Spring Returns

A black capped Chickadee rests on a branch.
Spring Returns
Pȟežítȟo Alí
By Dakota Wind
Bismarck, ND – My youngest son and I went for a hike north of Mandan, ND a few weeks ago. At the time, all the snow had melted but for icy remnants tucked away in constant shadow of tree, bush, or along the river banks. The sunlight was as light and warm as a constant summer day.

Meteorologists were prognosticating that there was one more snow on the way, but my faith in their reports is only about fair to partly. Then we heard the Mourning Dove. The Lakȟóta call this bird Wakíŋyela, and they say its springtime song it warns of late snow. There it was, cooing in the branches of quaking aspen and the buffalo berry bush, its song answered by the questioning tweet of škipípi, the chickadee. The Lakota say that when the škipípi sings in springtime it’s really asking if it’s still winter or if in fact that spring is here. We head home.

Then it snowed, but not enough to constitute an emergency shutdown of schools, roads, or work, but enough to lay a soft blanket of powder on the land. There was no roaring wind that came with the snow either, and at best, it might be described best as a quiet light breeze. The snow itself melted as soon as it touched the earth, at least until the earth itself was cold enough to maintain a little accumulation. Then it warmed up, and the snow melted away as quietly as it had come.

I decided to take another hike, and it was a good thing I did. A cool breeze embraced me in my solitary walk. But this breeze came somewhat from the south, over the rolling hills, and across a lake before it enfolded me.

The trail was long but not grueling, and only slightly muddy. A little snow remained collected in the shadows of trees and brush which grew on the north side of this one particular hill. The other side, the one I was aiming for, was covered with last year’s brown grass. The wind and snow had matted the middle grasses to the hilltop like hair on a fevered head.

Sandstone jutted out of the hillside like a toe that worked its way through an old sock. Broken sandstone, worn and blasted from years of wind and rain, lay strewn upon the sides of the hills. 

A Pasque Flower, or Easter Flower on the Northern Great Plains. 

I searched for the first flower of spring and eventually found it on a hillside facing the sun. Glowing in the sun and ready to open their purple petals to the sun. The settlers and their descendants call it the Pasque Flower or Easter Flower, but to the Lakȟóta its known by two names: Hokšíčekpa, which means “Child’s Navel,” because it resembles a child’s bellybutton that is healing after the cord has fallen off; Waȟčá Uŋčí, which means, “Grandmother Flower,” because as it is the first flower of the new year, it is also the first to die.

The Lakȟóta say that the Grandmother Flower sings to the other flowers of the season, telling them to have courage, and that all things go in their time. The flowers have spirits too, you see. They are the colors of the rainbows.

I looked around where the Grandmother Flower was growing and saw the return of something green. It was there, determined to grow, pushing its way through the surface of the earth.

I lay down upon the hillside and reached out and touched the flower before me. It looks like it has a coat of soft fur, and indeed, it is soft to my caress. The petals and leaves as well. Botanists could tell you that it is an ice age flower. That it evolved over time to bloom in the cold and ice. The Lakȟóta could tell you that this flower was gifted her coat, and the color of its coat, by the creator ages ago. Regardless what you would believe, the flower is medicine too.

My lekší Cedric shared with me that the Grandmother Flower can be used to treat dry skin. Others say that the whole flower is used to treat arthritis ailments.

The impulse to pluck the Grandmother flower is strong. The feeling is almost overwhelming as I lay on the ground looking at this flower. I remind myself that I have nothing to leave if I do take one, but also that I have no reason to take one in the first place. I take a few pictures instead, stand up, and dust off bits of dirt and grass. 

Winter In The Land Of Sky And Wind

A beautiful vesper dusk sets on the Standing Rock Sioux Indian Reservation, south of Mandan, N.D.
WINTER IN THE LAND OF SKY AND WIND

A Reflection of The Changing of Seasons

By Dakota Wind
Mandan, ND - It was quiet uneventful drive through the countryside. Despite the dawn, the clouds hung heavy and cast a steely grey pall over the landscape. Clouds hung low, low enough that I could reach high and feel the cool droplets that filled the air. The land itself reminded me of a patchy brown and white mottled pony.

Some would call it spring, and if it weren’t for this last snowfall, it might very well be spring. A wind came out of the west carrying the promise of rain, or more snow. It smelled clean and earthy, like rain, but it also smelled cold too.

It’s always windy here on the Great Plains. It is rather like a messenger carrying the scent of ionized air before a storm, the promise of a storm. In the days of summer the wind cools nothing. It’s like standing in front of a furnace with the heat blasting you right in the face. In the heart of winter the wind whips the snow into a riot and locks the land in a blizzard.

...the years were literally called winters.

Today though, the wind and the snow only remind the citizenry that winter is the lord of seasons. In the days of warriors and legends, the winter and wind so shaped the relationship that the Lakota share with the land that the years were literally called winters. We have no mountains to reach the heavens and take snow and rain from the sky. We have endless rolling hills that allow the arctic air to stretch forth from the far north and touch the land here.

The geese have returned, heralding the change of winter to spring. Only their honking has been subdued by the sudden return of snow. The meadowlarks keep their enthusiasm and sing through the cold wind. It’s a tradition going back to the moment of creation. They welcome the end of the winter, the end of the year, and sing in the new. On the Great Plains, that's how it is. Spring marks the new year, not the middle of winter.

Deer prance in fields of last year’s left over corn stalks, noses to the ground in search of bites of last year’s harvest. Ducks waddle into a pothole lake, submerge their heads in that half way manner that only ducks can and set themselves back upright, and then vigorously shake their heads as though they were trying to dislodge water from their ears.

A peregrine falcon...settled itself...as a king on a throne, on a fence brightly labeled "No Hunting."

A hawk, a peregrine falcon to birders, one of many of the birds of prey on the prairie, settled itself in bold irony, as a king on a throne, on a fence post brightly labeled “No Hunting.” Its head turned nonchalantly in my direction as though it had planned on looking my way all along. As I drove by, it casually spread its wings and took flight in front me.

To the west of the road lay a swath of wind turbines, giant windmills, erected in the past decade to harvest the wind and convert the wild energy into electricity. The ever-present wind passed them by, its raw energy undiminished by the great turning wheels. The blades silently cut through the low grey overhang of clouds.

By the time I get home, the sun has burned through most of the fog and the wind had blown some of the low cloud cover to the east. Rays of light playfully pierced through the remaining cover and practically danced; the motion of the sun’s rays are like looking up through water from the bottom of a pool.

This is North Dakota. This is the Great Plains, a rolling steppe west of flat prairie, a gentle swell east of the Badlands. Winter rules much of the year, and the wind has been here since creation.