer to as I-94. As I drove, I noticed perhaps for the first time the swamps and thickets that stand to this day, undisturbed since before time was measured in numbers. Where were the bones of the dead? Returned to the earth, as they should be. Where were the spirits of the dead? If not at peace, then I hope they are close enough to hear my prayers.

Makataimeshekiakiak – the white man’s history speaks little of your flight from the Sinnissippi to the Four Lakes. They speak little of your anguish and frustration. They speak little of the hardships your people faced in these three or four days of non-stop marching westward. Their words spoke casually about your dead, as though they were no more important than the pots and mats and other possessions that littered your path, cast aside in your flight. I had to learn of this part of your journey by standing where you stood, tasting the waters of the springs, feeling the wind and the rain, and turning my face to the west, seeking a faraway place called home. Hear me, Makataimeshekiakiak. Much has changed. Even while you still walked the earth there were those who told of the tragedy of your people, and knew it was wrong. Now, while you walk with the spirits, there are more who hear your story and know of the tragedy. I mourn for your dead. I weep for the fallen. I pray for their spirits. I open myself to them, to let them feel my love. As I travel this path I celebrate their lives, and the good that they brought to this earth. They are not forgotten. 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)

2-12 Crawfish River - Leaving the Sinnissippi

April 12, 2014

Crawfish River, near Aztalan Historic Site

Lake Mills, WI

"The ground on which we stand is sacred ground. It is the blood of our ancestors."

- Chief Plenty Coups, Crow

“The white man says, there is freedom and justice for all.

We have had "freedom and justice," and that is why we have been almost exterminated.

We shall not forget this."

- Quote from the 1927 Grand Council of American Indians

Why must hatred drive men to acts of such abhorrent cruelty?  What insane lust for vengeance and blood – what perverted sense of entitlement – would cause thousands of men on horseback to relentlessly pursue a starving band of people, intent on killing and mutilating every man, woman and child they find?

Was it the attack at Buffalo Grove?  Was it for the killing of Felix St Vrain in Kellogg’s Grove?  Was it some sort of ‘justice’ for the killing of the white settlers at Indian Creek, and for the capture of the Hall Girls, Sylvia and Rachel, which was enacted almost entirely by Potawatomi Indians in a skirmish almost entirely unrelated to your fight and flight?

Was it not enough to have killed the three Indians under the white flag of surrender at Sycamore Creek?  Was it not enough that the Sauk people had been driven, starving, from the ceded territory of their homeland, while the warriors, elders, women, children and infants dropped dead and littered the path of the pursuit?  Was it not enough that eleven warriors were killed and scalped at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend?  Was it not enough that these people, whose homes had been stolen by treacherous and nefarious dealings by the U.S. government, were utterly broken and dispirited, but rather they must be annihilated?

Crawfish River
Near Aztalan
Lake Mills, Wisconsin

The conflict is long over.  Even now, as I write, I must take time to purge myself of my anger, as I did standing near these waters.  Anger leads to more fighting, and I am writing this blog in an effort to bring awareness and peace.  In their flight from the falls at Hustisford, the Sauk fugitives fled south and west along the west edge of their beloved Rock River, being guided by Black Wolf and other sympathetic Ho-Chunk, and eventually broke west across the swampy and unforgiving countryside until they reached what is today called the Crawfish River.  The Crawfish, unlike the Rock River into which it flows near Jefferson, is less clear, and was known in early days as the west branch, or ‘mud branch’ of the Rock River.  It was at a place very near where the town of Aztalan exists today where the fugitive band crossed the Crawfish River.  Even at this crossing, if they had been able to take to canoes and travel down the river, they would have been carried to their homeland.  Black Wolf certainly knew the river, and Black Hawk would have been told, if indeed he was not familiar with the place himself.

I stood over the river, the rains soaking my jacket, on the bridge on Highway B.  I offered a prayer to the river, and gave a food and tobacco offering. It was enough.

It was at this place where the band truly gave up all hope of tomorrow, living only for today.  Passing only a couple miles north of the famous mound structures that give Aztalan its name, they crossed the Crawfish River, forever leaving behind their beloved Sinnissippi.

Makataimeshekiakiak – you have left the homeland of your people, and still you are hunted.  Many who followed you have escaped as you had hoped, joining other tribes in small groups, or finding their own way among the forests.  But many are still with you, and they are now hunted with a vengeance beyond reason.  You have done much to secure the safety of your tribe, but you were misled, and there was no aid, and no provision for you.  You have been found by the very trail of your hunger, and many who followed you now walk the trails of the next world.  Even some of those follow with you.  They help to guide you, and they try to protect you on your flight.  Now you are forced to leave behind the river you have always called your home.  A great wrong was done to your people.  This place is symbolic of that wrong.  At this place I sent a prayer to the waters, sending my mind down the river all the way to your home, where I began my journey. I prayed that the waters would bring the food I offered to your spirits.  I prayed to the river, knowing that I would be able to meet that prayer on the other end of my journey when I return to Saukenuk.  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)

2-11 Little Thunder and the Waushara Village Ho-Chunk

April 12, 2014

Lions Park

Hustisford, WI

It is the springtime of the year, according to the calendar, but the trees show no sign of it.  Lions Park in Hustisford is still trying to break free from its winter stasis, only the conifers daring to defy the wet and overcast day with their coats of evergreen color. The river is swollen, and the long-ago rapids of Hustisford have been tamed by a pair of dams, fattening the river and deepening the lake to the north.  The lake is one of several reminders of the name given to the Rock River by Native Americans, Sinnissippi.  The word ‘Sinnissippi’ has been translated many different ways into English.  According to the oldest reference I could find, the Daughters of the American Revolution Magazine volume 36 which was published in 1910, the name means ‘Son of the Father of Waters’, where the ‘Father of Waters’ was understood to be the Mississippi, into which the Rock River flows.  The word Sinnissippi is also translated as ‘clear flowing’, ‘clear flowing river’, ‘rocky river’, and ‘troubled waters’ among others, and, if one believes the essay written by Dan G. Loescher for the 2002 ‘The Voice’, Sinnissippi is derived from the Indian words ‘Assini-Sippi’, which means literally ‘Rock River’.

Parked on E. Griffith Street, through the steadily falling rain we see a piece of red granite, with a bronze plaque, standing next to a cedar tree.  ‘Kochs Mill Park’ is the title, followed by a description of various notable events that took place at or near this park.  Foremost is the description of how Generals Henry and Dodge camped at this spot with 750 men and a dozen Winnebago guides on July 18, 1832 while hunting for Black Hawk.  There is no mention of the momentous and fateful discovery of the fresh trail that was left behind by the escaping band just a few miles to the south.

A great many books and documents describe the events leading up to the discovery of Black Hawk’s Trail, and most refer to a ‘Winnebago Village’ near the Rock Rapids.  One source, the book Indian Creek Massacre and Captivity of Hall Girls, written in 1915 by Charles M. Scanlan, identifies the village as ‘Big Fox’, the Ho-Chunk word for which would have been ‘Waushara’.  Dodge and Henry arrived at this small Ho-Chunk village under the guidance of a Ho-Chunk by the name of Paquette and several others.  As I’ve said before, the Ho-Chunk had mixed feelings about the whole Black Hawk affair.  On the one hand, they wanted to remain true to their treaty promises and avoid further problems with the Americans.  On the other hand, they did not want to fight against the Sauk, who had been allies and trading partners.  Decorah, a Ho-Chunk chief, said in his memoirs, “But there was still among us a strong feeling of friendliness toward the Sacs."  This feeling was of compassionate pity; therefore, only six young men, none of them Chiefs, traveled with Paquette as guides.  Five of the six were Pawnee (Pania Blanc), Nahheesanchonka, Notsookeega (Bear that Breaks up the Brush), Ahmegunka, and Tahnichseeka (The Smoker).”  It seems clear that although Paquette and the other Ho-Chunk were guiding Henry and Dodge eastward across the state, to the Waushara Village near the Sinnissippi rapids, their intent may never have been to actually find Black Hawks band.

When the troops arrived at the rapids, on July 18, they did not locate Black Hawk’s band, but instead found only “…some emaciated Winnebagoes, who told us that the Sauks and Foxes had moved further up the river, to the Cranberry Lakes.”

I try to imagine the village, as it stood here almost 200 years ago.  It was described as being, “…in the midst of a very large growth of timber, in the bend of the river, and the earth was covered with an almost impenetrable undergrowth.”  The river, being unfettered by dams and swollen with the heavy rains of that spring and early summer, would have been roaring noisily down the rapids.  A quiet group of Ho-chunk Indians are going about their day-to-day lives, fishing and hunting, tending crops and waiting for the wild rice and cranberries to mature.  Suddenly, approaching this small group of Indians, 750 mounted white soldiers appear, prepared for war, and start setting up camp and interrogating the Indians whose home they have invaded.  Against so large a force, these Indians would not have been able to fight, even if they had been inclined to do so.

Instead, they attempted to misdirect the soldiers.  It was true, they said, that Black Hawk and his band had been there, but they had left, and headed north for the cranberry lakes.  It was less than half a day’s ride, they claimed.  Under more questioning, one Indian claimed to have visited Black Hawk and his band in their encampment to the north just two days earlier.  This news greatly excited Dodge and Henry, it seems, for they decided to countermand the orders they had received from Atkinson to return via the shortest possible route to their encampment near the place where the Bark River joined the Rock River with the provisions obtained from their recent trip to Fort Winnebago in Portage.

The two Generals met and decided to immediately pursue Black Hawk by marching north the next day.  They determined to send an express message south to General Atkinson explaining that they had discovered where Black Hawk was hiding and would be taking the offensive.  Two soldiers were selected for the thirty-five mile ride to Atkinson’s camp, and they solicited a guide from the disinclined local Ho-Chunk band to pilot them south.  One soldier described this event as, “After some Indian chat among themselves, they reluctantly agreed that Little Thunder should go.”

Again, I imagine myself in the scene.  Black Hawk and his followers, including his wife and children, have recently camped in an area not far southeast of the village.  The Ho-Chunk have mislead the soldiers into heading northward upriver, in a futile chase.  The villagers know that the fugitive band left not two days earlier, traveling south and west towards the Mississippi River.  Careful though Black Hawk and his people may have been, it is not possible to move 700 people and their horses across wet forest without leaving a wide and noticeable trail.

Little Thunder is commonly named as the Winnebago Guide who led the whites to their discovery of Black Hawk’s Trail.  Too often, it is left to the reader to imagine that Little Thunder was acting in full complicity with the Americans.  He was not. One of the better descriptions I read of this event is contained in the book, The Sauks and the Black Hawk War: With Biographical Sketches, Etc. by Perry Armstrong, written in 1886.  It reads, “These two doctors [Dr. Elias H. Merryman and Mr. William W. Woodbridge], with a Winnebago chief called Little Thunder as their guide, had not proceeded but about eight miles to the southwest ere they struck the fresh trail of Black Hawk and band moving towards the Four Lakes, evidently intending to cross the Wisconsin River and make his escape to the Mississippi in that direction.  If the doctors were surprised at this discovery, Little Thunder, their treacherous guide, was struck with terror.  But a short hour before he had told General Henry that Black Hawk was many miles in the other direction for the purpose of throwing him off the track, but now his treachery was exposed, and well he knew his worthless life was forfeited.”  This account, though biased mercilessly against the Indians, well describes the true feelings of Little Thunder and his tribe members.  When the trail was discovered, Merryman and Woodbridge insisted on following it for a couple of miles, thinking at first it was a trail cut by some of Atkinson’s scouts, but Little Thunder indicated to them through signs that this was indeed the trail of Black Hawk.  After a short while, Little Thunder wheeled his horse around and bolted back to Big Fox, leaving his charges behind, in an effort to warn his fellow Ho-Chunk that they needed to flee.

I could wish for things to have been different.  I could wish that Henry and Dodge had decided to wait until morning to send out their message-bearers to Atkinson’s camp.  I could wish many things had been different to give Black Hawk another day, or even a few more hours.  But if the Generals had been following orders, they themselves would have crossed Black Hawk’s path, and sooner than when they actually did.  No – one cannot change history.  One can only report on the events as they unfolded, and know that the outcome would have been different ‘if only’.  I do not think that the Ho-Chunk of Big Fox failed in their effort to give Black Hawk time to escape.  They did everything they could, and managed to give him a few precious hours.  There is no way of knowing what kind of a difference those few hours made in history.  It happened as it was meant to happen.

I could stop this post here, but I cannot ignore the reaction of the Americans after finding the trail.  They were elated, of course, after months of pursuing an enemy fruitlessly through unmapped forests and vast marshlands.  But I am chilled at the calloused opinion of author Perry Armstrong as he continues his narrative.  “Elated of the prospect of overtaking and killing or capturing the Sauks, the soldiers were in fine spirits, and when they struck the fresh, broad trail left by the retreating Indians, lined with the evidences of famine, and witnessed the red elm trees freshly denuded of bark, and saw numerous places where they had dug in the earth for succulent roots, and had passed by a number of dead pappooses [babies], with now and then the corpse of an old squaw or Indian, all bearing evidence of starvation, they felt assured of their game and pressed forward with avidity.”

The facts of history are plain, but the nuances of their meaning are fashioned by the authors of history.  After having read many personal accounts, I know that some of the soldiers were less than enthusiastic about following a trail littered with the starved corpses of women, elders and babies.  I can only pray that this sight gave conscience to some of these men as they pursued Black Hawk through the thickets and wetlands along the trail.  Too many, I fear, shared the feelings of the author, Perry Armstrong, who later described the 'Elated' beginnings of that final chase across the state. Too many. Too many.

Makataimeshekiakiak – You were born to the Thunder Clan.  You now know that Little Thunder was your friend, as were the Ho-Chunk of Waushara Village.  Did you hear the thunder of hooves in your warrior’s mind?  You were beyond the borders of the ceded land as you camped near the rapids, but the Americans pursued you still.  Men say you left the area when you heard of the approach of the white soldiers.  It is said you now wished to escape to the Wisconsin River, and then down it’s flowage to the Mississippi, bringing your people to safety.  Several times already you have fought for your people, leading men and soldiers away from your wife, and the other women and children.  Many times already you thought you would die protecting your people, but still you live, and still you lead them on and away.  I mourn for the suffering of your people, as I know you did.  I mourn for the babies who starved to death because there was no food for them.  I mourn for the women and the elderly who dropped dead from exposure, and exhaustion, and starvation as you ran for your lives.  The thunder is coming, Black Sparrow Hawk.  I leave behind this prayer stick for the spirits of those who helped you at this place, that they may be at peace knowing they did all they could.  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)

2-10 Effigy Mounds - Lake Koshkonong

April 12, 2014

Lake Koshkonong

Fort Atkinson, WI

Most of the time when I visit a graveyard,  I am nearly overwhelmed by the oppressive sense of loss.  Not only my own loss, but the residual echo of loss felt by others.  If I am attending the funeral of a loved one, I am usually racked with grief and mournful of the separation.  At those times I am able to feel only my own pain.  At those times I am more open to the deep well of emptiness that surrounds me, for I am part of it.

But when I visit a gravesite where the people there are unknown to me, at least unknown in a personal way, I find myself able to think more clearly about the lives of those who are interred there.  In the absence of grief and loss, I find it easier to honor the dead, adding positive energy in a place where so much pain and sorrow have been felt.  In a small way, I feel I am helping to balance the energy of the earth.  Still, I feel the lingering pain.  There is a coldness in these places that cannot be measured in mercury.

Usually, when I visit the burial sites of Native Americans, I don’t feel the emptiness.  I believe this is because the ancestors are not buried and forgotten, as is too often the case in many cemeteries.  The Indian cultures I have come to know through personal interaction revere their ancestors.  They visit their burial sites frequently to share offerings, and speak to their ancestors in a personal way, because death makes but a small change in their relationship.  They fill the well of emptiness with their thoughts, and prayers, and laughter, sharing their lives with their loved ones, and bringing positive energy to restore the balance.

At the Lake Koshkonong Effigy Mounds site, also known as the Jefferson County Indian Mounds and Trail Park, my feelings were very different.  I was sickened, and outraged.  Here, on this tiny piece of acreage, is preserved eleven burial mounds and a remnant of an Indian Trail from a long-ago period in North American History.  The ages of the mounds are somewhat hard to determine.  The widely accepted method of dating the burials by using Carbon-14 dating techniques on the artifacts leads to very accurate dates for the artifacts, but not necessarily for the mounds themselves.  I say this, because some of the items buried in these mounds had been passed down, from hand to hand, as sacred and powerful talismans for hundreds of years. 

I should explain.  I am deeply grateful and relieved that the people of the Ho-Chunk Nation managed to save this site.  I am not enraged by the preservation of these eleven mounds.  No – I am sickened because while navigating the road construction in an effort to get there, I drove through the Koshkonong Mounds Country Club, which was built atop of and among a number of mounds.  Some of them are still accessible just off the parking lot, where they fit snugly into the links-style course providing just another hazard for golfers.  The Historical Marker at the Lake Koshkonong Effigy Mounds site identifies the eleven preserved mounds as being part of a group of mounds which once numbered seventy-two, most of which were plowed under to make way for the golf course.  I am further sickened when I read that this group of mounds is one of what used to be 23 such groups, numbering over 500 total burial sites.

The term ‘mounds’ is too sterile.  Even ‘Effigy Mounds’ is just a euphemism to cover up the true nature of these sites.  They are BURIAL mounds.  These are the graves of the Indians who once lived here, hundreds of years before whites came through.  Most of these mounds contain the bones and sacred possessions of one or more people, who were buried here so as to return to the Mother Earth.  Most of these mounds have been destroyed – plowed under – dug up.  When someone digs up a grave that is fifty years old, they are called a ‘grave-robber’.  When someone digs up a grave that is a thousand years old, they are called an ‘archaeologist’.  When someone digs up a hundred graves that are a thousand years old, they are called a ‘real-estate developer’. 

The rain had not yet started, and I walked silently with my husband along the wood-chipped trail with its low fence rails silently reminding visitors that these are sacred burial sites, and that they should stay on the trail and off the tops of the mounds.  Again, I heard the call of the woodpeckers and robins, the sparrows and the jays.  The birds were serenading us in joyful pandemonium, reminding us that no matter how long or cold the winter, it eventually gives way to spring. I tried hard to let my anger wash through me, and away with the wind.

The site is filled with trees that were meaningful to the Indians.  Hickory trees are everywhere, with their annual crop of nuts littering the ground. Black Walnut trees are there in less abundance, with their prized meaty nuts.  Large maple trees grow, whose sap was vital for making sugar in the spring.  As we walked, we collected some of the nuts and shells and seeds, leaving a tobacco offering in thanks.  When the children make prayer sticks for us later this year, we will have them use the items we collected at this sacred site.

Grandfathers and Grandmothers of this sacred place, I honor you.  You have made me feel welcome here.  Though 'this' earth carries the memories of the Ho-Chunk, and I am mostly White, you have seen into my heart and know of my journey.  I feel that you are glad to see me, and glad to know that it is not just the children of your tribe who remember you. 

The evening sun warms my face as you fill my mind.  I see the beauty of this place.  I feel your presence here. I see the sacrilege committed against your burial place, and I will tell the story. 

The path of Makataimeshekiakiak is said to have crossed this very ground, along the ancient Indian trail still barely visible as it passes through your mounds.  I followed him here, but I heard you calling.  I will tell your story to all who will listen – to all people of all tribes and all colors.  Too many places of honor have been lost.  Too many people have been forgotten because their graves were prodded, plundered, and plowed under.  The people of this land must come to understand that Indian burial mounds are no different than the thousands upon thousands of graveyards that dot the countryside, with their fences and stone monuments.

Thank you for welcoming me here today.  Thank you for speaking to me.  Thank you for allowing me 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)

2-9 A Blind Old Man - Named Cau-kee-ca-mac

April 11, 2014

Lake Koshkonong

Fort Atkinson, WI

I am standing near the southern banks of Lake Koshkonong on a cool April morning under gray, laden skies that give promise of future rain.  The wind is cold, biting easily through my layered clothing and reminding me that nature is always in control.  It also reminds me how weak and frail I am compared to even the least of the Native Americans who lived in the Michigan Territory during the 1830’s.  Would they have felt cold, and shivered just because the air was cool and carried a damp chill with it?  Hardly.  We think of ourselves as ‘modern’, having all the advantages our forefathers lacked. How I wish that I had their ability to cope with nature – not impervious to the weather but acting in concert with it, like the deer of the forest.

On July 4, 1832, on the southeastern bank of Lake Koshkonong, General Atkinson and his troops encountered a single Sauk Elder who had been left behind by the retreating fugitives.  Atkinson described him as old, literally blind, and starving to death.  When Black Hawk and his band fled the lake area to escape north along the Rock River, this man remained behind, to die. He was simply too weak to make the trip.

Atkinson did not give the name of this old warrior, but it was given as Cau-kee-ca-mac in an account of local history by George W. Ogden, who later staked a claim on the land where the old indian was discovered.  I don’t know much more of his story, but I can guess.  He was a proud old man, greatly respected in his tribe.  In Iowa, with his family starving and Black Hawk leading a band back into Saukenuk to plant crops and to live, he went along, believing that despite his blindness, he still had much to offer.  When the band moved on, up the river to Prophetstown, he went along with his wife, or sons, or daughters.  They helped him travel, but he started to feel like a burden to them.  Later, when the group fled to Koshkonong, starving, he came to the decision that he would journey no farther.  Others needed what little food there was, and others needed to be able to move quickly without the burden of a blind, old man.  When it came time for them to leave, he stayed behind.

I close my eyes, and listen to the wind coming off the lake, moving the tree branches, still utterly bare in this cold springtime weather. I can hear birds singing, in defiance of the weather. I picture myself blind, and starving, and alone.

General Atkinson’s troops found Cau-kee-ca-mac, and even they took pity upon him.  Rather than kill him, they fed him, and asked him questions about the rest of the band.  The cagey old man was grateful for the food, but was somewhat vague about the details of when Black Hawk left, and which direction they traveled.  ‘Surely’, the old warrior must have thought, ‘I did not give my life up for the tribe just to betray them to this White Beaver Chimookoman for a piece of meat.”  Eventually, they let the old man go free.

On July 6th, a regiment under the command of Brigadier General Alexander Posey, who were arriving in the area and were unaware of what had taken place between Atkinson and the old man, came upon the Indian as he wandered through the forest.  They shot him dead.

Come with me, grandfather, and guide me on the rest of my journey, for I am more blind than you, and I need the wisdom of your years.  You still have much to teach, and I am trying to listen. 

Teach me to love my family so completely that I would tell them to leave me behind if by staying with them I may endanger their lives, even knowing it would mean my certain death.  Teach me to accept the limits of this lifetime, and embrace the wonders of the world yet to come.  Come with me as I travel these roads in search of those you love, and who love you. 

Guide me through the emotions I feel, and help me to find the place in my soul that balances joy and grief and accepts that both have an important place in this world.  Let us share each other’s pain and sorrow, that by the sharing we come to know one another better, and can help to raise each other from our sadness.

Travel with me, grandfather, so that together we may find light, and peace, and serenity.  It is but a little farther down the trail.  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)