BBQ & Custer - Washita Battlefield Nat'l Historic Site 11/27/10

The Cales are a curious lot indeed. We're often too lazy to walk to the kitchen to get a can of soda, yet we'll drive 1,200 miles to some isolated dirt patch because a now obscure - deservingly so, most likely - historical figure may or may not have taken a nap in the vicinity. We'll scale the heights of lonesome road absurdity before the sun makes its morning appearance, yet scream obscenities if asked to get to work in a timely fashion. Such is the nature of an obsession. Fortunately, Washita Battlefield National Historic Site is sufficently important to warrant a trip to Cheyenne, Oklahoma (pop. 750 if we're feeling generous), though we're happy to report that we'd go even if George Armstrong Custer merely coughed while passing through.

Ah, but our good Lt. Col. did more than cough at Washita; labeled a "battlefield" and not a massacre site for no good reason whatsoever, unless, of course, white people wanted yet another opportunity to forget that the land they inhabit was made possible through trickery, deceit, and a good deal of violence. On November 27, 1868, Custer led the 7th U.S. Cavalry to the campsite of Chief Black Kettle and a village of peaceful, retiring Cheyenne. Not one to turn down the opportunity to slaughter sleeping women and children, Custer moved ahead, killing approximately 30 to 60 Cheyenne, pausing only to inspect the winter wind's damage to his precious locks. At least he learned from Sand Creek and took hostages this time around.

So yes, we spent our Thanksgiving weekend hauling our bloated frames through a killing field. Pass the turkey! And yet, it's a somber, necessary visit; a final piece to the puzzle of the Indian Wars that speaks well of no one, and justifiably swells our hearts with disgust and regret. The NPS is decidedly on the side of the victims at Washita, which would not have been possible as recent as a half-century ago. The striking visitor center - completed in 2007 to ensure that the battle no longer be commemorated in some dusty closet in the town's bingo hall - helps provide much-needed perspective, a task made easier through the inclusion of a well-mounted 27-minute film. For once, the park service has done it right, as we're used to archaic slide shows where the narrator is some long-dead Congressman or "topical" figures like Burgess Meredith. Amazing what a little money and hard work can do to bring the past alive.

But as the passport stamp is, well, the real reason for the trip, we wasted little time pushing an old native to the ground as he blocked access to the cancellation station with his collection of wares. Yeah, it was a dickish move, but I'll blame the spirit of Custer for that one, and apologize to the ancestors in the car. Having secured both the stamp and magnet, we made our way to the trailhead down the road. Fortunately, the NPS provides detailed maps of the site, and each stop provides context, troop placement, and strategy (which amounts to little more than, "fire at the people in their beds"). At one of the early stops (the entire walk is 1.5 miles, which is short, but might as well be the Boston Marathon for us fatties), someone had dropped a whole mess of corn kernels without explanation. We suspect it was a tribute to the murdered Cheyenne woman Corn Stalk, but as we've seen used condoms on Civil War battlefields, we can't jump to any real conclusions.

The wind was brisk but never intrusive, and the Washita River provided a break in the unending, yet beautifully shifting grassland. Brooke read, I filmed, and as we neared the end, we came face to face with an especially disturbing tale, even for what amounts to a graveyard: the systematic destruction of 800 horses. Based on the theory of total war (and the kind of humiliation meant to drive Native Americans to reservations), U.S. troops slit dozens of horse throats before discovering that bullets were more efficient. It proved to be a tragic, brutal waste, but in light of the bigger picture, some would say that to mourn here would miss the point. I would argue the exact opposite. Anyone who could kill unoffending animals in this manner is more than capable of stripping a people of its pride and culture. One follows the other like night follows day.

What, then, is a sweaty couple to do after spending the afternoon wallowing in sadness and death? Why, enjoy small town BBQ, of course! A short mile or so from the battlefield sat A Taste of the West, one of those hole-in-the-wall restaurants that isn't above tossing aside its No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service sign lest it alienate the customers. These are grizzled, hardened folk, and don't get me started on the restaurant's owners. Sporting wrinkles that would make Georgia O'Keeffe look like a plastic Cher by comparison, these Blue Hair bitties were short on service (does one need to wait 1/2 hour for a freakin' menu?), but long on damn good food. The pulled pork was heavenly, the cole slaw just as mouth-watering, and who could turn away from close-by conversation revolving around farm equipment? We fell instantly in love, more so when one of the fossils informed us of her former home in Grand Junction. Fortunately, we didn't have to explain why we came all this way to relive an event most of us would rather forget. As she bid us adieu, our stomachs bursting with delicious swine, we turned back towards Washita once more. Yeah, we suck, and our past often appears little more than an unending parade of exploitation, but the site's very existence - and acknowledgment of error - points us towards hope. Tyrants reinvent and erase their crimes; here, we're willing to accept the condemnation.

FINAL RATING

7/10