Montana is a large state – territory then – and we traveled through space mostly empty. I began to pay more attention to sun and rain and clouds and darkness. Time held no particular fascination, because I was busy watching The People and observing nature around me. And I was thinking about myself and how I felt. Me! I didn’t try to see myself through the disapproving eyes of my mother, or even the camaraderie of my younger brother and sister, who probably thought I knew everything and possessed all wisdom. I stopped worrying if my father saw me and my pleasant face as an asset to his position with the UP Railroad. The question of what do they want from me, had somehow turned into what do I want for myself? I had no answers yet, but I didn’t expect any. Riding knee to knee with Blue Mountain Woman, listening to Hawk’s deep breathing in the shelter, it was enough to be alive and aware of myself and where I fit in the larger scheme of things. No, the smaller scheme of things. Most lives are modest, with modest ambitions.

I suppose this is murky thinking to you who were not part of this tragic slice of American history. I knew I was involved in something not of my choice – blame Methuselah – but something told me there would be consequences to influence my life ever after. What they were, I did not know yet.

The rain had stopped, thank goodness. This morning was the first morning I noticed frost on the buffalo grass. It shimmered in the weak light and became more than a subtle reminder that winter was coming, and we had miles to ride.

Even after the passage of time I am hard pressed to describe this part of Montana as anything more than a bleak parcel of the United States of America. In fact – excuse my cynicism, but it is well-earned – I have since wondered why the government in its infinite wisdom didn’t put an Indian reservation there. The land we traveled was indented and scarred by coulees and cutbanks in various stages of erosion. Buffalo grass covered everything, and there were few trees.

I haven’t been over the terrain since 1877, but I doubt it has altered much. Ranchers probably own the land, but it takes a lot of acres to feed one cow. Have fun, gentlemen. Perhaps I am too harsh. I suppose every portion of the country has its admirers. Still, I dare anyone to leave that land, then look back with longing. No one wanted it then; I know I didn’t.