Billings, Little Bighorn, Plenty Coups and Bighorn Canyon

Looking down on Billings from the Rimrocks

Cloud cover picked up as the jet neared the Montana border. With only a fleeting glimpse of shimmering Yellowstone Lake before clouds swooped in and turbulence shook us as the plane crossed the Spanish Peaks and dove into the Gallatin Valley. With bags collected and the rental car inspected, we stepped out into Montana, gave Nancy another state for her list, then hit the interstate bound for Billings.

The heat wave that defined Summer 2012 had redefined the landscape. Green hills were recast in sickly khakis and browns. Wildlife had not diminished. As we drove the 140 miles from Belgrade to Billings, abundant herds of pronghorn grazed.

Near Livingstone, small wildfire burned high in the Absaroka Range. The smell of charred plant matter stuck in the air around Livingstone. We wandered outside the old train station – any town in Montana along the railroad had an architecturally interesting train station, most of which had become museums and occasionally left to rot.

Not in Livingston. I had visited this train station back in April 2010. On a Yellowstone trip during the 1930s, my grandfather and great-grandfather stopped for a photo on the front steps, so I felt a little connection to the place. Its brick-framed courtyard sits next to still-operating train tracks fully loaded with cars of coal.

Murray Hotel, downtown Livingston

We stopped into the lounge of the Murray Hotel for a quick beer (Cold Smoke and Glacier Ale), then followed the Yellowstone on its long journey toward the Missouri.  The river carved out massive rock formations and Interstate 90 followed the path of the old Yellowstone Trail, an early Boston-Seattle route.

To start the trip on a strong note, we spent out first night at the Josephine, a bed and breakfast tucked in downtown Billings.

From the Rimrocks, the city glowed as the sunset glowed behind the Beartooth Range. To the east, a refinery shed green light below a thatch of hills topped by radio towers. In Billings modest downtown sat the First Interstate Tower, the state's tallest building at 272 feet. Like many tallest buildings in western towns (Albuquerque, Boise), First Interstate paled in comparison with the mountains framing the city.

In a brief evening, we got a flavor for Billings. Modern art connected 1920s-era buildings downtown, and the city had a sizable population of American Indians. Billings is Broncos country. To eastern football fans, a devoted fanbase 500 miles from the home field. The city also boasts a lively brewing culture, anchored by four brewers within a mile of each other. We only visited one, but someone with  more time in Billings would have no problem finishing the tour.

The last of Montana’s summer warmth sapped away in our visit’s first hours. During the evening a fierce kicked up and the temperatures plummeted. We had beers on the Josephine's porch, and soon the gusts kicked us out. Sleep came rapidly in the Garden Room, our little space overlooking the inn's backyard.

Rimrocks, aimed at the sunset

Breakfast wafted up the stairs of the Josephine. Harvey ran the kitchen, pouring coffee and jovially dishing out eggs, bacon and potatoes. We briefly shared the table with some of the inn’s other residents. Talk was never less than cordial. Harvey presented a homemade jam of berries and jalapenos, which had a delicious, ambient heat. Nancy beamed. I hesitated at loading up a second piece of toast with it, but soon thought better. Why would we taste such innovative preserves again?

He regaled us with stories of traveling into the mountains, driving the Beartooth Highway on opening weekend when snow still walled in the road. He also recalled a famous athlete’s visit with his family. Soon enough, he and Bobbie departed. Alone in the house, we packed and made our way out of Billings, heading south across the brown plains. In the 70 miles to Little Bighorn, snow pounded the terrain.

Little Bighorn sits in the heart of the Crow Reservation; only two parcels of the battlefield lie on public land. Lying just off the interstate and miles from Crow Agency, the park staff was predominantly American Indian. Canadian tourists packed the auditorium of the compact visitor centers.Outside sat a cemetery for veterans of Little Bighorn and other conflicts, including the grave of Major Marcus Reno, who led a similar action near Little Bighorn.

Little Bighorn River in driving October snow

For a century, Little Bighorn Battlefield also bore Custer's name, but the Last Stand has faded as Custer has become a symbol for the nation's horrible Indian policies. In many ways, Little Bighorn was a last stand for the tribes of the Great Plains. Word of the battle arrived back in Washington as the nation celebrated its centennial, and led the U.S. government to double-down on breaking the tribes and keeping them on reservations.  That's another subject that has always pained me, and the anger on the faces of local Indians could not be missed.  

The sudden storm required a little imagination to picture the massive Indian assault, which occurred in late June 1876. The wet, heavy snow clumped on our jackets, shoes and jeans. My lack of gloves quickly felt numb and foolish. But soon enough, the massive Indian camp and path of the the 7th Cavalry emerged. We followed the road to where Reno's men faced off with the overwhelming Indian odds, a looping path in the foothills above the river.

A lovely face poses at the Indian memorial

 Stones marked the places where both Indian and U.S. Army fell, with the biggest concentration in the cemetery atop Last Stand Hill, where Custer and 40 others shot their horses and turned them into barricades before the Indians overran them. Each fallen Indian was marked with a reddish brown stone, with their name, its English translation tribe and a line reminding visitors that they had died defending their way of life.

More impressive was the Indian monument, the park’s most recent addition. For longest time, only the losers of Little Bighorn received monuments. But this impressive stone and sculpture memorial honors the tribes involved in the battle.

Aside from the occasional cow mooing in the snowy fog, the only wildlife we encountered was a single rabbit, hiding on a patch of dry ground in the shadow of the monument on Last Stand Hill. We felt a little bad for chasing him from his refuge, but he would not have stuck around as more tourists arrived at Last Stand Hill.

 Instead of cutting down and across to Bighorn Canyon, we returned to Billings for lunch, then migrated up the Rimrocks for a second meal in as many days. It was too cold and windy to sit on the sandstone, but the daylight views were just as spectacular. A snowstorm thrashed the Beartooth Range. The sun threatened to break free but would not appear until we neared Pryor.

Leaving Billings, we crossed a winding mountain road that rose from the plains into the low foothills of the Crow Reservation. Once it straightened out, fresh pavement followed Pryor Creek and magpies, pheasants and the occasion trio of mule deer grazed close to the deserted road. One young male looked up, revealing a single antler, his missing one a likely casualty of the annual rut.

Soon the road came to Pryor, a weathered reservation town. Only a few buildings stood out – the high school, and the restored buildings we came to visit. Given the mantra of Crow's last chief, "Get an education," there was little surprise that the town boasted a robust school.

Plenty Coups' homestead and tepee

On Pryor's edge we found that chief's old home. The last hereditary chief of the Crows, Plenty Coups willed his homestead as a public place, and now the state preserves it as a park. The chief and two of his wives are interred on the grounds near Pryor Creek.

The museum closed for the season three days earlier, but the land told a rich tale. The history of Plenty Coups wasn’t locked until springtime. It took roots in his homestead. His home housed a general store and the land revealed a venerated chief who lived well.

He could not have chosen a finer property, with the creek’s vegetated banks hiding all type of wildlife. One can envision the chief hunting pheasant and mule deer just steps from his front door. Snow lingered on the stiff wind sweep the valley and the wooded creek along the homestead.

Plenty Coups' sacred spring

Closer to the house sat Plenty Coups’ spring, clear pool purported to have healing powers. The spring stretched into the bushes, many of which bore charms that the Crow left when visiting the sacred spot. Part of the water cut under the roots of a towering tree, and tiny insects traversed the shallow spring even as winter encroached on the surrounding lands. A sign warned that the water was untreated. Yet one could not ask for a more peaceful place.

Walking bluffs above Pryor Creek deepened the site's spiritual feel. Swift, narrow rapids cascades over rocks and dams of tree debris. A wrong step and this creek would spirit away all but the strongest swimmers.

The forested banks were rich with wildlife and from an adjacent field, pheasants ran for cover. Once safe in the brush and thickets, their voices soared. As the wind gusted, their chatter, sounding almost doglike at times, carried across the homestead’s acres. The stormy weather, ambient sunshine to the west and lack of people turned a little state park into a religious experience.

Plenty Coups’ home was the first of two Wednesday stops that would define the trip. The second lie just to the south, but we had worlds to cross to reach it. From Plenty Coups’ home, we traveled a few minutes down Pryor Gap Road before it turned to gravel.

We turned back and found that Edgar Road also abandoned pavement. The gravel road marked the Crow Reservation’s border. For the next 17 miles, we drove through sometimes marshy gravel across one rolling hill after the other. Horse farms line the road, and the fenced herds still found ways to haze each other.

Horses on Edgar Road

Soon our speed dropped to 25 mph and below as the car fishtailed regularly. Even as it snowed on us, U.S. 310 traffic glimmered ahead of us. In an afternoon’s eternity, we reached the few blocks that comprised Edgar. I have seldom been so glad to see asphalt. Later, my relief swelled; Pryor Gap Road would have taken us on a more treacherous mountain journey. As a break from our backroad journey, Nancy dashed off some postcards to give the Edgar postcard some work.

 As we followed the Clark Fork of the Yellowstone, the names clicked by, usually in a few blocks. State lines mattered little out here. Bridger. Warren. Frannie. Deaver. At Cowley and Lovell, blocks became neighborhoods and fresh prosperity sprouted.

One sugar beat mountain of many near Lovell

If the fracking boom had arrived in north-central Wyoming, I see scant evidence from U.S. 310. We passed a few scattered wells, a bentonite plant and massive fields and piles of sugar beets. But this was oil country, no doubt. We had the southern unit of the Bighorn Canyon National Recreation Area to ourselves. On this Wednesday, the wind bit too much for boaters and hikers. The sun emerged just north of the Wyoming line, but the chill didn’t waver.

The Pryor Wild Horse Range straddles the southern end of Bighorn NRA. At the first turnout, we caught our first group of well-camouflaged mustangs. The wild horses’ coats bore patterns dating back to their ancestors that broke free from Spanish conquistadors.

Wild horses don't want to be seen.

In the wild, horses are excellent at blending into their surroundings. A glance at the desert peaks often revealed nothing. Like staring at one of those magic eye paintings, the horses emerged the longer we stared.

But the majesty of Bighorn Canyon itself almost made me forget the horses. From the drive up, we could not have imagined Bighorn Canyon, not with the Pryor and Bighorn peaks surrounding the region.

Devil's Canyon Overlook, Bighorn Canyon

Taking the Devil’s Canyon overlook drive, we were floored. It was just us and this magnificent gouge in the Earth. From the taut fence, the cliffs descended 1,000 feet to the Bighorn’s waters. Water had cut through the rock over the course of almost 200 million years. It wasn't the Grand Canyon, but we didn't have to contend with any other people. The wind packed a renewed fury here, and without the metal fence, the canyon overlook would not have been a safe spot.

Fingers of rock hundreds of millions of years reached up hundreds of feet. Anyone paddling on the placid green water below would have been little more than a pinprick. Feeling small never felt so majestic. To the south the canyon twisted in rough bends. Several miles downstream, the Yellowtail Dam had calmed the Bighorn's waters, but their sweeping grace remained. As we left the range, the horse hunt continued, and the wind refused to ease.

We would race the sunset to Cody. Tourist towns in Wyoming and Montana have little in common with their counterparts in the east. Miles of gaudy attractions were nowhere to be found. Between Lovell and Cody, we passed another assortment of tiny, picturesque towns and horse farms where their charges bore striped and mottled coats seldom seen in the east.

Darker history emerged in the gloaming. Dusk almost concealed the sign for the Heart Mountain War Relocation Center, where nearly 10,000 Japanese-Americans were imprisoned during World War II. Sitting 50 miles from Yellowstone’s east entrance, Cody was heavy on hotels but thick with the character of its Wild West showman namesake. Like any good mountain town, anything beyond the commercial lights fell under darkness.

Wyoming in the early evening

The fall season swept through Cody, with many restaurants mopping up early due to lack of customers. Winding through town, we found an excellent restaurant, The Terrace. Nancy went with a superb plate of Western game (elk sausage, rabbit and wild boar) and I defaulted to the bison meatloaf. We cruised back in the cold night, hoping the snow would not impede our ascent into Yellowstone.