The old man appeared at the foot of the boys bed just before sunrise on June 21st. 1964, kicked it once, twice and said, "Get out of bed and follow me, I've got something to show you."
The boy rolled out of bed and landed on his face with a jolt. That woke him up. Throwing on a pair of jeans, an old Green Bay T-shirt, and the inherited pair of shit kickers he had received from his uncle the week before, he met the old man by the pickup, a red old Dodge that the old man had put together using parts found at an old junk yard. He said the truck had character and was happy. The boy thought, "Oh, it's got character all right."
A cup of coffee was thrust into his hands along with a thermos, cooler, and a half dozen doughnuts made by his grandmother. Then the old man thrust the saw'd off into his hands just in case they ran into rattlers.
After loading up the truck and wolfing down a couple doughnuts, and chugging some luke warm coffee; the boy and the old man were tearing down the dusty road toward town. Highway 2 has the reputation of being the worst piece of highway in the entire United States. It did not disappoint.
The boy asked the old man where they were going. The old man looked at him with a twinkle in his eye and an evilish grin on his face just as they were rounding a corner heading up to the Holiday Village Shopping Center way to fast for the corner, "Wahkpa Chu'gn" was all he said.
"The Jump? You want to show me the Jump?" At the end of that question the old red truck was airborne and sideways. He could hear the old man laughing his ass off, "What a ride!"
The boy found himself kneeling just below a short bluff next to a large sage brush plant. He could smell the sage in the dry air, "What the hell is going on?" he was thinking. Then he heard the roar. The ground was shaking like an earthquake was tearing through the plains. He could hear the grunts and screams of large beasts just beyond his sight. Something ran past him that was grunting at every foot fall. The boy managed to glance over the edge of the bluff. That's when he saw them. The plain was black with running Buffalo. There was so many of them that he could not see the grass, or the ground, only the brown and black backs of the herd running in panic away from something. Non of them seemed to see him. They were all in panic mode.
Then the boy heard a new sound. The barking and howling of what sounded like a combination of dogs and wolves. He looked over the bluff again and saw behind the Buffalo a pack of a dozen or so dogs that resembled wolves. They were baying after the Buffalo, nipping at their heals pushing them forward. Occasionally a big Bull would turn and challenge the pack. A few of the dogs were killed, but the Buffalo would give up and run with the herd. The boy looked up to the top of the hill and saw a sight he didn't believe he was seeing. A huge white Buffalo Bull was standing on the hilltop just watching what was happening below him. The world began to spin.
He heard high on the wind a loud "Whoop", then a "Hoka Hey!" This time he choked back his fear and stood up behind the short bluff he'd been using as a hiding spot and saw several painted warriors dressed in all manner of regalia. This didn't look like the costumes he'd seen at the powwow, or Hill County Fair, but the skins of warriors and hunters. Effective clothing made for a purpose. And the paint was not the paint that was made by fingers scratching across the face, but they looked like someone had taken the time to etch artwork on each face and body of these hunters. Another thing he noticed, these guys were big. They would make a pretty good football team and none was on horseback. As a matter of fact, there were no horses to be seen at all. The dogs and the men were all running side by side either bare footed, or low cut moccasins. The warriors were keeping up with the dogs, how can this be?
As the boy was thinking over what he was witnessing he heard a familiar voice and an arm shot out and thrust into his a polished atlatl, the ancient spear throwing weapon of his tribe. He had learned how to toss an atlatl in Boy Scouts when he was 12. The voice said, "Run!" And he did.
As he ran he could see what was transpiring up on the bluff. Hidden in some high sage were a set of waiting warriors and a few dogs. As the Buffalo approached the top of the rise the waiting hunters jumped out and started making a terrible noise, a wonderful terrible noise that turned the lead Tatanka into the tip of the rise. The boy kept running and caught up with the tribe just in time to see the massive wave of Buffalo all follow their leader off the edge of a massive jump. When there was enough the rest of the herd was turned down the hill and let to run free. The same arm pushed out and handed the boy a large bolt. He loaded it into his atlatl and threw a mighty toss just as he slipped to fall from the top of the jump.
The boy woke at the bottom of the Jump, Wahkpa Chu'gn, the Assiniboine word for the Milk River, and the common name for the Buffalo Jump on Route 2 West, Havre Montana. The old man was sitting near the red truck and handed the boy an old atlatl, "This was your great great grandfathers. Are you ready to go home?"
Peace and Balance,
John
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