Golden eagle hunting, part of a diorama at the Field Museum in Chicago. Photo courtesy Steve Richmond/Wikimedia Commons
Mountain Journal's friend, Josiah Blackeagle Pinkham (Nez Perce) is an ethnographer. He's shared many observations, including something that frames the way we think about the true Old West. Places, he said, were not named after people the way buildings, highways and landmarks often commemorate wealthy philanthropists, politically-connected individuals, war heroes, celebrities and beloved citizens.
With many nations, reference points in the map of oral tradition are descriptive terms of the land does, ecologically what happens there, or what wildlife might be common. In Montana, for instance, the Crows, whose homeland extended across a huge southwest sweep of the state, including today's Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem, referred to the Yellowstone River as E-chee-dick-karsh-ah-shay or "Elk River." It's a reminder of how wapiti were a prolific species on the plains and high prairie.
Lois Red Elk returns here with more animal stories. She refrains from calling non-human sentient beings "wildlife;" instead, they're neighbors. They are not "others;" they are community members inseparable; often, their appearances and communiques carry meaning. With this edition of Red Elk's column, Words From Open Earth, she shares a brand new poem and another from her critically-acclaimed volume, Why I Return To Makoce that was nominated for a High Plains Book Award. —Mountain Journal eds
Eagle Kill
Driving up north one weekend I came over a hill and saw huge
dark wings waving and slapping the ground. As I was at the wheel
I didn’t want to take my eyes off the road, so I slowed, did a u-turn
and headed back to the base of the hill, the site, but I didn’t see
anything so I did another u-turn and focused on getting to my
destination. Again as I descended the hill, in the rear view mirror,
giant wings of some great bird looked to be struggling, dust
rising in little clouds. I slammed on my brakes and jumped out of
the car without knowing what I would be facing. There, under a
huge shadow of sage brush was a large eagle. It looked at me like
it wondered what I wanted then seemingly snapped its yellow eyes,
turned around, bent it’s large curved beak and jerked up a string of flesh.
I remember looking past the claws and saw a large jack rabbit held
tightly in a death grip while blood seeped from the light fur just under
the talons. The look in the rabbit eyes was terrifying—a wide circular
stare that seemed to sense the coming of something horrible. Its
body was stiff from fright and as I watched it turned an unsteady gaze
my way. The jack rabbit was huge and almost ran away with the eagle
attached to its back, but the wings provided lift and balance. Again in
a flash I saw another strip of fur being ripped from its neck, then I heard
the rabbit scream. Petrified I watched as its entire body went limp.
The large wings that I had seen floundering earlier was the beginning
of a struggle between food for life and a life sacrificed for food. When
the eagle paused to look at me I watched what I was so curious to see -
a play of life and death on the high plains of my reservation. I was
given an example of the reality of life among the weak and strong.
