Of all the historical pairs to capture the public’s imagination over the centuries, few can match the grandeur, legend, and sheer magnificence of Lewis & Clark. It is, after all, impossible to imagine one without the other, and they are as inextricably linked as Washington to the founding, or Lincoln and the Civil War. Their status as an unbreakable tandem is so complete, in fact, that few today even bother with their first names, as if granting them individuality somehow spoils the romance of one of America’s great couplings. And while their astounding journey from St. Louis to the Oregon coast was a textbook example of teamwork and sacrifice, such details have faded with time, allowing the numerous companions and fellow adventurers to recede into the mist, leaving only that solitary pair before us, as if to stand evermore as the foremost example of the American character.
And while far too many begin (and end) their investigation into the Corps of Discovery with the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial (forever and always “The Arch”) or perhaps Pompeys Pillar in Montana, there’s a bevy of beauty to be found in that unlikeliest of historical havens: North Dakota. In fact, the Peace Garden State contains what might be the pre-eminent site for Lewis & Clark enthusiasts, especially if one is willing to grant that if our duo has been eclipsed in popularity, it has been at the hands of the mysterious Sakakawea. You know the story - the Native American woman who saved the trip; the versatile proto-feminist who, by virtue of her bloodhound sense of direction, kept doom at bay; the sweet (yet strong) mother-to-be who handed a pack of bedeviled white men their collective asses. A mix of myth and half-truth that fits the driving narrative, but whose ambiguity gives the official record keepers several layers of hives.
But here, at Knife River Indian Villages National Historic Site, Sakakawea lives. Or lived, and also where she first encountered Lewis & Clark as they prepared to disembark for the winter. A Shoshone woman, Sakakawea was married to French-Canadian trader Toussaint Charbonneau (hired by Lewis & Clark as an interpreter), and both lived among the Hidatsa people before heading West. All waited out the cold months at nearby Fort Mandan, where Sakakawea gave birth to a son, Jean Baptiste, nicknamed “Pomp” by Clark. Corn, beans, and squash were also traded among the groups, and more than keeping everyone intact before the journey began anew on April 7, 1805, a legend was born. History, as such, would never be the same. Therefore, the initial meeting and subsequent hardships along and beyond the Missouri River (Sakakawea, along with her husband and child, would later return to Knife River in August of 1806) became “an event,” and would stand as one of the few times cooperation won out over bloodshed.
So as one comes to Knife River, shame surrenders to admiration, and even a bit of celebration is allowed to peek through the clouds. The Mandan and Hidatsa people succumbed to the way of all Indian flesh, of course, but as the site stands, it is the anti-Washita, the counter-Sand Creek. No last stands or cheerless surrenders, but a way of life preserved, protected, and yes, even defended. The impressive earthlodges (picture an igloo of dirt and grass, with enough room inside for a football game) are long gone, leaving behind subtle craters in the landscape, but as one sees them from the air, they are the defiant, perpetual fingerprints of a people who inhabited the region for over 500 years. The stories of those seemingly silent centuries are no match for encounters with Jefferson’s journeymen, we arrogantly assume, but one can fairly imagine them here. For imagine one must, as the concrete yields to emptiness, and the literal becomes but a faint dream.
Knife River’s visitor center is one of the more uniquely shaped buildings in the NPS family, appearing as a mighty eagle, rather than the usual musty box overdue for an update. Inside, there are the usual exhibits (clothing, pottery, and the like), but also one of the system’s sternest rangers; a woman on the verge of retirement using her golden years not for leisure, but rather as a means to hound young children to the brink of madness with a sadistic orgy otherwise known as the Junior Ranger program. As she pushed a charming English boy through the paces, treating each requirement as a life-or-death struggle with nature itself, she was the eternal taskmaster; a woman so hell-bent on breaking the lad down that she would not have been out of place in Full Metal Jacket. Still, it’s a relief to know that Junior Ranger badges aren’t just given away these days, and only the best and brightest will do. It would not have surprised me to have seen a bunch of sweaty, moaning kids doing calisthenics down by the river.
The site’s film, a first-hand account from a woman named Buffalo Bird Woman, was introspective and sad, but her sense of loss quickly gave way to (our) excitement, as just beyond the exit stood a replica earthlodge. Authenticity is always preferred, but in lieu of the impossible, we’ll freely accept the kind of substitute that features an absurdly heavy buffalo hide that acts as a front door. Once inside – and it’s not so easy getting inside – the present-day takes a vacation, and for once, a genuine home stands before us. It’s roomy, comfortable, and reflective of a living, breathing culture, even if said culture vanished well over a century ago. There’s a wisdom to the presentation, and we know for certain that these tribes, unlike many that roamed from place to place in search of game, were here for the duration. Permanence is the order of the day (even if it’s always an illusion), and there’s no doubt these people did not give up easily.
Continuing on beyond the earthlodge, visitors will encounter the Lower Hidatsa Site (also known as the Awatixa Xi’e Village), which, to the naked eye, appears as little more than unending grass. Should the site have built more earthlodges to bring it all a bit more to life? It’s an interesting question, and not without a great deal of merit. Or is one lone example, set apart from sacred land itself, enough? It’s a similar argument related to the forts of the NPS system. Ruins or replicas? Dreary foundations or freshly painted walls? For every Fort Union Trading Post (North Dakota), there is a Fort Union (New Mexico), where the lonely, abandoned feel is unmistakably eerie, and unlike anything experienced at a full fabrication. One speaks to rot and decay, the other, a resurrection. Must our history be always “as is”, or a “what was”? Admittedly, when we drove the short distance to the Sakakawea Site, now pressed against the Knife River, we longed for the perspective a dash of housing would have provided. Their daily view, then, could have been our own.
Like so much in North Dakota, Knife River Indian Villages NHS constitutes much sturm and drang in service of a mere whimper, though it would be unfair to label the experience a disappointment. The historical value, given its ties to Lewis & Clark, is without debate, and few can damn a National Park site so removed from modern intrusions. If there’s not much to see, at least it’s quiet. Sure, the evils of energy exploration greeted us as we neared the entrance, but for a state now fully immersed in its own downfall, it could be far, far worse. And so it is, just a few hours west. The Upper Missouri River gets nowhere near the press as the mighty Mississippi, but as this site demonstrates, our American story is impossible without it. Trade, travel, and expansion had their roots (and ultimate future) on this beguiling lifeline, and as our distant past proves, those with sense sat at its side, often for centuries at a time.
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