2021.04.12 将国家公园归还给各部落

shiyi18

WHO OWNS AMERICA'S WILDERNESS?
RETURN THE NATIONAL PARKS TO THE TRIBES
The jewels of America’s landscape should belong to America’s original peoples.

By David Treuer
Photographs by Katy Grannan
MAY 2021 ISSUE
SHARE
drawing of a mountain against a green and blue circle
Editor’s note: This article is part of a new series called “Who Owns America’s Wilderness?”

This article was published online on April 12, 2021.

I. The End Result of Dirty Business
in 1851, members of a California state militia called the Mariposa Battalion became the first white men to lay eyes on Yosemite Valley. The group was largely made up of miners. They had been scouring the western slopes of the Sierra when they happened upon the granite valley that Native peoples had long referred to as “the place of a gaping mouth.” Lafayette Bunnell, a physician attached to the militia, found himself awestruck. “None but those who have visited this most wonderful valley, can even imagine the feelings with which I looked upon the view,” he later wrote. “A peculiar exalted sensation seemed to fill my whole being, and I found my eyes in tears.” Many of those who have followed in Bunnell’s footsteps over the past 170 years, walking alongside the Merced River or gazing upon the god-rock of El Capitan, have been similarly struck by the sense that they were in the presence of the divine.


The Mariposa Battalion had come to Yosemite to kill Indians. Yosemite’s Miwok tribes, like many of California’s Native peoples, were obstructing a frenzy of extraction brought on by the Gold Rush. And whatever Bunnell’s fine sentiments about nature, he made his contempt for these “overgrown, vicious children” plain:

Any attempt to govern or civilize them without the power to compel obedience, will be looked upon by barbarians with derision … The savage is naturally vain, cruel and arrogant. He boasts of his murders and robberies, and the tortures of his victims very much in the same manner that he recounts his deeds of valor in battle.
When the roughly 200 men of the Mariposa Battalion marched into Yosemite, armed with rifles, they did not find the Miwok eager for battle. While the Miwok hid, the militiamen sought to starve them into submission by burning their food stores, souring the valley’s air with the smell of scorched acorns. On one particularly bloody day, some of the men came upon an inhabited village outside the valley, surprising the Miwok there. They used embers from the tribe’s own campfires to set the wigwams aflame and shot at the villagers indiscriminately as they fled, murdering 23 of them. By the time the militia’s campaign ended, many of the Miwok who survived had been driven from Yosemite, their homeland for millennia, and forced onto reservations.

Thirty-nine years later, Yosemite became the fifth national park. (Yellowstone, which was granted that status in 1872, was the first.) The parks were intended to be natural cathedrals: protected landscapes where people could worship the sublime. They offer Americans the thrill of looking back over their shoulder at a world without humans or technology. Many visit them to find something that exists outside or beyond us, to experience an awesome sense of scale, to contemplate our smallness and our ephemerality. It was for this reason that John Muir, the father of modern conservationism, advocated for the parks’ creation.

From the August 1897 issue: John Muir’s “The American Forests”

More than a century ago, in the pages of this magazine, Muir described the entire American continent as a wild garden “favored above all the other wild parks and gardens of the globe.” But in truth, the North American continent has not been a wilderness for at least 15,000 years: Many of the landscapes that became national parks had been shaped by Native peoples for millennia. Forests on the Eastern Seaboard looked plentiful to white settlers because American Indians had strategically burned them to increase the amount of forage for moose and deer and woodland caribou. Yosemite Valley’s sublime landscape was likewise tended by Native peoples; the acorns that fed the Miwok came from black oaks long cultivated by the tribe. The idea of a virgin American wilderness—an Eden untouched by humans and devoid of sin—is an illusion.

photo of four generations of Schildt woman at a sacred medicine rock on their property on the Blackfeet Reservation
Four generations of the women of the Schildt family at a sacred medicine rock on their property on the Blackfeet Reservation, with Glacier National Park in the background. The photographs that accompany this article are portraits of members of the Blackfeet Nation and the lands around them. They were taken on the Blackfeet Reservation and in Glacier National Park, in Montana, over two weeks in March. The Blackfeet’s homelands once encompassed part of the Rocky Mountains and what became the park, before the tribe was dispossessed of its land.
The national parks are sometimes called “America’s best idea,” and there is much to recommend them. They are indeed awesome places, worthy of reverence and preservation, as Native Americans like me would be the first to tell you. But all of them were founded on land that was once ours, and many were created only after we were removed, forcibly, sometimes by an invading army and other times following a treaty we’d signed under duress. When describing the simultaneous creation of the parks and Native American reservations, the Oglala Lakota spiritual leader Black Elk noted darkly that the United States “made little islands for us and other little islands for the four-leggeds, and always these islands are becoming smaller.”

Many of the negotiations that enabled the creation of these islands took place in English (to the disadvantage of the tribes), when the tribes faced annihilation or had been weakened by disease or starvation (to the disadvantage of the tribes), or with bad faith on the part of the government (to the disadvantage of the tribes). The treaties that resulted, according to the U.S. Constitution, are the “supreme Law of the Land.” Yet even despite their cruel terms, few were honored. Native American claims and rights were ignored or chipped away.

The American story of “the Indian” is one of staggering loss. Some estimates put the original Indigenous population of what would become the contiguous United States between 5 million and 15 million at the time of first contact. By 1890, around the time America began creating national parks in earnest, roughly 250,000 Native people were still alive. In 1491, Native people controlled all of the 2.4 billion acres that would become the United States. Now we control about 56 million acres, or roughly 2 percent.

Read: The Blackfeet brain drain

And yet we remain, and some of us have stayed stubbornly near the parks, preserving our attachment to them. Grand Canyon National Park encloses much of the Havasupai Tribe and its reservation. Pipe Spring National Monument sits entirely inside the 120,000-acre Kaibab Paiute Indian Reservation, in northern Arizona. Many other parks neighbor Native communities. But while the parks may be near us, and of us, they are not ours.

We live in a time of historical reconsideration, as more and more people recognize that the sins of the past still haunt the present. For Native Americans, there can be no better remedy for the theft of land than land. And for us, no lands are as spiritually significant as the national parks. They should be returned to us. Indians should tend—and protect and preserve—these favored gardens again.

Related Podcast: The Experiment
Listen and subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | Stitcher | Google Podcasts


David Treuer, an Ojibwe author and historian, says we can make "America's best idea" even better—by giving national parks back to Native Americans.
In july 2020, I conducted something of a barnstorming tour. I wanted to look with fresh eyes at the park system, to imagine a new future for it. I had planned on visiting all sorts of places—the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Great Smoky Mountains National Park—but the coronavirus pandemic intervened.

Some parks closed completely, while others (like Yellowstone) closed campgrounds, cultural centers, and museums. In the end I drove from Minnesota through North Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, and Oregon and down the spine of California. Then I turned around and drove back. I visited Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Little Bighorn Battlefield, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Mount Hood National Forest, Kings Canyon, Death Valley, and Joshua Tree.

Magazine Cover image
Explore the May 2021 Issue
Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read.

View More
The roads were quieter than usual, though the skies were sometimes hazy as the West Coast burst into flames. I slept in campgrounds, in my tent in the backyards of friends, and, rarely, in a hotel or motor lodge. I cooked on the trunk of my car and on picnic tables, under the blazing sun and in torrential rain. I fought off raccoons and squirrels.

More than any other place I visited, Yellowstone seemed to contain the multitudes of America. There, I saw elk and bison. I saw enough recreational vehicles to house a good portion of this country’s homeless. I saw lake water, river water, black water, swamp water, and frothy waterfall water. I saw Tony Hawk being stopped by two park rangers after longboarding down the switchbacks above Mammoth Hot Springs while an actual hawk circled above him. I saw Instagram models in tiny bikinis posing in front of indifferent bison. I saw biker gangs (who seem to really enjoy parks) and gangs of toddlers (who don’t seem to enjoy anything). I saw tourists, masked and unmasked. I saw placards and displays. I discovered that you can learn a lot about nature at Yellowstone, and perhaps even more about American culture. But the park’s official captions give you at best a limited sense of its human history.


Yellowstone National Park was created about 100 years after the country was born. An 1806 expedition, part of Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery, passed just north of where the park is today. Later, John Colter, one of the Corps members, joined the fur trade and purportedly became the first non-Native to see its vistas. Of course, Native people had lived there for thousands of years, and at the time Colter was setting traps in the area, they still claimed Yellowstone as their home.

Colter traveled through the Yellowstone area and the Teton Range in the early 19th century, looking for fur. Wherever he went, he ended up in mortal conflict with Native Americans, culminating in his wounding at the hands of the Blackfeet. He hid from the tribe under a pile of driftwood and then walked for a week to safety. Over the next 60 years, trappers like him described the landscape that would become Yellowstone as an area of mud geysers, acid pools, and petrified trees.

Not until 1869 did the first official expedition explore the region and confirm the mountain men’s accounts. Things moved quickly after that. In 1871, Ferdinand V. Hayden led a government-sponsored survey of Yellowstone that produced reports complete with professional sketches and photographs. Based on that report, President Ulysses S. Grant signed into law the Yellowstone Act of 1872, which created America’s first landscape to be “reserved and withdrawn from settlement, occupancy, or sale … and dedicated and set apart as a public park or pleasuring-ground for the benefit and enjoyment of the people.”

left: photo of Jade-Heather Hinman with five of her seven kids; right: photo of a memorial obelisk at Camp Disappointment, on the Blackfeet Reservation
Left: Jade-Heather Hinman, a local small-business owner, pictured with five of her seven children in the sweetgrass hills at Camp Disappointment. Right: A memorial obelisk at Camp Disappointment, on the Blackfeet Reservation, so named by the Lewis and Clark Expedition when it reached its northernmost point.
Grant’s declaration made trespassers of the Shoshone, Bannock, and other peoples who had called the parkland home for centuries. The tribes left with the understanding that they would retain hunting rights in the park, as guaranteed by an 1868 treaty. Before the century was out, however, the government had reneged on that promise. This tactic of theft by broken treaty would become a pattern where parks were concerned.


When Yellowstone was established, the Plains Wars were raging all around the park’s borders. It was as though the government paused mid-murder to plant a tree in the victims’ backyard. The Dakota War had erupted 10 years earlier, just east of the Great Plains. By the time it was over, dozens of Dakota had been hanged, and more than 1,600 women, children, and elders had been sent to a concentration camp at Fort Snelling. Eventually, all of the treaties between the Eastern Dakota and the U.S. government were “abrogated and annulled.”

Read: ‘Kill every buffalo you can! Every buffalo dead is an Indian gone’

In 1864, on the Plains’ opposite edge, at Sand Creek in Colorado Territory, Colonel John Chivington massacred and mutilated as many as 500 Native Americans. In 1868, just four years before the creation of Yellowstone, Native Americans, led by Red Cloud, fought the U.S. government to a standstill, then forced concessions from the Americans at the treaty table, though these, too, were eventually unmade.

Viewed from the perspective of history, Yellowstone is a crime scene.
War came to Yellowstone itself in 1877. Chief Joseph’s band of Nez Perce had been shut out of their homeland in the Wallowa Valley and embarked on a 1,500-mile journey that would end just south of the Canadian border, where they would surrender to the U.S. Army. The Nez Perce did their best to avoid white people on their way. But they were attacked on the banks of the Big Hole River, in August 1877, by soldiers in Colonel John Gibbon’s command. Gibbon’s men approached the camp on foot at dawn, killing a man during their advance. Then they began firing into the tepees of the sleeping Nez Perce, killing men, women, and children. The Nez Perce counterattacked. Their warriors kept Gibbon’s soldiers pinned down while the others escaped. Although they defended themselves well, they lost at least 60 people.

Reeling from these deaths, the Nez Perce passed into Yellowstone, where they ran into tourists from Radersburg, Montana, enjoying the “pleasuring-ground” created at the expense of Indians. The Nez Perce briefly held the tourists hostage, and then released them, but went on to kill two tourists in the park later in the month.

Moving east through the park, the tribe forded the Yellowstone River at a place still known as the Nez Perce Ford. Around the time they crossed the river, an elderly woman peeled away from the main column and stayed at an area known as Mud Volcano. She sat on a bison robe near a geyser and sang. When a U.S. scout approached her, she closed her eyes. “She seemed rather disappointed,” John W. Redington, the scout, wrote, “when instead of shooting her I refilled her water bottle. She made signs that she had been forsaken by her people, and wanted to die.” Ten minutes later, a Bannock scout for the Army obliged by striking her down and scalping her. One hundred and forty-three years later, my sons and daughter and I would stand on the same spot, wondering why there are so few places in the park where you can learn about its bloody past. Viewed from the perspective of history, Yellowstone is a crime scene.

America’s national parks comprise only a small fraction of the land stolen from Native Americans, but they loom large in the broader story of our dispossession. Most of the major national parks are in the western United States. So, too, are most Native American tribes, owing to the Indian Removal Act of 1830, which attempted to eject all tribes east of the Mississippi to what was then Indian Territory. The reservation period likewise began, for the most part, in the West, in the mid-19th century.

From the May 2020 issue: The people who profited off the Trail of Tears

Even after we were relegated to reservations, the betrayals continued. Beginning in 1887, the Dawes Act (also known as the General Allotment Act) split much of the reservations up into small parcels of land to be granted to individual Indians, while the “surplus” communal land was opened for white settlement. In blunt terms, Thomas Morgan, the commissioner of Indian affairs, said in 1890 that the goal of federal policy at the time was “to break up reservations, destroy tribal relations, settle Indians upon their own homesteads, incorporate them into the national life, and deal with them not as nations or tribes or bands, but as individual citizens.” This land grab bled at least another 90 million acres away from the tribes—roughly equivalent to the 85 million acres that comprise America’s 423 national-park sites.

After Yellowstone was established and Indians were removed and in some cases excluded from its spaces, the same—and worse—happened elsewhere. The Blackfeet, living in three bands in northwestern Montana and southern Alberta, had long thought of the Rockies as their spiritual and physical homeland. They wouldn’t have dreamt of ceding it at the treaty table, but in the 1880s and ’90s, they were forced to negotiate with the U.S. government. Weakened by a string of epidemics, seasons of starvation, and insatiable Americans bent on opening up their homelands to timber and mineral extraction, the Blackfeet had to make concession after concession. Some years, they had to give up land just to secure enough resources to last through the next winter.

Not long after a harsh winter that killed as many as 600 Blackfeet, the tribe signed away land that would become Glacier National Park. The deal was brokered by George Bird Grinnell, the naturalist founder of the Audubon Society of New York. Grinnell had joined George Armstrong Custer on his expedition into the Black Hills in 1874 in search of gold. The trip was in direct violation of the treaty guaranteeing that the Black Hills would remain in Native control. Grinnell was often called a “friend of the Indian,” but he once wrote that Natives have “the mind of a child in the body of an adult.” In 1911, a year after Congress approved the creation of Glacier, Montana ceded jurisdiction of the park to the U.S. government.

Read: How much are America’s national parks worth?

So many of the parks owe their existence to heists like these. Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, in Wisconsin, was created out of Ojibwe homelands; the Havasupai lost much of their land when Grand Canyon National Park was established; the creation of Olympic National Park, in Washington, prevented Quinault tribal members from exercising their treaty rights within its boundaries; and Everglades National Park was created on Seminole land that the tribe depended on for food. The list goes on.

photo of Saint Mary Lake and surrounding mountains inside Glacier National Park
Saint Mary Lake and surrounding mountains inside Glacier National Park
Iset out on my trip through America’s national parks from my home, at Leech Lake Reservation, in Minnesota, on the southern fringe of the North American boreal forest. This forest is one of the largest stretches of woodland in the world: It spreads from the Aleutian Islands all the way to Newfoundland and from near the southern edge of Hudson Bay to northern Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan. As I headed west for Theodore Roosevelt National Park, in North Dakota, the taiga gave way to grasslands and oak savanna near Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. By the time I crossed the Red River, I’d left the forest behind altogether. I felt the land dip, and looking west, I thought I could make out the horizon where the Great Plains begin.

As a boy, I would accompany my father on business trips through some of these same landscapes. In the car, he would narrate the history of our region, mostly without much emotional inflection: “Chief Little Crow fled this way to escape the military after the Dakota War in 1862.” We would pass many small towns—Hawley, Valley City, Medina, Steele—that seemed pleasant enough, until my father ruined them for me. The calm and order of them, their small houses and neatly kept yards, the Protestant ethic reflected in their organization—all of it infuriates me, because every single one of those towns exists at our expense.

Medora, North Dakota, is the southern gateway to Theodore Roosevelt National Park. (The Marquis de Morès named the town after his wife, Medora von Hoffman, though the romance of the gesture suffers when you consider that he established the town as a place to slaughter cattle to be sold at eastern markets.) Medora today is a fantasy of a time that never was. There is a statue of Roosevelt and a Rough Riders Hotel and, during the summer months, the Medora Musical. The show’s website really says it best when it promises “the rootin’-tootinest, boot-scootinest show in all the Midwest. There’s no other show quite like it. It’s an ode to patriotism, Theodore Roosevelt, and the Great American West!” When I was there it was an ode to COVID‑19: According to a clerk at the convenience store, one of the cast members was spreading the virus from the stage.

I wanted to begin my journey at Theodore Roosevelt because no one embodies the tensions of the park system as it is currently constituted like the 26th president. Contained in the person of Roosevelt was a wild love for natural vistas and a propensity for violent imperialism; an overwhelming desire for freedom and a readiness to take it away from other people. Much of the park named after him exists on top of Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara (MHA) land. The MHA lost that land in 1851, with the signing of the first Treaty of Fort Laramie. Executive orders in 1870 and 1880 seized still more of the tribes’ homeland.

Roosevelt went to hunt bison in Dakota Territory in 1883. In 1884, when he was back home in New York, his wife gave birth to their daughter, Alice, but unbeknownst to her doctors, his wife had a kidney ailment, and died on Valentine’s Day that year. Teddy’s mother died the same day in the same house. After drawing a large X in his diary, Roosevelt wrote, “The light has gone out of my life.” He returned to the West and built a ranch outside Medora, intent on letting nature soothe him. He didn’t last long out there, and the West never became his permanent home, but it left a mark on him—and he, in turn, left his mark on it.

From the May 1906 issue: Camping with President Theodore Roosevelt

Roosevelt was familiar with Native Americans, having interacted with them when he was in Dakota Territory. “The most vicious cowboy has more moral principle than the average Indian,” he would say in an 1886 speech, during which he also famously declared: “I don’t go so far as to think that the only good Indians are the dead Indians, but I believe nine out of every 10 are, and I shouldn’t like to inquire too closely into the case of the tenth.”

Roosevelt’s attitude toward Indians is manifest in his treatment of the Apache leader Geronimo. Born in 1829, Geronimo lived the first three decades of his life in the peace and security of his Apache homelands, in what is now New Mexico and Arizona. In the second half of the 19th century, he rose to international fame for fighting the American and Mexican governments in an attempt to preserve his tribe’s piece of the Southwest.

In 1858—the year of Roosevelt’s birth—Geronimo joined a large trading party that left the Mogollon Mountains and entered Mexico. While he was in town conducting business, his band was attacked and slaughtered at camp. Among the dead were Geronimo’s wife, mother, and three small children. He later recalled, “I did not pray, nor did I resolve to do anything in particular, for I had no purpose left.” Life, for him, as recounted by Gilbert King in Smithsonian magazine, shaded from peace into a state of perpetual warfare, ending only with his capture by U.S. forces in 1886, around the time Roosevelt was mourning in Dakota Territory.

The American West began with war but concluded with parks.
Geronimo was shipped east and spent the rest of his life in captivity, and his tribe’s land was whittled away. Around the same time, Native children were also being shipped away from their homelands, to government-sponsored boarding schools—removed from their families and their culture so as to mainstream them. Attendance was sometimes mandated by law and sometimes coerced, but it was rarely strictly voluntary. For speaking in their own language, the children were sometimes beaten or had soap put in their mouths. Of the 112 Apache children from Geronimo’s band sent to the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, in Pennsylvania, 36 died—most of them likely from tuberculosis—and were buried there.

From the October 2020 issue: “My Industrial Work,” a poem written in 1914 by an anonymous student at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School

For his part, Geronimo did get out (under guard) once in a while, including a stint in 1904 as part of the “Apache Village” at the St. Louis World’s Fair, where he was made to play the role of the savage. In 1905, he and other Native leaders were asked to be part of Roosevelt’s inaugural parade. It was a who’s who of tribal leadership, including Quanah Parker (Comanche), Buckskin Charlie (Ute), Hollow Horn Bear (Brulé Lakota), American Horse (Oglala Lakota), and Little Plume (Piegan Blackfeet). They rode horses down Pennsylvania Avenue in regalia not entirely in step with their individual tribal traditions. America liked and still likes its Indians to function much like its nature: frozen in time; outside history; the antithesis, or at best the outer limit, of humanity and civilization.

Geronimo met with Roosevelt afterward. “Take the ropes from our hands,” he begged, in a desperate appeal to be allowed to return, along with other Apache prisoners, to his homeland. Roosevelt declined, telling him, “You killed many of my people; you burned villages.” Geronimo began to gesture and yell but was cut off. Four years later, he died in captivity at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

In 1903, Roosevelt had let himself be drawn back west. In April of that year he embarked on a 14,000-mile train journey that took him through 24 states and territories in nine weeks. He traveled to Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, and California, where he enjoyed a three-night camping trip with John Muir.

Four archival photos: Red Cloud; Chief Joseph; Geronimo; men signing land over
Top left: Red Cloud (seated, center) and other Native American leaders visited President Ulysses S. Grant in 1875, but failed to persuade him to honor existing treaties. Top right: Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, circa 1900.
Bottom left: Geronimo at the St. Louis World’s Fair, in 1904. Bottom right: George Gillette (left), the chairman of the Fort Berthold Indian Tribal Business Council, weeps as more than 150,000 acres of the Fort Berthold Reservation in North Dakota are signed away for the Garrison Dam and Reservoir project. (Bettmann / Getty; De Lancey Gill / Library of Congress; The Gerhard Sisters / Library of Congress; William Chaplis / AP)
Along the way, Roosevelt gave speeches—at the Grand Canyon; at Yellowstone, where he laid the cornerstone for the Roosevelt Arch; near some redwoods in Santa Cruz. He said much about the majesty of nature. Regarding the Grand Canyon: “I want to ask you to do one thing in connection with it in your own interest and in the interest of the country—to keep this great wonder of nature as it now is … I hope you will not have a building of any kind, not a summer cottage, a hotel or anything else, to mar the wonderful grandeur, the sublimity, the great loneliness and beauty of the canyon.” And Yellowstone: “The Yellowstone Park is something absolutely unique in the world, so far as I know … The scheme of its preservation is noteworthy in its essential democracy … This Park was created, and is now administered, for the benefit and enjoyment of the people.”

Roosevelt translated his passions into policy. During his time in office, he created 150 national forests, 18 national monuments, five national parks, four national game preserves, and 51 bird “reservations.”

Like Geronimo, Roosevelt came of age during a pivotal 50-year stretch when the contiguous United States assumed its final dimensions. The last major armed conflict between a Native tribe and the U.S. government ended at Wounded Knee Creek with the massacre of as many as 300 men, women, and children of Spotted Elk’s band of Miniconjou. The frontier was pushed all the way to the Pacific and then was no more, and America’s truly wild space—land outside the embrace of “civilization”—was subsumed.

The American West began with war but concluded with parks.

Map of tribal boundaries during westward expansion showing current-day reservations and national parks
Legend for map of U.S. showing pre-European tribal boundaries, current national parks, and current reservations
A. L. Kroeber, Cultural and Natural Areas of Native North America; Encyclopedia Britannica; Bureau of Indian Affairs
Instead of describing one moment in time (for example, “Here’s what tribal boundaries looked like before Columbus reached America”), this map approximates the tribal boundaries that European settlers recorded as they traveled through the frontier—the western half of the map describes a later period than the eastern half does.
II. The Future of the Tribes and the Parks
the mha nation lives just north and a little east of Theodore Roosevelt National Park, but under drastically different circumstances than the people in and around Medora. Time and again, the MHA reservation was reduced by federal fiat and exploitative deals—from more than 12 million acres to less than 1 million. The dispossessions continued well into the 20th century: During construction of the Garrison Dam and Reservoir on the Missouri River in the 1940s and ’50s, up to 80 percent of the reservation population was forced to relocate away from the fertile river bottoms that had given them life and defined them as a people for centuries.

In the 1860s, long before the dam was built, the MHA had lived mostly at a place called Like-a-Fishhook Village, Royce Young Wolf, the collections manager at a new cultural center the MHA are building, told me. “It’s all under the lake now, flooded out,” she said. We were standing at Oxbow Overlook inside the park, looking down at the Little Missouri River as it wound lazily through acres of cottonwood and grassy clearings. “They were self-sufficient,” she said. “Each village had its own garden. Many families had sacred bundle-keepers.” The dam was planned without any meaningful consultation of the MHA Nation; after the Army Corps of Engineers threatened to confiscate the land it needed, citing eminent domain, the tribes had little choice but to come to the negotiating table and eventually cede territory. By 1949, they had received settlements totaling only $12.6 million for the more than 150,000 acres that were taken.

“They moved us from where water was plentiful to where there wasn’t any,” Young Wolf said. “Our river bottoms were the most fertile in the whole state … But when we were flooded, we were moved to areas where there’s poor soil and no water and we couldn’t sustain large gardens.” The tribes’ rights to use the land on the reservoir’s shoreline—for hunting or fishing or plant-gathering—were denied.

In recent years, the MHA have been in the grip of rapid, violent, and remunerative fracking enterprises. As I drove north from the park, I saw land bearing scars—pipes, gas vents, and fracking pads dotting the hills. In 2014, the former tribal chair Tex Hall promised the tribes “sovereignty by the barrel,” and he wasn’t wrong: The tribes are wealthier than they have been since before the first Treaty of Fort Laramie. But by encouraging and facilitating oil extraction, they put themselves at odds with their own cultural legacy and connection to the land.

Native American nations such as the MHA are in a difficult position. They have endured state-sponsored assaults on their families, communities, land, and ways of life. Their traditional political structures and institutions have suffered under the paternalism of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which controls Native land by holding it in trust.

4 photos: Violet M. Schildt; Talissa, Aariah, and McKennzi Wagner; Doug Fitzgerald; Michael Fast Buffalo Horse
Top left: Violet M. Schildt, who is 85 years old, pictured on her family’s property on the Blackfeet Reservation. Top right: Talissa, Aariah, and McKennzi Wagner (left to right) standing in front of Divide Mountain, which separates Glacier National Park from the Blackfeet Reservation. Members of the Blackfeet Nation, Aariah (12) and McKennzi (14) are sisters; Talissa (11) is their cousin.
Bottom left: Doug Fitzgerald on his grandfather’s ranch on the Blackfeet Reservation. Bottom right:  Michael Fast Buffalo Horse, a traditional artist and singer, at Camp Disappointment.
On one hand, we are sovereign nations with our own laws and law enforcement, courts, and municipal infrastructures, all derived from those rights that we have managed to retain. Contrary to popular myth, neither casinos nor the right to gamble were “given” to tribes as a kind of pity payment or as the recognition of a debt owed us. The casino industry is the modern expression of a civil right to gamble that we had before white people came along, a right we have retained and that was affirmed by the Supreme Court.

Read: One way to help Native Americans: Property rights

On the other hand, without a strong tax base or much commerce—extractive industries, casino gambling, and tax-free cigarette sales are notable exceptions—we are dependent on federal support for education, health care, infrastructure, and our continued survival. We are, in the words of Chief Justice John Marshall, “domestic dependent nations,” and thus live in constant tension.

Americans have gradually assimilated to our cultures, our worldview, and our modes of connecting to nature.
The MHA have had their struggles—with unemployment, substance abuse, a destructive marriage to the oil-and-gas industry, and intergenerational trauma inflicted by the U.S. government. But tribes are much more than the sum of their troubles. The MHA are also keenly protective of their heritage and culture. The cultural center they are constructing is a state-of-the-art facility in service to these ideals.

The MHA Interpretive Center is on Army Corps of Engineers land because that land is near the river, which is so essential to MHA history, Delphine Baker, the director of the Interpretive Center, told me. She was instantly recognizable to me as a kind of fierce, no-nonsense Native auntie. Government officials didn’t want the tribes to own that land, she said matter-of-factly—the tribes now hold a lease instead—out of a concern that the tribes would take control of recreation rights and not allow nontribal members to have access. “The tribe never is interested in blocking access. But, you know, that’s a fear.”

RECOMMENDED READING

1491
CHARLES C. MANN
The Indian Territory
THEODORA R. JENNESS
An auto-da-fé for condemned heretics during the Spanish Inquisition
The Genetic Legacy of the Spanish Inquisition
SARAH ZHANG
The facility is gorgeous—swooping embankments and curving walks mirror the rolling hills and grasslands of the MHA tribal area. Inside is a partial replica of an earth lodge, the traditional dwelling of the three tribes, and gallery space that tells the story of the MHA. The Interpretive Center will be the home for hundreds, if not thousands, of artifacts taken from the tribes over the years. And it will not be merely a show-and-tell kind of endeavor. The center will cultivate traditional plants on a rooftop garden. A café will serve traditional foods. There is a recording studio for preserving tribal languages, and a research space where tribal members will be able to trace their lineage. For so many Native people who have been separated from their tribes because of federal meddling, reconnecting is an important service the center can provide. To call this an Interpretive Center isn’t quite right. It is more like a cultural mothership.

“If you lose your culture, you lose your sovereignty and your tribe,” Baker told me. “And that’s what we’re fighting against.”

It is not the first such fight. During the early reservation period, a difficult and fractious time when the people at Like-a-Fishhook Village were trying to figure out a new way of living, a splinter group wanted to hunt and garden in the old communal ways. So they left, relocating outside the reservation, about 120 miles upriver. “That group became known as the Xoshga, and they were led by Crow Flies High and Bobtail Bull,” Young Wolf told me. “When they separated, they were taking a stand against assimilation and Christianity. They stayed away for over 20 years.” They revived ceremonies and songs and dances. They preserved knowledge of local plants. While they were gone, Young Wolf said, the community at Like-a-Fishhook Village suffered from being split apart into small plots of land. But the Xoshga “kept our traditions safe while they were away. And it’s because of them we have many of our traditions today.”

In 1894, the government forced the Xoshga back to the reservation. They were treated badly at first by many of the MHA members who had stayed behind, Young Wolf told me. They were looked at as backward and savage. But now, to be Xoshga is to be connected to the land, to tradition, and to a spirit of resistance. The Xoshga were saved by the land, and their return to it saved their tribe.

photo of Pat Schildt and bison
Pat Schildt on his bison ranch on the Blackfeet Reservation
The first “park person” I met on my trip was Grant Geis, then the chief ranger at Theodore Roosevelt National Park (he has since retired). Geis is tall and broad-shouldered, with a rugged face and large, strong hands. He’d been at the park since 1998, when he started as a seasonal employee. “As soon as I hit Painted Canyon … I fell in love with it,” he told me, “and [I’ve] kind of been here ever since.”

Pretty much every person I talked with in the Park Service used the word love to describe the parks, the vistas, and their own roles as protectors of the land and its visitors. In my experience, that’s not a word most government employees use when talking about their job. I asked Geis about Teddy Roosevelt and his legacy. “He was a firm believer in the land of many uses, but at the same time trying to save something for future generations,” Geis replied. “It says something about his character when he was forward-thinking to that degree.” He also acknowledged Roosevelt’s imperfections and expressed support for cooperative relationships between parks and adjacent tribes.

The personal failings of people like Roosevelt are still codified in American policy. A lack of access to land—and the lack of power that such access would confer—undergirds the social ills that affect many Native peoples. But, at least in some places, American attitudes are changing. And in the parks, policies are changing too, albeit slowly, and in piecemeal fashion.

When I was a kid and my parents took my two siblings and me on our first trip out West, in the early ’80s, we stopped at Theodore Roosevelt, Custer Battlefield (now Little Bighorn), Yellowstone, and Grand Teton. Indians were barely mentioned on the signage, and I don’t remember meeting any Native rangers or even sensing that we existed as anything other than America’s past tense. But since the passage of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, in 1990, tribes and parks (not to mention museums, galleries, and private collections) have drawn closer together in their efforts to preserve Native spaces and objects. Many tribes now have historic-preservation officers, who work with the parks.

Land use itself is also changing within the parks, to some degree. For instance, the Park Service has made it easier for Native people to harvest plants for traditional purposes, though typically they first have to submit a written request. And some parks allow us to hunt or trap within their borders.

4 photos: Evan Thompson; Simarron Schildt with her 3-year-old daughter Rosie Robertson; Sterling HolyWhiteMountain; Robert Hall
Top left: Evan Thompson grew up on the Blackfeet Reservation. An attorney, he works on issues of tribal sovereignty, civil litigation, and general tribal advocacy throughout the Northwest. Top right: Simarron Schildt, with her 3-year-old daughter, Rosie Robertson, on her family’s property on the Blackfeet Reservation.
Bottom left: Sterling HolyWhiteMountain, a university lecturer working to preserve the native Blackfeet language; Bottom right: Robert Hall, also active in language-preservation efforts, pictured at Two Medicine Lake, one of the tribe’s most sacred locations in Glacier National Park.
In some respects, ours is an era of Native resurgence. For all we have suffered, there remain 574 federally recognized tribes in the United States. When the first national parks were created at the end of the 19th century, only about 250,000 Native people were left in the U.S. Now there are more than 5 million Native Americans throughout the country, roughly equal to the number of Jewish Americans and millions more than the number of Muslim Americans.

Our survival hasn’t mattered only to us: As the efforts to assimilate us largely failed and we remained, mostly, in our homelands, Americans have gradually assimilated to our cultures, our worldview, and our modes of connecting to nature. The parks enshrine places, but they also emphasize and prioritize a particular way of interacting with the land. In the nation’s mythic past, the wilderness may have been a dangerous environment, something to be tamed, plowed under, cut down. But that way of relating to the land is no longer in vogue. For many Americans, our wild spaces are a solace, a refuge—cathedrals indeed. America has succeeded in becoming more Indian over the past 245 years rather than the other way around.

It took me a few days to hike the South Unit of Theodore Roosevelt. Unlike more congested parks such as Yellowstone and Yosemite, Roosevelt is quiet, so much so that it feels like a secret. I started in high, red, dusty hills, and descended through a series of washes and dry river bottoms. I keenly felt how far back in time I was traveling with each step. The trail rose past the petrified tree stumps of a swamp millions of years old and out onto a grassy plain, where the wind screamed through the grass, echinacea, aster, and goldenrod. I passed near cliffs where the tribes might once have funneled stampeding bison, causing them to fall to the hard earth below.

The day after I finished my hike, I had breakfast with Wendy Ross, the park superintendent, in Theodore’s Dining Room at the Rough Riders Hotel. I asked her whether Native people should be able to use the park differently than non-Natives, considering our longer tenure on the land, which had originally been part of the MHA’s tribal homeland. Why, I asked, couldn’t the MHA hunt the bison in the park? Ross said it was something of a slippery slope. If the park allowed Native people to hunt bison, the rest of the residents of North Dakota would throw a fit and, more troubling, the efforts of hunting groups to open up parks across the country to sport hunting would be greatly encouraged.

“The problem,” Ross said, is that “there are no protocols” nationally, and hence there’s much confusion. “Here at Roosevelt, I’ve told all of my staff: We let anybody in who says they’re coming in for ceremonial or spiritual purposes.” I have no doubt this is true. Ross seems to be a good leader and an ally to the tribes who live near Roosevelt. She spoke of reparations, of “providing what you can to people who used to use that area all the time, and then expanding that to other Native peoples.” She has been attending tribal meetings. Superintendents like Ross are changing the parks to better meet the needs of Native nations, but they can do only so much. So far, reparations are partial, ad hoc, and tenuous—always subject to reversal.

Native people need permanent, unencumbered access to our homelands—in order to strengthen us and our communities, and to undo some of the damage of the preceding centuries. Being Native is not so much a disposition or having a certain amount of blood running through one’s veins as it is a practice around which families and tribes are built. For a member of the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes, buying a bison burger at Whole Foods might satisfy their caloric needs, but being able to hunt and harvest bison, in keeping with their spiritual and cultural practices, feeds their culture and community. Native life was diminished when our land disappeared beneath our feet, and it is further diminished when the manner in which we access “public” lands is scripted by the government.

The preservation of these sublime places for future generations is of course crucially important, something Native Americans understand as deeply as anyone. But putting aside for a moment the interests of Native Americans—and notwithstanding the hard work and goodwill of many park employees—the parks show worrying signs of mismanagement. Myopic decisions have seemed to proliferate, and some protected natural spaces have become political footballs. Bears Ears National Monument, in southeastern Utah, was signed into being by President Barack Obama before he left office. One year later, President Donald Trump reduced Bears Ears by 85 percent, from 1.4 million acres to just over 200,000. This move left archaeological and sacred sites at the mercy of mining operations and motor vehicles. And while it is likely to be reversed by the Biden administration, possibly quite soon, it augurs poorly for the future.

Although the Department of the Interior will soon benefit from the leadership of Deb Haaland, who recently became the first Native American Cabinet secretary, it has typically lacked for innovation in recent years. As Jeff Ruch, a director of the nonprofit Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility, has written, “most parks merely ‘Xerox forward’ old plans, adjusting as they go.” Most of this is done without fresh thinking on conservation, development, and access.

National parks are withering as a result of overcrowding, habitat loss, and what Ruch calls a “science deficit.” Even as attendance has increased, park staff has been shrinking, as has the influence of scientists within the Park Service. Ruch’s assessment doesn’t make the Park Service sound like the protective arm of a powerful government safeguarding its “best idea.”

Parks, as they’ve existed for 149 years, have done a decent job of preserving the past. But it’s not clear that today’s model of care and custodianship best meets the needs of the land, Native people, or the general public. Nor is it clear that the current system will adequately ensure the parks’ future. That’s something Indians are good at: pushing ahead while bringing the past along with us. We may be able to chart a better way forward.

photo of the Rattler family’s ranch on the Blackfeet Reservation
The Rattler family’s ranch on the Blackfeet Reservation, looking out onto the mountains of Glacier National Park
All 85 million acres of national-park sites should be turned over to a consortium of federally recognized tribes in the United States. (A few areas run by the National Park Service, such as the National Mall, would be excepted.) The total acreage would not quite make up for the General Allotment Act, which robbed us of 90 million acres, but it would ensure that we have unfettered access to our tribal homelands. And it would restore dignity that was rightfully ours. To be entrusted with the stewardship of America’s most precious landscapes would be a deeply meaningful form of restitution. Alongside the feelings of awe that Americans experience while contemplating the god-rock of Yosemite and other places like it, we could take inspiration in having done right by one another.

Placing these lands under collective Native control would be good not just for Natives, but for the parks as well. In addition to our deep and abiding reverence for wild spaces, tribes have a long history of administering to widely dispersed holdings and dealing with layers of bureaucracy. Many reservations are checkerboarded: Large parcels of reservation land are scattered and separated from one another. And much of the land within reservation boundaries is owned by a number of different interests—private, nontribal citizens; corporations; states; the federal government—that tribal leadership balances and accommodates. Through hard practice—and in the face of centuries of legal, political, and physical struggle—Indian communities have become adept at the art of governance. And tribes have a hard-earned understanding of the ways in which land empowers the people it sustains.

Transferring the parks to the tribes would protect them from partisan back-and-forth in Washington. And the transfer should be subject to binding covenants guaranteeing a standard of conservation that is at least as stringent as what the park system enforces today, so that the parks’ ecological health would be preserved—and improved—long into the future. The federal government should continue to offer some financial support for park maintenance, in order to keep fees low for visitors, and the tribes would continue to allow universal access to the parks in perpetuity. Bikers and toddlers, Instagram models and Tony Hawk—all would be welcome. We would govern these beautiful places for ourselves, but also for all Americans.

There is precedent for this kind of transfer. The indigenous peoples of Australia and New Zealand now control some of those countries’ most significant natural landmarks. For instance: Uluru, previously called Ayers Rock, was transferred to the Anangu decades ago. Thanks to legislation passed in 1976, nearly half of the Northern Territory of Australia has been returned to Aboriginal peoples. In 2017, New Zealand’s Māori were granted a greater role in the conservation of the Whanganui River, on New Zealand’s North Island. The public is still free to visit as before, but the Māori now have more oversight of the use of the river.

There is a precedent for this kind of transfer in America, too. In 1880, France began work on the Panama Canal, which the United States took over in 1904. Theodore Roosevelt (he keeps coming up) wanted to see it through, and so he worked out a deal with Panamanian nationalists, whereby the U.S. would receive the canal in exchange for help overthrowing the Colombian government. But in 1977, President Jimmy Carter and General Omar Torrijos of Panama signed an agreement that outlined the transfer of control of the canal to Panama. The canal was jointly managed by the two countries until 1999, when control reverted fully and finally to Panama. It doesn’t happen often, but the United States has given things back.

In 1914, the historian Frederick Jackson Turner argued that American democracy was forged on the frontier. It was there that the uniquely American mixture of egalitarianism, self-reliance, and individualism commingled to form the nation and its character. “American democracy,” he said, “was born of no theorist’s dream … It came out of the American forest, and it gained new strength each time it touched a new frontier.”


Turner was almost right. It wasn’t the frontier that made us as much as the land itself, land that has always been Native land but that has also come to be American. The national parks are the closest thing America has to sacred lands, and like the frontier of old, they can help forge our democracy anew. More than just America’s “best idea,” the parks are the best of America, the jewels of its landscape. It’s time they were returned to America’s original peoples.

David Treuer is the author of The Heartbeat of Wounded Knee: Native America From 1890 to the Present.




谁拥有美国的荒野？
将国家公园归还给各部落
美国景观的瑰宝应该属于美国的原住民。

作者：David Treuer
摄影：Katy Grannan
2021年5月号
分享
绿色和蓝色圆圈下的山峰图
编者注：本文是一个新系列的一部分，名为 "谁拥有美国的荒野？"

这篇文章于2021年4月12日在线发表。

I. 肮脏生意的最终结果
1851年，一个名为马里波萨营的加利福尼亚州民兵成员成为第一批进入优胜美地山谷的白人。这支队伍主要由矿工组成。他们在搜索塞拉山脉的西坡时，偶然发现了这个被原住民长期称为 "有缺口的地方 "的花岗岩山谷。拉斐特-布内尔（Lafayette Bunnell）是一名隶属于民兵的医生，他发现自己被震慑了。"他后来写道："除了那些访问过这个最美妙的山谷的人之外，没有人能够想象我看风景时的感受。"一种奇特的崇高感觉似乎充满了我的整个生命，我发现我的眼睛在流泪。" 在过去的170年里，许多追随布内尔脚步的人，在默塞德河边散步或凝视埃尔卡皮坦的神岩时，也同样被这种感觉所震撼，即他们是在神的面前。


马里波萨营来到优胜美地是为了杀死印第安人。优胜美地的米沃克部落，像加州的许多原住民一样，正在阻挠淘金热带来的疯狂开采。不管布内尔对自然界有什么美好的情感，他对这些 "过度生长的恶毒孩子 "的蔑视是显而易见的。

任何试图治理或文明化他们的行为，如果没有迫使他们服从的力量，都会被野蛮人嘲笑......野蛮人天生就是虚荣、残忍和傲慢的。他吹嘘自己的谋杀和抢劫，以及对受害者的折磨，就像他讲述自己在战斗中的英勇事迹一样。
当马里波萨营的大约200人带着步枪开进优胜美地时，他们没有发现渴望战斗的米沃克人。当米沃克人躲藏起来时，民兵们试图通过烧毁他们的食物储备来使他们屈服，使山谷的空气中弥漫着焦糊的橡子的味道。在一个特别血腥的日子里，一些人来到山谷外一个有人居住的村庄，让那里的米沃克人感到惊讶。他们用部落自己篝火的余烬点燃了假山，并在村民逃跑时向他们胡乱开枪，杀死了23人。当民兵的行动结束时，许多幸存的米沃克人已被赶出优胜美地--他们几千年来的家园，并被迫进入保留地。

39年后，优胜美地成为第五个国家公园。(1872年获得该地位的黄石公园是第一个。)这些公园旨在成为天然的大教堂：受保护的景观，人们可以在那里崇拜崇高的事物。它们为美国人提供了回望一个没有人类或技术的世界的快感。许多人访问它们是为了寻找存在于我们之外的东西，体验一种令人敬畏的规模感，思考我们的渺小和短暂性。正是由于这个原因，现代保护主义之父约翰-穆尔主张创建公园。

摘自1897年8月的期刊。约翰-缪尔的 "美国森林"

一个多世纪以前，在这本杂志的页面上，穆尔将整个美洲大陆描述为一个野生花园，"在全球所有其他野生公园和花园中都是最受欢迎的"。但事实上，北美大陆至少有15000年没有成为荒野了。许多成为国家公园的景观已经被原住民塑造了数千年之久。东部沿海地区的森林在白人定居者看来是很丰富的，因为美国印第安人战略性地烧毁了这些森林，以增加驼鹿和林地驯鹿的饲料量。优胜美地山谷的崇高景观同样是由原住民打理的；为米沃克人提供食物的橡子来自该部落长期栽培的黑橡树。美国的原始荒野--一个未被人类触及、没有罪恶的伊甸园--的想法是一种幻觉。

四代Schildt妇女在他们位于布莱克菲特保留地的一块神圣的药石前的照片
斯基尔特家族的四代妇女在他们位于布莱克菲特保留地的财产上的一块神圣的药石上，背景是冰川国家公园。本文所附的照片是黑费特民族成员和他们周围土地的肖像。这些照片是3月份在蒙大拿州的布莱克菲特保留地和冰川国家公园拍摄的，为期两周。布莱克菲特人的家园曾经包括落基山脉的一部分和后来的公园，之后该部落被剥夺了土地。
国家公园有时被称为 "美国最好的想法"，而且有很多值得推荐的地方。它们确实是令人敬畏的地方，值得尊敬和保护，像我这样的美国原住民会第一个告诉你。但是，所有这些地方都建立在曾经属于我们的土地上，而且许多地方是在我们被强行赶走之后才建立的，有时是被入侵的军队赶走，有时是在我们被胁迫的情况下签署条约之后。奥格拉拉-拉科塔精神领袖布莱克（Black Elk）在描述公园和美国原住民保留地的同时创建时，暗暗指出，美国 "为我们制造了一些小岛，为四肢发达的人制造了另一些小岛，而且这些小岛总是在变小。"

许多使这些岛屿得以建立的谈判是在英语中进行的（对部落不利），在部落面临毁灭或因疾病或饥饿而变得虚弱时进行的（对部落不利），或在政府方面缺乏诚信时进行的（对部落不利）。根据美国宪法，这些条约是 "国家的最高法律"。然而，尽管条约的条款很残酷，但很少有人遵守。美国原住民的要求和权利被忽视或被削弱了。

美国关于 "印第安人 "的故事是一个令人震惊的损失。一些估计认为，在第一次接触时，后来成为美国毗连区的原住民人口在500万到1500万之间。到1890年，大约在美国开始认真创建国家公园的时候，大约有25万土著人仍然活着。1491年，原住民控制了后来成为美国的所有24亿英亩土地。现在，我们控制了大约5600万英亩，或大约2%。

阅读。布莱克菲特人的人才流失

然而，我们仍然存在，我们中的一些人顽强地呆在公园附近，保留着我们对它们的依恋。大峡谷国家公园包围了哈瓦苏派部落的大部分地区及其保留地。Pipe Spring国家纪念碑完全位于亚利桑那州北部12万英亩的Kaibab Paiute印第安人保留地内。许多其他公园与土著社区相邻。但是，虽然这些公园可能离我们很近，也属于我们，但它们并不属于我们。

我们生活在一个重新考虑历史的时代，因为越来越多的人认识到，过去的罪恶仍然困扰着现在。对于美国原住民来说，对于土地的盗窃，没有比土地更好的补救办法了。而对我们来说，没有土地像国家公园那样具有精神意义。它们应该归还给我们。印第安人应该再次保护这些受宠的花园，并加以保护和保存。

相关播客。实验
收听和订阅。苹果播客｜Spotify｜Stitcher｜谷歌播客


奥吉布韦作家和历史学家大卫-特雷尔说，我们可以通过把国家公园还给美国原住民，使 "美国最好的想法 "变得更好。
2020年7月，我进行了一次 "谷仓风暴 "之旅。我想用新的眼光来看待公园系统，为它想象一个新的未来。我曾计划参观各种地方--大峡谷、优胜美地、大烟山国家公园--但冠状病毒大流行的干扰。

一些公园完全关闭，而其他公园（如黄石公园）关闭了露营地、文化中心和博物馆。最后，我开车从明尼苏达州出发，穿过北达科他州、蒙大拿州、怀俄明州、爱达荷州和俄勒冈州，沿着加利福尼亚的脊梁走了一遍。然后我转身开车回来。我参观了西奥多-罗斯福国家公园、小比格恩战场、黄石公园、大提顿公园、胡德山国家森林公园、国王峡谷、死亡谷和约书亚树。

杂志封面图片
探索2021年5月号
查看本期的更多内容，并寻找你的下一个故事来阅读。

查看更多
道路上比往常安静，尽管天空有时会因为西海岸迸发的火焰而变得朦胧。我睡在露营地，睡在朋友后院的帐篷里，很少睡在酒店或汽车旅馆里。我在汽车后备箱和野餐桌上，在烈日下和暴雨中做饭。我与浣熊和松鼠搏斗。

比起我去过的任何其他地方，黄石公园似乎包含了美国的许多人。在那里，我看到了麋鹿和野牛。我看到了足够多的休闲车，可以容纳这个国家很大一部分的无家可归者。我看到了湖水、河水、黑水、沼泽水和泡沫状的瀑布水。我看到托尼-霍克在猛犸热泉上方的长板上滑下后被两名公园管理员拦住，而一只真正的鹰在他上方盘旋。我看到Instagram上穿着小比基尼的模特在漠不关心的野牛面前摆姿势。我看到了骑自行车的团伙（他们似乎真的很喜欢公园）和蹒跚学步的孩子们（他们似乎不喜欢任何东西）的团伙。我看到了游客，戴面具的和不戴面具的。我看到了标语牌和展示。我发现在黄石公园你可以学到很多关于自然的知识，也许更多的是关于美国文化。但公园的官方说明最多只能让你对其人类历史有一个有限的了解。


黄石国家公园是在美国诞生约100年后创建的。1806年，作为刘易斯和克拉克发现之旅的一部分，一支探险队正好经过今天公园的北部。后来，发现团成员之一的约翰-科尔特加入了毛皮贸易，据说他成为第一个看到公园景色的非土著人。当然，原住民已经在那里生活了几千年，在科尔特在该地区设置陷阱的时候，他们仍然声称黄石公园是他们的家园。

科尔特在19世纪初穿越黄石公园地区和泰顿山脉，寻找毛皮。无论他走到哪里，他都与美国原住民发生了致命的冲突，最终他在布莱克菲特人的手中受伤。他在一堆浮木下躲避部落，然后走了一个星期才到达安全地带。在接下来的60年里，像他这样的捕猎者将后来的黄石公园描述为一个充满泥浆间歇泉、酸液池和石化树的地区。

直到1869年，第一支官方探险队才对该地区进行探索，并证实了山地人的说法。此后，事情进展迅速。1871年，费迪南德-海登（Ferdinand V. Hayden）领导了一个由政府资助的黄石公园调查，该调查报告中包含了专业素描和照片。根据这份报告，尤利西斯-格兰特总统签署了1872年的《黄石公园法》，该法创造了美国第一个 "保留并从定居、占用或出售中撤出的景观......并作为公共公园或娱乐场地专用，供人们受益和享受。"

左图：贾德-希瑟-欣曼和她七个孩子中的五个的照片；右图：布莱克菲特保留地的失望营的纪念方尖碑的照片
左图：当地小企业主Jade-Heather Hinman与她七个孩子中的五个在失望营的甜草山上的照片。右图。失望营的纪念方尖碑，位于布莱克菲特保留地，由刘易斯和克拉克远征队到达其最北端时命名。
格兰特的声明使肖肖尼族、班诺克族和其他几个世纪以来一直以该公园为家的民族成为闯入者。部落在离开时的理解是，他们将保留在公园里的狩猎权，这一点在1868年的条约中得到保证。然而，在本世纪结束之前，政府已经背弃了这一承诺。这种通过破坏条约来偷窃的策略将成为公园的一个模式。


当黄石公园建立时，公园边界周围的平原战争正在肆虐。就好像政府在杀人的过程中停顿下来，在受害者的后院种树一样。达科他战争爆发于10年前，就在大平原的东部。战争结束时，数十名达科他人被绞死，1600多名妇女、儿童和长者被送往斯奈林堡的集中营。最终，东达科他人和美国政府之间的所有条约都被 "废除和废止 "了。

阅读："杀死每一头水牛，你可以！"。每一头水牛的死亡都是一个印第安人的消失

1864年，在平原的另一边，在科罗拉多地区的桑德克里克，约翰-奇文顿上校屠杀和残害了多达500名美洲原住民。1868年，就在黄石公园建立的四年前，美国原住民在红云的带领下，与美国政府打得难解难分，然后在条约桌上迫使美国人做出让步，尽管这些让步最终也没有达成。

从历史的角度来看，黄石公园是一个犯罪现场。
1877年，战争来到了黄石公园本身。约瑟夫酋长的内兹佩尔塞族人被关在瓦洛瓦山谷的家园之外，开始了长达1500英里的旅程，最终在加拿大边境以南的地方向美国军队投降。内兹佩奇人在路上尽力避开白人。但是，1877年8月，他们在大洞河畔遭到了约翰-吉本上校指挥的士兵的袭击。吉本的人在黎明时分步行接近营地，在前进过程中杀死了一个人。然后，他们开始向正在睡觉的尼兹佩尔塞人的帐篷开火，杀死了男人、妇女和儿童。内兹佩尔塞人进行了反击。他们的战士将吉本的士兵压制住了，而其他人则逃跑了。虽然他们自卫得很好，但他们至少损失了60人。

从这些死亡中恢复过来的内兹佩尔塞人进入了黄石公园，在那里他们遇到了来自蒙大拿州拉德斯堡的游客，他们正在享受以印第安人为代价创造的 "娱乐场"。内兹佩尔塞人短暂地挟持了这些游客，然后释放了他们，但在本月晚些时候又在公园里杀死了两名游客。

穿过公园向东走，该部落在一个仍然被称为内兹佩尔塞人的地方渡过了黄石河。在他们过河的时候，一位老年妇女离开了主队，在一个被称为泥火山的地方停留下来。她坐在间歇泉附近的一件野牛袍上唱歌。当一名美国侦察员走近她时，她闭上了眼睛。"侦察员约翰-W-雷丁顿（John W. Redington）写道："她似乎相当失望，我没有向她开枪，而是给她的水壶加水。她做出了被她的族人抛弃的迹象，并且想死。" 十分钟后，军队的一名班诺克侦察员将她击倒并剥了她的头皮。143年后，我的儿子、女儿和我将站在同一个地方，想知道为什么公园里很少有地方可以让你了解它的血腥历史。从历史的角度来看，黄石公园是一个犯罪现场。

美国的国家公园只占从美国原住民那里偷来的土地的一小部分，但它们在我们被剥夺的更广泛的故事中显得非常重要。大多数主要的国家公园都在美国西部。由于1830年的《印第安人迁移法》，大多数美国原住民部落也是如此，该法试图将密西西比河以东的所有部落驱逐到当时的印第安人地区。保留期同样开始于19世纪中期，大部分是在西部地区。

来自2020年5月号。从 "眼泪之路 "中获利的人

即使在我们被贬到保留地之后，背叛仍在继续。从1887年开始，《道斯法案》（又称《普遍分配法》）将大部分保留地分割成小块土地，授予印第安人个人，而 "剩余 "的公共土地则开放给白人定居。印第安事务专员托马斯-摩根在1890年直言不讳地说，当时联邦政策的目标是 "打破保留地，破坏部落关系，将印第安人安置在他们自己的家园，将他们纳入国家生活，不把他们当作民族、部落或部落，而是当作个别公民来对待。" 这场土地掠夺至少又让部落损失了9000万英亩的土地--大致相当于美国423个国家公园所在地的8500万英亩。

在黄石公园建立后，印第安人被赶走，在某些情况下被排除在其空间之外，其他地方也发生了同样的情况，甚至更糟。居住在蒙大拿州西北部和阿尔伯塔州南部的布莱克菲特人，长期以来一直认为落基山脉是他们的精神和物质家园。他们做梦也想不到会在条约桌上割让它，但在19世纪80年代和90年代，他们被迫与美国政府进行谈判。一连串的流行病、季节性的饥饿，以及贪得无厌的美国人一心想把他们的家园开放给木材和矿产开采，使黑费特人的力量受到削弱，他们不得不做出一个又一个的让步。有些年，他们不得不放弃土地，只是为了确保有足够的资源来支撑到下一个冬天。

在一个导致多达600名布莱克菲特人死亡的严冬之后不久，该部落签下了将成为冰川国家公园的土地。这笔交易是由纽约奥杜邦协会的自然学家创始人乔治-伯德-格林内尔促成的。格林内尔曾在1874年与乔治-阿姆斯特朗-卡斯特一起远征黑山，寻找黄金。这次旅行直接违反了保证布莱克山将继续由土著人控制的条约。格林奈尔经常被称为 "印第安人的朋友"，但他曾写道，土著人有 "成年人的身体里有孩子的思想"。1911年，在国会批准建立冰川的一年后，蒙大拿州将公园的管辖权让给了美国政府。

阅读：美国的国家公园值多少钱？

许多公园的存在得益于像这样的抢劫。威斯康星州的阿波斯特尔群岛国家湖岸是在奥吉布韦人的家园中建立的；当大峡谷国家公园建立时，哈瓦苏派人失去了他们的大部分土地；华盛顿州奥林匹克国家公园的建立阻止了奎诺特部落成员在其边界内行使他们的条约权利；大沼泽地国家公园是在塞米诺尔人的土地上建立的，该部落依赖这些土地获取食物。这样的例子不胜枚举。

圣玛丽湖和冰川国家公园内的周围山脉的照片
圣玛丽湖和冰川国家公园内的周边山脉
我从明尼苏达州利奇湖保留地的家中出发，开始了我的美国国家公园之旅，这里位于北美寒带森林的南部边缘。这片森林是世界上最大的林地之一。它从阿留申群岛一直延伸到纽芬兰岛，从哈德逊湾的南部边缘附近延伸到明尼苏达州、威斯康星州和密歇根州北部。当我向西前往北达科他州的西奥多-罗斯福国家公园时，泰加林让位给明尼苏达州底特律湖附近的草原和橡树草原。当我越过红河时，我已经完全离开了森林。我感觉到土地在下降，向西看去，我想我可以看到大平原开始的地平线。

小时候，我曾陪同父亲出差，穿过其中一些相同的风景区。在车上，他讲述了我们这个地区的历史，大多没有什么感情色彩。"1862年达科他战争结束后，小乌鸦酋长为了躲避军队的追捕而逃到这里。我们会经过许多小镇--霍利、山谷市、麦地那、斯蒂尔--这些小镇似乎很令人愉快，直到我父亲为我毁了它们。它们的平静和秩序，它们的小房子和整齐的院子，它们的组织所反映的新教伦理--所有这些都让我感到愤怒，因为这些城镇中的每一个都是以我们为代价存在的。

北达科他州的梅多拉，是通往西奥多-罗斯福国家公园的南部门户。(莫雷侯爵以他妻子梅多拉-冯-霍夫曼的名字命名了这个小镇，尽管当你考虑到他建立这个小镇是为了屠宰牛群在东部市场出售时，这种浪漫的姿态就会受到影响）。今天的梅多拉是对一个从未发生过的时代的幻想。这里有一尊罗斯福的雕像和一个 "粗野骑士 "旅馆，在夏季，还有梅多拉音乐剧。该剧的网站说得很清楚，它承诺 "在整个中西部地区，这是最有根基的、最棒的表演。没有其他演出能与之媲美。它是对爱国主义、西奥多-罗斯福和美国大西部的颂歌！" 当我在那里时，它是对COVID-19的颂歌：据便利店的一名店员说，一名演员正在舞台上传播病毒。

我想从西奥多-罗斯福开始我的旅程，因为没有人像第26任总统那样体现了公园系统目前构成的张力。在罗斯福的身上，包含着对自然景观的狂热热爱和暴力帝国主义的倾向；对自由的压倒性渴望和从他人手中夺走自由的准备。以他的名字命名的公园大部分存在于曼丹、希达萨和阿里卡拉（MHA）的土地之上。1851年，随着第一份《拉腊米堡条约》的签署，曼丹人失去了这片土地。1870年和1880年的行政命令夺取了更多的部落的家园。

1883年，罗斯福去达科他地区猎取野牛。1884年，当他回到纽约的家中时，他的妻子生下了他们的女儿爱丽丝，但医生不知道，他的妻子患有肾脏疾病，并在当年的情人节去世。泰迪的母亲也在同一天死在同一所房子里。罗斯福在日记中画了一个大大的X后，写道："我的生命之光已经消失了"。他回到西部，在梅多拉郊外建了一个牧场，打算让大自然抚慰他。他在那里没有坚持多久，西部从来没有成为他永久的家，但它在他身上留下了印记，而他反过来也在西部留下了印记。

摘自1906年5月的期刊。与西奥多-罗斯福总统一起露营

罗斯福熟悉美国原住民，他在达科他州时曾与他们交流过。他在1886年的一次演讲中说："最凶恶的牛仔比一般的印第安人有更多的道德原则，"在这次演讲中，他还著名地宣称。"我不至于认为唯一好的印第安人是死去的印第安人，但我相信每10个中有9个是好的，我不愿意太仔细询问第10个的情况。"

罗斯福对印第安人的态度体现在他对阿帕奇族领袖杰罗尼莫的处理上。杰罗尼莫出生于1829年，他生命中的前三十年都生活在他的阿帕奇人家园的和平与安全中，即现在的新墨西哥和亚利桑那州。在19世纪下半叶，他因与美国和墨西哥政府作战，试图保护他的部落在西南地区的一块土地而扬名国际。

1858年，也就是罗斯福出生的那一年，格罗尼莫加入了一个离开莫格隆山脉并进入墨西哥的大型贸易队伍。当他在镇上做生意时，他的队伍在营地遭到袭击并被屠杀。死者中包括杰罗尼莫的妻子、母亲和三个小孩。他后来回忆说："我没有祈祷，也没有决心做任何特别的事情，因为我已经没有目标了。正如吉尔伯特-金在《史密森尼》杂志上所叙述的那样，对他来说，生活从和平变成了一种永久的战争状态，直到1886年他被美军俘虏时才结束，当时罗斯福正在达科他地区服丧。

美国西部以战争开始，但以公园结束。
杰罗尼莫被运往东部，在囚禁中度过了他的余生，他的部落的土地也被削去了。大约在同一时间，原住民儿童也被运离他们的家园，送到政府资助的寄宿学校--远离他们的家庭和文化，以便使他们成为主流。上学有时是法律规定的，有时是强迫的，但很少是严格自愿的。因为说自己的语言，孩子们有时会被殴打，或者把肥皂塞进他们的嘴里。在被送往宾夕法尼亚州卡莱尔印第安人工业学校的112名阿帕奇儿童中，有36人死亡--其中大部分可能死于肺结核，并被埋在那里。

来自2020年10月号。"我的工业工作"，这是卡莱尔印第安人工业学校的一位匿名学生在1914年写的一首诗

就他而言，杰罗尼莫确实偶尔会出来（在警卫的保护下），包括1904年在圣路易斯世界博览会上作为 "阿帕奇村 "的一部分，在那里他被安排扮演野蛮人的角色。1905年，他和其他土著领导人被邀请参加罗斯福的就职游行。这是一个部落领导的名人，包括昆那-帕克（科曼奇人）、巴克金-查理（尤特人）、空角熊（布鲁雷-拉科塔人）、美国马（奥格拉拉-拉科塔人）和小翎（皮根-布莱克费特人）。他们在宾夕法尼亚大道上骑着马，穿着与他们各自部落传统不完全一致的礼服。美国喜欢并仍然喜欢它的印第安人的功能与它的自然界很相似：冻结在时间中；在历史之外；是人类和文明的对立面，或者最多就是外部极限。

杰罗尼莫事后与罗斯福会面。"把绳子从我们手上拿开，"他乞求道，绝望地呼吁允许他和其他阿帕奇族囚犯一起回到他的家乡。罗斯福拒绝了，并告诉他："你杀了我的许多人；你烧毁了村庄。" 杰罗尼莫开始打手势和大喊，但被打断了。四年后，他在俄克拉荷马州西尔堡的囚禁中死去。

1903年，罗斯福让自己被吸引回西部。那年4月，他开始了长达14000英里的火车旅行，在9周内穿越了24个州和地区。他去了黄石公园、大峡谷和加利福尼亚，在那里他和约翰-缪尔一起享受了三晚的露营之旅。

四张档案照片。红云；约瑟夫酋长；杰罗尼莫；签署土地的人
左上角。红云（坐于中间）和其他美国原住民领导人于1875年访问了尤利西斯-格兰特总统，但未能说服他履行现有的条约。右上图。内兹佩尔塞族的约瑟夫酋长，约1900年。
左下图。1904年，圣路易斯世界博览会上的杰罗尼莫。右下图。乔治-吉列特（左），伯索尔德堡印第安部落商业委员会主席，在北达科他州伯索尔德堡保留地的15万英亩土地被签署用于加里森大坝和水库项目时流泪。(Bettmann / Getty; De Lancey Gill / Library of Congress; The Gerhard Sisters / Library of Congress; William Chaplis / AP)
一路上，罗斯福发表了演讲--在大峡谷；在黄石，他为罗斯福拱门奠定了基石；在圣克鲁斯的一些红木附近。他对大自然的威严说了很多。关于大峡谷。"我想请你为了你自己的利益和国家的利益做一件事--保持这个伟大的自然奇迹现在的样子......我希望你不要有任何形式的建筑，不要有避暑山庄、旅馆或其他东西，来破坏峡谷的美妙壮观、崇高、伟大的孤独和美丽。" 还有黄石公园。"据我所知，黄石公园是世界上绝对独一无二的东西......它的保护计划在本质上是值得注意的民主......这个公园的建立和现在的管理是为了人民的利益和享受。"

罗斯福将他的激情转化为政策。在他任职期间，他创建了150个国家森林、18个国家纪念碑、5个国家公园、4个国家狩猎保护区和51个鸟类 "保留地"。

与杰罗尼莫一样，罗斯福也是在一个关键的50年里长大的，当时美国的领土呈现出其最后的规模。土著部落与美国政府之间的最后一次重大武装冲突在伤膝溪结束，多达300名男子、妇女和儿童被斑点麋鹿的米尼康朱乐队屠杀。边疆被一直推到太平洋，然后就没有了，美国真正的野生空间--"文明 "怀抱之外的土地--被吞噬了。

美国西部以战争开始，但以公园结束。

西部扩张时期的部落边界地图，显示了今天的保留地和国家公园
美国地图的图例，显示了欧洲人之前的部落边界、目前的国家公园和目前的保留地。
A. L. Kroeber，北美原住民的文化和自然区域；《大英百科全书》；印第安事务局
这张地图不是描述一个时间点（例如，"这是哥伦布到达美洲之前的部落边界"），而是近似于欧洲定居者在穿越边境时记录的部落边界--地图的西半部分描述的是比东半部分晚的时期。
II. 部落和公园的未来
MHA民族就生活在西奥多-罗斯福国家公园的北部和东部，但与麦多拉及其周边地区的人们相比，他们所处的环境截然不同。一次又一次，MHA的保留地被联邦法令和剥削性的交易减少--从1200多万英亩减少到不到100万英亩。这种剥夺行为一直持续到20世纪。在20世纪40年代和50年代在密苏里河上建造加里森大坝和水库的过程中，多达80%的保留地人口被迫迁离肥沃的河底，几个世纪以来，河底给了他们生命，并将他们作为一个民族。

在19世纪60年代，早在大坝建成之前，MHA主要居住在一个叫Like-a-Fishhook村的地方，MHA正在建设的新文化中心的收藏经理Royce Young Wolf告诉我。"她说："现在都在湖下，被淹没了。我们站在公园内的Oxbow Overlook，俯视着小密苏里河，它懒洋洋地绕过数英亩的木棉树和草丛。"他们是自给自足的，"她说。"每个村庄都有自己的花园。许多家庭都有神圣的包袱保管员。大坝的规划没有与MHA民族进行任何有意义的协商；在陆军工程兵团以征用土地为由威胁要没收它所需要的土地后，部落没有什么选择，只能来到谈判桌前，最终割让领土。到1949年，他们在被征用的15万多英亩土地上只得到了总额为1260万美元的补偿。

"他们把我们从水源充足的地方转移到没有水源的地方，"杨-沃尔夫说。"我们的河底是整个州最肥沃的地方......但当我们被淹没时，我们被转移到土壤贫瘠和没有水的地方，我们无法维持大型花园。" 部落使用水库岸边土地的权利--打猎、捕鱼或采集植物--被拒绝了。

近年来，MHA一直处于快速、暴力和有利可图的压裂企业的控制之下。当我从公园向北行驶时，我看到了土地上的伤痕--管道、天然气喷口和压裂垫点缀在山丘上。2014年，前部落主席特克斯-霍尔（Tex Hall）向部落承诺 "以桶为单位的主权"，他没有错：部落比他们在第一份《拉莱米堡条约》签订之前更加富有。但是，通过鼓励和促进石油开采，他们使自己与自己的文化传统和与土地的联系相抵触。

像MHA这样的美国原住民国家正处于一个困难的境地。他们的家庭、社区、土地和生活方式受到了国家支持的攻击。他们的传统政治结构和机构在印第安人事务局的家长式管理下受到影响，该局以托管的方式控制着原住民的土地。

4张照片。Violet M. Schildt; Talissa, Aariah, and McKennzi Wagner; Doug Fitzgerald; Michael Fast Buffalo Horse
左上。图为85岁的维奥莱特-M-希尔德在她家位于布莱克费特保留地的财产上。右上图。塔利萨、阿里亚和麦肯齐-瓦格纳（从左到右）站在将冰川国家公园与黑费特保留地分开的分水岭山前。布莱克菲特民族的成员，阿里亚（12岁）和麦肯齐（14岁）是姐妹；塔利莎（11岁）是她们的表妹。
左下角。道格-菲茨杰拉德在他祖父位于黑费特保留地的牧场上。右下角。 迈克尔-快水牛马，一位传统艺术家和歌手，在失望营。
一方面，我们是主权国家，有自己的法律和执法、法院和市政基础设施，所有这些都来自我们设法保留的那些权利。与流行的神话相反，无论是赌场还是赌博的权利，都不是作为一种怜悯的支付或对欠我们的债务的承认而 "给予 "部落的。赌场业是白人出现之前我们拥有的赌博公民权利的现代表达，我们保留了这项权利，并且得到了最高法院的肯定。

阅读。帮助美国原住民的一种方式。财产权利

另一方面，由于没有强大的税收基础或很多商业活动--采掘业、赌场赌博和免税香烟销售是明显的例外，我们在教育、医疗保健、基础设施和我们的持续生存方面依赖联邦支持。用首席大法官约翰-马歇尔的话说，我们是 "国内的依赖国"，因此生活在持续的紧张中。

美国人已经逐渐同化了我们的文化、我们的世界观以及我们与自然的联系模式。
马尔代夫人有他们的挣扎--失业、药物滥用、与石油和天然气工业的破坏性婚姻，以及美国政府造成的代际创伤。但是，部落远不止是他们的麻烦的总和。MHA对他们的遗产和文化也有强烈的保护意识。他们正在建造的文化中心是一个最先进的设施，为这些理想服务。

MHA解说中心位于陆军工程兵部队的土地上，因为那片土地靠近河流，而河流对MHA的历史至关重要，解说中心主任Delphine Baker告诉我。她一下子就被我认出来了，她是那种凶狠的、不苟言笑的土著大妈。政府官员不想让部落拥有那片土地，她说得很实在--部落现在持有的是租约，因为担心部落会控制娱乐权，不允许非部落成员进入。"部落从来没有对阻止进入感兴趣。但是，你知道，那是一种恐惧。"

推荐阅读

1491
查理斯-C-曼恩
印第安人的领土
Theodora R. Jenness
西班牙宗教裁判所期间为被判刑的异教徒举行的自祭仪式
西班牙宗教裁判所的基因遗产
SARAH ZHANG
该设施非常漂亮--俯冲的堤岸和弯曲的步行道反映了MHA部落地区连绵的山丘和草原。里面有一个土屋的部分复制品，这是三个部落的传统住所，还有讲述MHA故事的画廊空间。解说中心将成为数百，甚至数千件多年来从各部落取得的文物的家。而且，它将不仅仅是一种展示和讲述的努力。该中心将在一个屋顶花园里种植传统植物。一个咖啡馆将提供传统食品。有一个录音室用于保存部落语言，还有一个研究空间，部落成员将能够追溯他们的血统。对于这么多因联邦干预而与部落分离的原住民来说，重新建立联系是该中心可以提供的一项重要服务。称这是一个解释中心并不完全正确。它更像是一个文化母舰。

"如果你失去了你的文化，你就失去了你的主权和部落，"贝克告诉我。"而这正是我们要对抗的。"

这并不是第一次这样的斗争。在早期的保留地时期，那是一个困难和分裂的时期，当时Like-a-Fishhook村的人正在努力找出一种新的生活方式，一个分裂的团体想以旧的公共方式进行狩猎和园艺。因此，他们离开了，搬迁到保留地之外，在上游约120英里处。"那个群体被称为Xoshga，他们由Crow Flies High和Bobtail Bull领导，"Young Wolf告诉我。"当他们分开时，他们采取了反对同化和基督教的立场。他们在外面呆了20多年"。他们恢复了仪式、歌曲和舞蹈。他们保存了当地植物的知识。杨狼说，在他们离开的时候，Like-a-Fishhook村的社区因被分割成小块土地而受到影响。但Xoshga人 "在他们离开的时候保持了我们的传统安全。也正是因为他们，我们才有了今天的许多传统"。

1894年，政府强迫Xoshga人回到保留地。年轻的狼告诉我，起初他们受到了许多留下来的MHA成员的恶劣对待。他们被视为落后和野蛮的人。但现在，成为Xoshga人就是与土地、传统和抵抗精神相联系。Xoshga人被土地所拯救，而他们对土地的回归也拯救了他们的部落。

Pat Schildt和野牛的照片
帕特-希尔德在他位于黑费特保留地的野牛牧场上
我此行遇到的第一个 "公园人 "是格兰特-盖斯，当时他是西奥多-罗斯福国家公园的首席护林员（他后来退休了）。盖斯身材高大，肩膀宽厚，面容粗犷，手掌大而有力。他从1998年开始在公园工作，当时他是一名季节性雇员。他告诉我，"我一到彩绘峡谷......就爱上了它，"他说，"从那时起，[我]就一直在这里。"

几乎所有与我交谈过的公园管理处的人都用爱这个词来描述公园、美景，以及他们自己作为土地和游客的保护者的角色。根据我的经验，大多数政府雇员在谈及他们的工作时都不会使用这个词。我问盖斯关于泰迪-罗斯福和他的遗产。"他是一个坚定的信念，认为土地有多种用途，但同时又试图为后代保存一些东西，"盖斯回答。"当他具有这种程度的前瞻性思维时，这说明了他的性格。" 他还承认罗斯福的不完美之处，并表示支持公园和邻近部落之间的合作关系。

像罗斯福这样的人的个人缺陷仍然被编入美国的政策中。缺乏获得土地的机会--以及这种机会将赋予的权力的缺乏--是影响许多原住民的社会弊端的基础。但是，至少在某些地方，美国人的态度正在改变。在公园里，政策也在改变，尽管很缓慢，而且是以零散的方式。

当我还是个孩子的时候，我的父母带着我和我的两个兄弟姐妹第一次去西部旅行，在80年代初，我们在西奥多-罗斯福、卡斯特战场（现在的小比格恩）、黄石和大提顿停留。印第安人在标牌上几乎没有被提及，我不记得见过任何原住民护林员，甚至没有感觉到我们是作为美国的过去式以外的东西存在的。但自从1990年通过《美国原住民坟墓保护和归还法》以来，各部落和公园（更不用说博物馆、画廊和私人收藏品）在保护原住民空间和物品的努力中更加紧密。许多部落现在都有历史保护官员，他们与公园一起工作。

土地使用本身在某种程度上也在公园内发生变化。例如，公园管理局已经使原住民更容易为传统目的收获植物，尽管通常他们必须首先提交书面申请。一些公园允许我们在其范围内打猎或捕猎。

4张照片。埃文-汤普森；西马伦-施尔德和她3岁的女儿罗西-罗伯逊；斯特林-霍利-白山；罗伯特-霍尔
左上角。埃文-汤普森在黑费特保留地长大。作为一名律师，他在整个西北地区从事部落主权问题、民事诉讼和一般部落宣传工作。右上方。Simarron Schildt和她3岁的女儿Rosie Robertson，在她家位于Blackfeet保留地的财产上。
左下图。Sterling HolyWhiteMountain，一位大学讲师，致力于保护布莱克菲特本地语言；右下角。罗伯特-霍尔，也积极从事语言保护工作，照片中的双药湖是该部落在冰川国家公园中最神圣的地方之一。
在某些方面，我们是一个原住民复苏的时代。对于我们所遭受的一切，美国仍然有574个联邦承认的部落。当第一批国家公园在19世纪末创建时，美国只剩下大约25万名原住民。现在，全国有500多万美国原住民，大约相当于美国犹太人的数量，比美国穆斯林的数量多出数百万。

我们的生存并不只关系到我们自己。由于同化我们的努力基本上失败了，我们大多留在了我们的家园，美国人逐渐同化了我们的文化、我们的世界观以及我们与自然的联系模式。公园里有很多地方，但它们也强调并优先考虑与土地互动的特殊方式。在国家神话的过去，荒野可能是一个危险的环境，是需要被驯服、被耕种、被砍伐的东西。但是，这种与土地相关的方式已经不再流行了。对许多美国人来说，我们的野生空间是一种慰藉，一种避难所--确实是大教堂。在过去的245年里，美国已经成功地变得更像印第安人，而不是反过来。

我花了几天时间徒步走了西奥多-罗斯福的南区。与黄石公园和优胜美地等更为拥挤的公园不同，罗斯福公园很安静，以至于让人感觉像是一个秘密。我从高高的、红色的、尘土飞扬的山丘开始，经过一系列的冲刷和干涸的河底下山。我敏锐地感觉到，每走一步，我都在往前走多远的时间。山路经过几百万年前的沼泽地的石化树桩，上升到一个长满草的平原，风在草、紫锥花、紫荆花和金丝草中呼啸。我经过了悬崖附近，部落可能曾经在那里漏掉了奔跑的野牛，使它们掉到下面坚硬的土地上。

徒步旅行结束后的第二天，我在粗犷骑士酒店的西奥多餐厅与公园管理员温迪-罗斯共进早餐。我问她，考虑到我们在这块土地上的使用时间较长，而这块土地原本是MHA的部落家园的一部分，原住民是否应该能够以不同于非原住民的方式使用公园。我问，为什么MHA不能在公园里狩猎野牛？罗斯说，这是个滑坡的问题。如果公园允许原住民猎杀野牛，那么北达科他州的其他居民就会大发雷霆，更令人不安的是，狩猎团体在全国范围内开放公园进行体育狩猎的努力将受到极大的鼓励。

"罗斯说："问题是，在全国范围内，"没有任何协议"，因此，有很多混乱之处。"在罗斯福，我已经告诉我所有的工作人员。我们让任何说他们是为仪式或精神目的而来的人进来。" 我毫不怀疑这是真的。罗斯似乎是一个好的领导者，也是居住在罗斯福附近的部落的盟友。她谈到了赔偿，谈到了 "向过去一直使用该地区的人提供你能提供的东西，然后将其扩大到其他原住民"。她一直在参加部落会议。像罗斯这样的总监正在改变公园，以更好地满足原住民的需求，但他们能做的只有这么多。到目前为止，赔偿是部分的、临时的和脆弱的--总是会被推翻的。

原住民需要永久的、不受约束的进入我们的家园，以加强我们和我们的社区，并消除前几个世纪的一些损害。作为原住民，与其说是一种性情，或者说是血管里流淌着一定数量的血液，不如说是一种家庭和部落围绕着它而建立的实践。对于肖肖内-班诺克部落的成员来说，在全食超市买一个野牛汉堡可能会满足他们的热量需求，但能够按照他们的精神和文化习俗猎取和收获野牛，就能养活他们的文化和社区。当我们的土地在我们脚下消失时，原住民的生活就被削弱了，而当我们进入 "公共 "土地的方式由政府规定时，它就被进一步削弱了。

为子孙后代保护这些崇高的地方当然是至关重要的，美国原住民和其他人一样深深理解这一点。但是，暂且不说美国原住民的利益--尽管许多公园员工的努力工作和善意，公园显示出令人担忧的管理不善的迹象。近视的决定似乎越来越多，一些受保护的自然空间已经变成了政治足球。位于犹他州东南部的熊耳国家纪念碑，是由巴拉克-奥巴马总统在离任前签署成立的。一年后，唐纳德-特朗普总统将熊耳山减少了85%，从140万英亩减少到20多万英亩。此举使考古和圣地处于采矿作业和机动车的摆布之下。虽然拜登政府可能很快就会扭转这一局面，但这预示着未来会很糟糕。

尽管内政部不久将受益于Deb Haaland的领导，他最近成为第一个美国原住民内阁部长，但近年来它通常缺乏创新。正如非营利组织 "公共雇员环境责任 "的主任杰夫-鲁克（Jeff Ruch）所写的那样，"大多数公园只是在对旧计划进行'施乐'，边做边调整"。这其中的大部分都是在保护、开发和使用方面没有新的思维。

由于过度拥挤、栖息地丧失以及鲁克所说的 "科学赤字"，国家公园正在枯萎。即使参观人数增加了，公园的工作人员也在缩减，科学家在公园管理局的影响力也在缩减。鲁克的评估并没有使公园管理局听起来像一个强大的政府保护其 "最佳想法 "的保护部门。

公园，因为它们已经存在了149年，在保护过去方面做得很好。但不清楚的是，今天的护理和管理模式是否最符合土地、原住民或公众的需要。也不清楚目前的系统是否能充分保证公园的未来。这正是印第安人所擅长的：在向前推进的同时，将过去的事情带在身边。我们也许能够描绘出一条更好的前进道路。

拉特勒家族在布莱克菲特保留地的牧场的照片
拉特勒家族在布莱克菲特保留地的牧场，向冰川国家公园的山脉望去。
所有8500万英亩的国家公园景点都应该移交给美国联邦承认的部落联合体。(一些由国家公园管理局管理的地区，如国家广场，将被排除在外）。总面积不会完全弥补《普遍分配法》，该法剥夺了我们9000万英亩的土地，但它将确保我们能够不受限制地进入我们的部落家园。而且，它将恢复本应属于我们的尊严。被委托管理美国最珍贵的景观将是一种深具意义的补偿形式。除了美国人在思考优胜美地和其他类似地方的神岩时所经历的敬畏之情外，我们还可以从彼此的善举中得到启发。

将这些土地置于原住民的集体控制之下，不仅对原住民有利，而且对公园也有利。除了我们对野生空间的深刻和持久的敬畏之外，部落在管理广泛分散的财产和处理层层官僚机构方面有很长的历史。许多保留地都是棋盘式的。大片的保留地被分散开来，彼此分离。保留地范围内的大部分土地为一些不同的利益集团所拥有--私人的、非部落的公民；公司；州；联邦政府--部落领导层要平衡和包容这些利益集团。通过艰苦的实践--面对几个世纪的法律、政治和物质斗争--印第安人社区已经成为善于治理的艺术。部落对土地如何赋予它所养育的人以力量的方式有着来之不易的理解。

将公园转让给部落将保护他们不受华盛顿党派的反击。转让应该受制于具有约束力的契约，保证保护标准至少与公园系统今天执行的标准一样严格，这样公园的生态健康就会得到保护，并在未来长期得到改善。联邦政府应继续为公园的维护提供一些财政支持，以保持对游客的低收费，而部落将继续允许永久地普遍进入公园。骑自行车的人和蹒跚学步的人，Instagram上的模特和托尼-霍克，都将受到欢迎。我们将为自己，也为所有美国人管理这些美丽的地方。

这种转让是有先例的。澳大利亚和新西兰的原住民现在控制着这些国家的一些最重要的自然地标。比如说。乌鲁鲁（Uluru），以前叫艾尔斯岩（Ayers Rock），几十年前就被移交给了阿南古族。由于1976年通过的立法，澳大利亚北部地区近一半的土地已经归还给原住民。2017年，新西兰的毛利人被授予在保护新西兰北岛的旺格努伊河方面发挥更大的作用。公众仍然可以像以前一样自由参观，但毛利人现在对河流的使用有了更多的监督。

在美国也有这种转让的先例。1880年，法国开始修建巴拿马运河，美国在1904年接管了该运河。西奥多-罗斯福（他不断出现）希望看到它的完成，因此他与巴拿马民族主义者达成了一项协议，美国将获得运河，以换取对推翻哥伦比亚政府的帮助。但在1977年，吉米-卡特总统和巴拿马的奥马尔-托里霍斯将军签署了一项协议，概述了将运河的控制权移交给巴拿马。运河由两国共同管理，直到1999年，控制权最终完全归还给巴拿马。这种情况并不经常发生，但美国已经把东西还回去了。

1914年，历史学家弗雷德里克-杰克逊-特纳认为，美国的民主是在边境地区形成的。正是在那里，美国特有的平等主义、自力更生和个人主义的混合物混合在一起，形成了这个国家和它的特征。他说："美国的民主，""不是从理论家的梦想中诞生的......它来自美国的森林，每当它接触到一个新的边疆，它就会获得新的力量。"


特纳说得几乎没错。造就我们的不是边疆，而是土地本身，这片土地一直是原住民的土地，但也已成为美国人的土地。国家公园是美国最接近圣地的东西，就像古老的边疆一样，它们可以帮助我们重新塑造民主。这些公园不仅仅是美国的 "最好的想法"，也是美国最好的东西，是美国风景中的宝石。现在是把它们归还给美国原住民的时候了。

大卫-特雷尔是《伤膝的心跳：从1890年到现在的美国原住民》的作者。