The beginning was easy. Exciting. The start of a new adventure. Heading out west to do good.  Making the choice to be in the service of the American government. Latching on to the hope of eliminating poverty, just as Lyndon B. Johnson hoped to do. Sixty years ago. 

The possibilities seemed full of promise. I felt like I had great potential. I would be able to help Snqweyłmistn, a non-profit on the Flathead Reservation, build a Salish immersion community for foster children that can address the intergenerational trauma caused by colonialism. 

It was a twenty-four hour drive from Mount Vernon, Iowa to Ronan, Montana. It was a long drive, and eventually I did get bored. Between Albert Lea, Minnesota and Chamberlain, South Dakota, the miles got longer. It didn’t matter that I could go 90 miles per hour, I was still moving slowly. In my boredom I often began to worry. I began to think about what could go wrong; About the car accidents that are just one poorly timed wheel turn. The chaos and wreckage. The death, destruction, and worst of all, the traffic. “I am a good driver, and I will not do that” I pledge out loud to no one in particular. 

The landscape was flat, with endless signs for the Wall Drug convenience stores. I start to count the time between signs. Every five minutes, three minutes, two minutes, eight minutes. There are five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in a year. What will come of a year in Montana? 

My role at Snqweyłmistn is as a grant writer and cultural events coordinator. There’s another sign for Wall Drug, eight minutes. My role as an Americorp Vista is to help build capacity. In a year’s time, Snqweylmistn is expected to function more efficiently than it did before I arrived. Seemed simple enough. Get money. Get organized. Get on board with the program. Fulfill their dreams. How hard could it be? 

Then I reach Chamberlain. There was a sharp drop into a valley over the Missouri River. My stomach floats, like on a roller coaster. The miles get shorter. There are rolling hills, the old west town where Dances with Wolves was shot, bikers, bikers, bikers. Many motorcycles on the move to Sturges, South Dakota. 

It takes some time to get through Sturges. The boredom again starts to creep up on me, and I worry about all of these people who choose to ride motorcycles. In the open air on two wheels, traveling seventy miles per hour. Me, four wheels, a roof, a radio, air conditioning, and the many other luxuries of the automobile. Is it exciting to drive in the open air and feel the adrenaline rush of death creeping with every passing car? Every lane switch, every blind spot, every possible mistake that could create a human cannonball. I get to Wyoming and the bikers have dispersed. 

The roads in Wyoming were mostly empty. Cars here and there, but for the most part just me and the changing landscape. Grassy hills disappearing into rocky mounds. Plateaus rising, the road going up and down, up and down. I set up my tent in Buffalo, Wyoming. Turns out it does rain in Wyoming, and my tent is not leakproof. The next day, I slip off my soggy socks, and move into Montana. 

The mountains rose out of nowhere. All the hills just prelude to the cloud covered peaks. Big Sky country indeed. Entering Montana, I started to think about history, in all its messiness and confusion. Philosophy began in Greece around 750 B.C. People questioned their individuality, seeking to make sense of the world. What was going on in America at that time? It’s not as though there were no people in America, but the history that I was taught about America begins in 1492. The history I was taught begins with Indigenous genocide. 

And that sucks. Like, it really sucks. This line of thought sits with me while I slowly climb the mountains, and then descend them to arrive in Missoula.

In my first month serving, I have been learning about indigenous cultures. The people who have spent the majority of history on the North American continent. Their practices, culture, and values. They were verbal cultures, they did not have a system of writing. That blew my mind. 

Because the implications of this are so widespread, it creates a necessity for community. Knowledge is only passed down through their elders. Children must listen if they want to learn. Elders must pass down their intellect if the tribe is to thrive. It is a complete codependency, one that compliments both young and old. The Western way of thinking focuses on cause and effect. The indigenous way focuses on relationships. The land that gives to us. It was believed that it was our obligation to respect it. 

Finally, I arrived on the Flathead Reservation and met the boss ladies in Arlee. I wasn’t looking forward to sleeping in a tent, but figured I’d be tired enough that it wouldn’t matter. We introduced ourselves. Me, Jonny Dugger (no relation to those Duggars). Them, April and Erika (also no relation to those Duggars). Erika offered me an empty house that I could stay in. It was a gesture of generosity that really meant a lot to me and made me feel welcome. The next day April invited me to her home on this beautiful ranch framed by the Mission Mountains for lunch. The sun shines on different spots of the mountain creating stripes of light from peak to peak. 

There are constant crises always going on. The wealth gap gets bigger. Mental health plagues everyone. The earth is getting hotter. All of the solutions to these problems consist of embracing indigenous forms of belief. Re-examining humanity’s relationship with the earth. Creating community, coming out of our isolation. I am glad to be in Montana, and look forward to using my minutes to further the cause of Snqweyłmistn.