by Michael W. Childers
I am searching for a camel. I know that sounds a bit strange, but let me explain.
Camels once roamed the Southwest, having been released into the wild by their previous owners, often the U.S. Army, or simply having escaped from a poorly constructed corral. Small bands of the beasts wandered from northern Mexico and the Baja to Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon. That was, until the early twentieth century, when the last camel disappeared.
I am looking for that camel.
A little background first. Following the Mexican-American War in 1848, the United States found itself in control of a vast new territory, what we today call the American Southwest.
The discovery of gold in the California Sierra along with the on-going sectional conflict over slavery placed the Southwest at the center of the increasingly vicious debate over the nation’s future.
Espousing America’s Manifest Destiny to expand and conquer the continent, numerous men sought to tie the West to the East by developing a reliable transportation route.
Among those people was Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, who would become the president of the Confederacy a decade later. A strong proponent of slavery and Manifest Destiny, as Secretary of War Davis advocated the opening of a southwestern transcontinental route from Texas into the gold fields of California.
To do so, he came to support the idea of bringing camels from Northern Africa.
He sent a military unit to the Mediterranean, where they purchased thirty-tree camels before sailing back to Texas. The camels were then moved to Camp Verde, in the Arizona Territory, where they were boarded until 1861.
In 1861, President Lincoln commissioned Edward Fitzgerald Beale to survey a viable route through the Southwest. Beale’s expedition included many of the camels brought from northern Africa and Turkey, and opened up the route from Texas to Los Angeles, the same one that Route 66 would later follow.
The Civil War and the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad in 1869 brought an end to the use of the military’s use camels. Many of the military’s stock were sold off to carnivals, released, or were simply shot as many of those who dealt with the animals despised the beast’s surly disposition and, well, unique odor.
This is where my search comes in. Where did these animals go? And what were their impacts before fading away into history?
Throughout the late nineteenth century, travelers spoke of seeing camels throughout the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts—the most infamous being the Red Ghost.
The tale of the Red Ghost typically begins one morning in 1883 on an isolated ranch near the southeastern edge of the Arizona Territory.
One morning, the two men rode out check on their scattered livestock, leaving behind their wives, two sisters, and few children. The women managed the daily life of the ranch, including collecting water from the nearby spring.
Such was the case that morning with one of the sisters trudging to spring bucket in hand, while the other remained in the house. Suddenly, chaos erupted near the ranch’s corral. Racing to the door of house, one sister witnessed what she would later describe at “El Diablo.”
Sitting astride a red beast, taller than horse, sat a mummified man. The beast, enraged at the barking of the ranch’s dogs tore through the corral, racing towards the spring. In fear for her life, the woman slammed the door to blood curdling screams of her sister outside.
Upon their return, the men found the body of the second sister trampled to death and the first sister still hidden in the house screaming about the beast.
Several days later, two prospectors awoke to a rider astride an enormous red “horse” tearing through their camp.
Sightings of the Red Ghost continued for years. A small band of hunters who attempted to shoot the apparition, but missed, found the head of a long dead man that had bounced off the animal as it fled.
Later, a lone cowboy happened upon the Ghost. And, being a cattleman, he roped the camel. But rather than pulling on the lariat to get away and tightening the rope, the Ghost charged the started roper, who proceeded to fall off his horse and drop the lariat as the camel, still with a saddle astride its back, tore past him off into the brush.
The Red Ghost’s reign of terror came to an end a number of years later, when a rancher awoke to the find the camel grazing in his garden, and shot the beast. The lariat had dug deep into the animal’s flesh, and while no body remained strapped to the camel, the saddle was still there.
But story of the Last Camel did not end with the Red Ghost’s death.
In 1913, the crew of a Santa Fe Railroad train swore they had seen a camel near Wickenburg, Arizona.
David Hulton, of Ajo, Arizona, swore he saw a small herd of camels near a watering hole in Cabeza National Wildlife Refuge in 1924.
Five years later, a traveler reported sight a solitary camel near Banning, California, and tales of camel sightings near the Salton Sea continued through 1941.
Another of the expedition’s camels, its skeleton anyway, ended up in the Smithsonian.
But it turns out that the last camel resided, of all places, the Los Angeles Zoo.
One of the zoo’s camels, known as Topsy, is believed to be the last survivor of a herd of camels that made the trek across the Southwest in 1861. Topsy lived a long life and died in 1934.
Now, I know what you are thinking. The math simply does not add up. But Los Angeles Times reported in an article on Topy’s death in 1934, “While the average life of a camel is said to be 30 or 40 years, if Topsy really was a member of the Arizona herd she would have been in the late seventies. Caretakers say this would be possible as the camel has been given excellent care.”
Was Topsy really the last camel? I am not convinced. However, I do not have proof otherwise. Part of me likes to think that a lone camel still roams the deserts of the Southwest. Perhaps I am just being romantic, yet my search continues.
by Ryan Edgington
In October 2012, the world watched in awe as the Austrian daredevil Felix Baumgartner skydived from 24-miles above terra firma as part of Red Bull Stratos. For all intents and purposes he leapt to earth from space. The vistas of the planet from Baumgartner’s capsule alone made the official video nothing short of spectacular.
Two things, one obvious and another probably little noticed by other viewers, drew me to this Evel Knievel to the nth level stunt. First, he parachuted to earth, an experience that since World War II had gone from purely military endeavor to something also done as leisure. Certainly his leap of faith was laborious and made money for a lot of people (including the energy drink brand Red Bull, which backed the Stratos program). But as I see it, Baumgartner is at the vanguard of a burgeoning, albeit hardly egalitarian, space tourism industry. Space tourism is big talk in the American West. Oklahoma, California, and Colorado all have planned privately or publicly funded spaceports that cater to high-end tourism. New Mexico’s Spaceport America, a stone’s throw west of White Sands Missile Range and about 60 miles north of Las Cruces, is perhaps the most famous. In 2009 Sir Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic planned to house its headquarters there.
Second, Baumgartner plummeted to earth near the alien sighting capital of the world, Roswell, New Mexico, where Stratos had headquarters for the jump. Space tourism reminded me of the deep ties that space exploration has held in the American West. When we think of American space exploration we think of Houston, Texas, Huntsville, Alabama, and Cape Canaveral, Florida. But early on the West was at the heart of it all. For Example, Edwards Air Force Base (formerly Muroc Army Airfield), located on the high desert of California, housed post-World War II test pilots that tested high altitude and high-speed airplane prototypes (Chuck Yeager was a part of this “weird ribald aerial tarpaper mad-monk squadron,” as Tom Wolfe called them). In the 1970s, Edwards also played a central role in Space Shuttle testing.
New Mexico holds a special place in the history of space technologies. Beginning in 1930, physicist and inventor Robert H. Goddard initiated the earliest rocket research in New Mexico after leaving the less than inviting community and climate of New England. As World War II ended German and American scientists led by German engineer Wernher Von Braun came to Fort Bliss and White Sands Proving Ground in south-central New Mexico to initiate the American V-2 rocket program. White Sands would test several rocket prototypes including the Viking, Athena, and Pershing. In 1949, U.S. Secretary of Defense, James Forrestal, paid lip service to an earth satellite vehicle as future military tool based in part on the secret research at White Sands.
As part of high altitude research conducted during the V-2 program, engineers and scientists also hurtled metal slugs into space and took photos of the earth from high altitudes. Both experiments are important ancestral events to Baumgartner’s flight (you really cannot have his capsule without the slugs nor the compelling images of the video from his capsule without early experiments with high altitude rocket photography). In 1963, engineers and scientists at the White Sands Test Facility researched propulsion system prototypes for the already underway Apollo program (WSTF remains active). In March 1982, the Space Shuttle Columbia landed at the White Sands Space Harbor.
That space tourism has come to New Mexico thus is of little surprise. In fact the idea had come much earlier than Branson’s 2009 announcement. In the early 1990s, engineer Burton Lee of Stanford University, with several colleagues, garnered funding through a NASA congressional earmark (via New Mexico Senator Pete Domenici) to plan the Southwest Regional Spaceport. The whole sordid history of funding and legislation can be found in Lee’s 2007 PowerPoint presentation found here. In late 2008 the FAA gave Spaceport America a launch license and in January 2009 New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson heralded the agreement with Branson’s Virgin Galactic saying “this groundbreaking ceremony is an important step toward our goal of being at the forefront of a vibrant, new commercial space industry.”
So Richard Branson had planted his space flag in the deserts of southern New Mexico with the help of New Mexico politicians, Congress, local boosters, and a history of space research to prime the pump. But a story all too familiar to western historians seems to be playing itself out. The benefits of this leisure and industrial program seem only to benefit a small wealthy slice of the public, a public with either ancillary or zero ties to the everyday realities of most New Mexicans. Indeed, in 2010 Virgin Galactic marked the price for a two hour round trip at $200,000.
While his company has started paying rent, Branson has threatened to abandon Spaceport America unless the New Mexico state legislature offers liability exemptions to Virgin Galactic suppliers. Considering the amount of money the state has poured into the program (two-thirds of estimated $209-212 million cost) this may be shocking to most New Mexicans. But lets not act surprised. Branson is looking at Abu Dhabi as an alternative launch site (Oklahomans may recall a similar song and dance).
In some senses, New Mexico offers a wonderful environmental climate for such endeavors including year-round sun, high altitude, and little precipitation (clearly the positive reception from Santa Fe does not hurt either). Baumgartner did not pick New Mexico by mere whimsy and seeing New Mexico from 24-miles up is a thrill. He also shows that for a sliver of the population space tourism is possible. But in a state with one of the highest poverty rates in the country, which has also experienced abominable social and environmental exploitation as the result of extractive natural resource industries and Cold War military agencies (read here, here, and here), Spaceport America seems like nothing more than a big empty terminal with a runway to nowhere.
Ryan Edgington is a Visiting Assistant Professor of Environmental history at Mcalester College and a native New Mexican
By B. Erin Cole
Denver has been decorating its Civic Center for the holidays since 1919. That year’s display was meant to commemorate the end of World War I as well as instigate holiday cheer: a display of pine boughs mounted on the park’s Greek Theater spelled out “WORLD PEACE” while the park’s usual white lights were replaced with red and green bulbs. The next year, a large Christmas tree was put up in the middle of the park. After the City and County Building was constructed in 1932, the holiday display got larger — in 1950, the city put up an estimated 40,000 lights around the Civic Center.
Today, the light display is limited to just the City and County Building. The thousands of bulbs and spotlights which took city employees hours to set up and maintain have been replaced with color-changing LED lights that are easier to use and more energy efficient. However, changing the lights hasn’t lessened the occasional controversy over the city’s holiday display: the presence of a nativity scene (along with Santa, elves, nutcrackers, and any other Christmas-related symbol you could think of) at the base of the City and County Building and the words “Merry Christmas” at the top represent, for some, an endorsement of religion on the part of the City and County of Denver. Decades of court cases have failed to resolve the issue.
The lights at the City and County Building go on after Thanksgiving, and stay on until the end of the National Western Stock Show in late January — an extended “holiday season” that gives a nod to Denver’s Western heritage. Some Denverites also deliberately keep up their decorations until after the Stock Show, following the city’s lead (I know I am!).
Another chapter in the 1998 Vail Arsons, which saw the destruction of twelve buildings on the nation’s largest ski resort by members of the Earth Liberation Front (ELF), has come to an end.
This past Thursday, 39-year old Rebecca Jeanette Rubin turned herself into federal authorities after a decade on the lam in Canada.
A former member of the small band known as “The Family,” Rubin was involved in twenty arsons across six western states, including Colorado, Oregon, and California.
Based out of Oregon, The Family’s initial targets included a USFS pickup truck, the BLM wild horse corrals near Burns, Oregon, the U.S. Forest Industries offices in Medford, Oregon, luxury homes under construction in both Phoenix and Longmont, Colorado, and the arson of the office of Toby Bradshaw a leading researching in genetic engineered trees at the University of Washington.
The total costs of the group’s five-year rampage, stretching from 1996 until 2001, ranged somewhere between $40 and $50 million.
Yet, it was the setting on fire of Vail Ski Resort’s lavish Two Elks Lodge, which overlooked the ski resort’s Back Bowls and proposed Category III expansion that brought widespread notoriety to the group.
Prior to the arsons, few Westerners had ever heard of the ELF. Radicalism had played a role in the region’s environmental battles. And while spiking a tree or chaining oneself to bulldozer was often decried as act of extremism, arson remained an act most activists refused to undertake.
Frustrated over their perceived failure to halt the continued destruction of the environment, and their disenfranchisement from a political system that fostered development over preservation, Rubin and her fellow conspirators believed violence was their only option.
“When I saw that political and economic systems themselves were the problem,” former member of The Family Chelsea Gerlach told a reporter in 2007, “working within these systems began to feel not only ineffective but almost unethical.”
But the decision to use arson proved folly, often casting the targets of their anger as victims and painting all environmental organizations as “eco-terrorists”, a highly problematic term based more upon politics than reality.
Rubin’s surrender most likely will not garner much attention beyond a few short news articles, but it should give us pause when thinking about the continued contentious debates over the West’s environment and the costs of disenfranchisement.
by Michael W. Childers
by Leisl Carr Childers
At the annual Western History Association conference this past October in Denver, Colorado, I was reminded of the depth of history in the American West. Weirdly, that reminder came through the images of a little-known early twentieth century photographer of the region named Clyde McCoy, whose unsolved murder is the stuff of film noir. In a panel entitled “An Artists Eye: Photographs and Paintings of the Twentieth Century American West,” Michael Amundson discussed his discovery of McCoy’s photographs at a garage sale and his research into the photographer’s life and work. Amundson spent the better part of a year digitizing and restoring McCoy’s images of the American West’s most iconic landscapes, including the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone national parks. McCoy had taken his images using cutting-edge 3-D photography and Amundson had faithfully digitized and restored the images in 3-D, using similarly cutting-edge technology. Amundson provided his audience with paper 3-D glasses to view the photographs and the audience put them on, eagerly viewing the images. They were stunning. Seeing the American West in multiple dimensions was breathtaking and invigorating, almost as if I was a part of the photograph itself. This is a sentiment that I took to heart as I left the conference—I should wear those 3-D glasses a little more often.
by Leisl Carr Childers
On October 22, 2012, Indian Country lost one of our most controversial and outspoken leaders. Shortly after the public announcement of Russell Means’ death, Internet chatter exploded with a fury of wall posts, tweets, memorials, and blogs. Most popular write-ups about this Red Power activist fail to adequately account for all of his achievements—and failures. The following is a discussion of Russell Means’ life and the political events that define his legacy.
Born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, Russell Means spent his early years living in San Francisco, California. During World War II, his family was one of 50,000 Native families who relocated to major urban centers for employment in the wartime industries. Russell’s upbringing was largely impacted by his abusive father who complicated the formative young boy’s childhood years. Despite popular television shows of “Father Knows Best” this was his only example of a Native masculinity and fatherhood.
Means first became aware about the political effects of Termination legislation at a small hole-in-the-wall Indian bar in San Francisco named “Warren’s Slaughter House Bar” (from 1953-1969, House Concurrent Resolution 108 opened a floodgate of federal legislation that severed the federal trust responsibility with over 109 Native Nations). Between frequenting various haunts of the Mission District’s Red Ghetto, Means moonlighted as a dance instructor. During these years Means also continued to struggle with the impact that his abusive father had on his young adult life.
Despite Means’ hard upbringing and challenging relationship with his father, the two did share a rather significant experience that forever influenced Means’ activism. In 1964 he and his father—along with other Bay Area Lakota—organized a little-known takeover of a recently abandoned federal prison—Alcatraz Island. While this brief occupation only lasted a few hours, the legal and tactical planning influenced another organization five years later: in 1969 the Indians of All Tribes (IAT) famed occupation of Alcatraz lasted over 19 months and signaled a new era of Red Power politics.
Even though he grew up in California, Russell traveled back and forth to South Dakota during the 1960s to spend time with relatives. Many Native families who relocated, on their own or through the BIA, during the 1940s and 1950s attempted to maintain connections to their communities. During this time Means landed a job as the director of a Community Action Program on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. After his first of four marriages failed, Means moved to Cleveland, Ohio—a BIA relocation city. His Community Action experience proved valuable when he founded the first Cleveland American Indian Center in 1969. There, Means established a credit union, a food bank, and unemployment assistance for the Native community. He also challenged Major League Baseball’s Cleveland Indians to change their discriminatory mascot image.
After meeting Russell Means at a conference in San Francisco, founders of the American Indian Movement (“AIM” established in 1968) saw immediate leadership potential in him. While AIM struggled early to find a voice, notoriety, and acceptance, the organization realized it needed to have a major “cause” for their activist pursuits. While in San Francisco, AIM learned more about the Alcatraz takeover, which had been organized by the Indian of All Tribes (IAT). Alcatraz, AIM leaders thought, was the perfect “cause” to join.
Although IAT had already established their political occupation of the island, AIM and Means proposed to take over the leadership of the Alcatraz occupation. IAT members, however, refused to relinquish their leadership of the student-led movement and ultimately evicted the members of AIM from the island. Even though AIM never returned to the island, they remain mistakenly connected to the history of the Alcatraz takeover. One of the greatest myths often regurgitated by historians, journalists, and scholars is that AIM led the Alcatraz takeover. But this is an absolutely false assumption.
Several other protests were erroneously credited to AIM and Russell Means. One of these includes the 1970 Thanksgiving Day protest at Plymouth Rock. The protest was organized by Wampanoag leader Frank James, who invited several Native organizations and leaders to join the Wampanoag in a day-of-mourning on the 350th Anniversary of Thanksgiving. Means took a different approach to the protest. Instead of mourning, he “seized the moment” and delivered a powerful speech while standing below a larger-than-life statue of Massasoit (former Wampanoag leader). To push their publicity agenda further, AIM activists took over the Mayflower II replica ship and buried Plymouth Rock. The press had a field day and published these photo ops. Headlines and stories emphasized the irony found in the Red Power Movement’s protest of the places that symbolize the founding of America. In this coverage, AIM and Russell Means are credited with organizing the event, while very little attention is attributed to the Wampanoag men and women.
This radical theater proved quite successful for AIM with media coverage of this and other events appearing in the New York Times. In this flurry of news reporting, Russell Means shot to instant stardom as a charismatic leader within the organization. That same year (1970) he lent his support to the Mount Rushmore takeover in the Black Hills of South Dakota. This protest was led by Lehman Brightman, the Lakota and Creek Director of another Red Power coalition from San Francisco known as United Native Americans. Means assisted in the Rushmore takeover and created another media spectacle by urinating on George Washington’s head. Again, many journalists credited AIM with being the leaders and organizers of the Rushmore protest, while mostly ignoring the work done by United Native Americans.
By the early 1970s, AIM had earned a reputation for successfully attracting press attention at major protests and events. In 1972, Pine Ridge Lakota resident Severt Young Bear requested AIM’s assistance to protest the violent death of Raymond Yellow Thunder in the border town of Gordon, Nebraska. Young Bear knew that the media might cover an event where AIM was present, and saw this as a way to bring national awareness to Yellow Thunder’s death. AIM used their connections to organize a successful economic boycott against Gordon’s businesses. This ultimately cost the border town millions of dollars, and Gordon citizens quickly buckled under the economic pressure.
Following these events in 1972, Indian Country was stunned by the assassination of Akwesasne Mohawk activist Richard Oakes. Oakes was a leader in the Alcatraz, Fort Lawton, and Pit River occupations. His tragic death prompted IAT members and Hank Adams (Ft. Peck Assiniboine activist for fishing rights and Survival of American Indians Association leader) to organize a march on Washington, D.C., known widely as the “Trail of Broken Treaties Caravan.” The principal organizing meeting occurred in Denver, Colorado, where AIM members joined the more established West Coast coalition. Three caravans started on the West Coast and they all converged in Washington, D.C.
After the Nixon White House refused to meet with caravan leaders they decided to camp at the BIA building. Their strategy met resistance as security and a large police force surrounded the government building. Fearing potential police brutality and lengthy arrests for taking over a federal building, the caravan leadership barricaded all of the doors and windows with old chairs, copiers, file cabinets, and even typewriters.
Once again, Russell Means used the media to garner attention for the event. He fearlessly paraded before police with a gas mask and a framed picture of Nixon that he cleverly employed as a war shield. Reporters seized upon the stark irony of the events that unfolded for six days in November 1972. During a key election year, this photo of Means appeared in newspapers across the nation. Richard Nixon, fearing bad press, brokered a deal. He offered a suitcase filled with $600,000 and amnesty for everyone who walked away from the building. Most of the negotiations that ensued are due to the leadership and determination of Hank Adams. However, the press centered their attention upon the long hair, braids, and bone chokers—as worn by Russell Means—as the “new face” of Red Power, a look coveted by activists as representing Indian pride.
The occupation of the BIA building was the first time that any federal government building had been taken over since the War of 1812. It took years before the BIA office recovered from the occupation. Following the event, both the government and the mainstream press highlighted photos of the BIA’s destruction as a way to discredit all Red Power activists as militant radicals. But for Native people across the country, the BIA was an agency that represented a complicated relationship: it was both beloved and hated. During this decade many tribes depended on the agency for federal services (like education and economic development). Ultimately, AIM’s association with the takeover fueled both pride and resentment among Tribal leaders who were engaged both directly and indirectly in the Red Power Movement.
AIM’s role as the face of Red Power was emphasized by the media. Not long after the BIA takeover, AIM appeared back in the news after members torched the Custer County Courthouse in Custer, South Dakota, on February 6, 1973. This protest erupted as a result over the lack of justice from the public lynching of Lakota man Wesley Bad Heart Bull.
Following this event in 1973, AIM remained in the South Dakota area. By the 1970s, the Oglala Sioux Civil Rights Organization (“OSCRO” led by longtime Pine Ridge residents) organized to remove Pine Ridge Tribal Chairman, Richard “Dick” Wilson. Wilson and his unofficially deputized group of thugs, also known as the Guardians of the Oglala Nation (or “GOON” squad), bullied any and all opposition to his administration. As Tribal Chairman, Wilson used federal support and ammunition to instill a climate of terror and fear throughout Pine Ridge.
With perceived victories in Plymouth Rock, Gordon, Washington, D.C., and Custer, OSCRO recruited AIM to assist in their takeover of Wounded Knee. This was an effort to utilize AIM’s notoriety as a way to grab media attention for the sake of garnering protection from the retaliation of Wilson’s GOON squad.
Together, OSCRO and AIM launched a very public revolution by founding the Independent Oglala Nation in opposition to the Dick Wilson government. Quickly, their revolution for independence met serious military, state, and federal resistance with armored personnel carriers, jets, helicopters, riot-geared police, tracer rounds, and automatic weapons. After the 71-day siege at Wounded Knee, AIM fell under constant surveillance by the Counter- Intelligence Program of the FBI. Russell Means and hundreds of other AIM supporters who had any connection to Wounded Knee faced prosecution. This was another law enforcement tactic to divide and ultimately bankrupt the American Indian Movement. As AIM struggled in the courts, Dick Wilson’s reign continued at Pine Ridge with hundreds of unsolved murders and drive-by shootings.
In 1974, Russell Means faced a very public trial in Minneapolis. During this time he also ran for Tribal Chair against Dick Wilson—who narrowly defeated Means by voter fraud (a Civil Rights Commission investigated the election and found Means the clear winner, yet Wilson ignored the commission’s report and maintained his political office).
1975 marked a violent period in the state of South Dakota as a result of the death of two FBI field agents and, later, the death of Mi’kmaq AIM activist Ann Mae Pictou Aquash—all of which took place on the Pine Ridge Reservation. Suspecting AIM’s involvement, there was an all-out war on the organization and Red Power, which also impacted other Red Power coalitions that viewed themselves as being non-violent or non-militant. But these events heightened the violence around AIM, especially after South Dakota Attorney General Bill Janklow threatened to put a bullet in the heads of their leaders. Paranoia and fear seized AIM membership and other Red Power organizations. During this era of violence, Russell Means survived twelve lengthy legal trials and multiple attempts on his life (two shootings and a stabbing).
By 1976, Russell Means appeared in a set of images not taken by the press. Instead, he posed for a series of portraits with pop icon and artist Andy Warhol. In 1978 Means joined the Longest Walk which marched from Alcatraz Island to Washington, D.C. This included a coalition of Native organizations that called for religious freedom and drew attention to the forced sterilization of Indian women, and where Russell Means challenged and publicly debated Senator Edward Kennedy.
Throughout the 1980s, Means resigned several times from AIM and also formed his own rival organization to AIM’s Grand Governing Council in Minneapolis. Over the next few years Means continued to organize with the International Indian Treaty Council and Yellow Thunder Camp. In 1984, sexploitation mogul and Hustler magazine founder Larry Flynt selected Russell Means as his Vice Presidential running mate for the Republican Party ticket. Four years later, Means became the first American Indian to run for President under the Libertarian Party.
During the 1990s, Means appeared in Hollywood’s rendition of James Fenmore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, Disney’s Pocahontas, and Oliver Stone’s homage to cultures of violence in Natural Born Killers. While Means took heat for compromising his values by becoming the very stereotype he had previously protested against. In 1993, Means followed the success of former AIM National Chairman and Santee musician John Trudell with the release of his first album Electric Warrior. While the album never appeared on the Billboard it featured the short-lived Indian radio track “Indian Cars Go Far”. Over the next few years he appeared in dozens of television sitcoms and documentaries.
By the late 1990s, the Diné Nation charged Means on assault and battery for physically abusing his much older Omaha father-in-law Leon Grant and Diné member Jeremiah Bitsui. He claimed sovereignty and exemption from Diné legal jurisdiction as a Pine Ridge citizen—an appeals court upheld a Navajo Nation Supreme Court ruling. This very public trial served as a major blemish in Means’ credibility throughout Indian Country. The mere mention of his name sparked harsh reactions and many labeled him an opportunist or a leader of American Indian Movie-stars. In an effort to redeem himself, he used his reckless behavior to place Indian sovereignty rather than his violent act within national headlines. To redeem his credibility, Means returned to politics and after an unsuccessful Governor campaign in New Mexico, he once again ran for President of the Oglala Sioux Tribe at Pine Ridge.
Russell Means lectured all over the world and led a long fight against throat cancer. Initially, his doctors prescribed an aggressive surgery and chemotherapy treatment to remove the cancer–an option that would have left Means unable to speak. Refusing to lose his most powerful weapon Means elected to promote Native medicines to prevent the loss of his voice. He led an extremely public battle against cancer, yet remained active in his cause by speaking through various forms of social media—Youtube and other public gatherings. Despite a grueling battle, Indian Country watched as Russell Mean’s life faded before our very eyes. Up to the end, Means continued to speak publicly last year he spoke at a conference on Wounded Knee at Augustana College in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Means was an entertainer—a modern trickster. He reflected the real and painful truths of our human existence. He often sparred with both mainstream American and Indian societies; he defied convention and label—he was anything but predictable. He protested against stereotypes about Indians and yet played a stereotype in popular movies.
Russell Means and the American Indian Movement are often cast in a largely mythic role, a false image supported by many scholars and popular media who continue to falsely credited AIM as the lone iconic organization of Red Power. While Means acted in many different roles, his most significant role was that of an activist.
Ultimately he will remain a controversial political figure. Years from now, historians, scholars, and the public will continue to debate Means’ successes and failures as a leader and performer in the Red Power Movement. Indian Country is quickly losing many of the veterans who helped shape the American Indian political landscape during this critical era in modern American history. Russell Means’ passing is an important reminder that we are rapidly losing a generation—who each in their own unique ways, maintained, promoted, and challenged the future of modern Tribal self-determination and sovereignty.
by Michael W. Childers
With the national election mere days away few issues loom as larger than the economy. Here, in the West, this has meant a focus on energy. Home to some of the largest reserves of natural gas and oil, the West is seeing yet another boom in energy development. But this boom is not without is critics. Many fear that in the past, this surge in development will to come to and end, while proponents that the development of the West’s energy fields is the way to an economic sound future. Perhaps a lesson from the recent past change shed some light on how best to navigate this recent debate over energy and the future of the West.
The energy crisis of the 1970s looms large in the memory of most Americans. To many at the time the solution to the nation’s energy problems lay in a region known as the Green River Formation stretching from western Colorado, eastern Utah, and southern Wyoming. There, trapped in trillions of tons of oil shale, sat more oil than existed under the entire Arabian Peninsula.
The potential of oil shale as a source of energy was well known as early as the late nineteenth century. By the late 1910s government officials came to believe that the Green River Formation would become one of the most important sources of petroleum in the world, leading to President Woodrow Wilson to set aside the region as a National Reserve in 1914. While a brief period of investment ensued in the area, the difficulty of extracting oil from the rock, as well as the cost, proved too great, and the early twentieth century oil shale boom slowly petered out.
Oil shale is rich in a mixture of organic material known as kerogen, which when cooked out of the shale that it is encased turns into petroleum. The problem being that the extraction process is incredibly complicated and so prohibitively expensive. Two methods exist in mining oil shale. The first is to simply strip mine the mineral, and then transport it to a refinery. Beyond the devastation to the landscape such an operation would cause, it is then be necessary to heat the extracted shale to five hundred degrees centigrade in order to produce oil. Such a process is incredibly polluting, producing both solid wastes as well tremendous amounts of green house gases such as carbon dioxide. A second method, called in-situ retorting, involves heating the oil shale in place, and then pumping the kerogen to the surface. While solving the problem of open pit mining, in-situ retorting produces tremendous amounts of nitrogen and other toxins that could potentially poison the ground water.
Besides these immediate concerns, the in-situ requires tremendous amounts of energy, making it economically questionable. In 2005, the High Country News noted that in order to produce 100,000 barrels per day, enough to last about seven-and-a-half minutes at the current U.S. consumption rate, the RAND Corporation estimated that it would require 1,200 megawatts of electricity. “That’s equal to the output of Colorado’s largest coal-fired power plant, in Craig. Producing two million barrels of shale oil per day could require the equivalent of 20 new Craig-sized power plants,” wrote journalist Jennie Lay. Such enormous costs, combined with its negative environmental impacts have long made oil shale more of a dream than a reality for energy producers.
Despite the economic and environmental costs of oil shale, the energy crisis of the 1970s led many major oil companies to invest heavily oil shale. Virtually overnight the rural Colorado communities of Rifle, Silt, and new Castle turned into boomtowns reminiscent gold rushes of the nineteenth century. Both thrilled about the potential economic windfall and yet resentful of the thousands of new comers flooding their towns, locals grappled with rising costs of living as transformative as those found in the state’s growing ski resort communities. Looking to jump into the game, Exxon joined forces with local oil corporation Tosco in building a five billion dollar processing plant near the newly constructed company town of Parachute.
The oil shale boom came to a sudden end in May of 1982, when Exxon pulled the plug on its multi-million dollar Colony Project. Christened “Black Sunday,” the corporation’s closing of the project brought economic ruin to the region.. High paying oil jobs vanished, local banks failed, homes and businesses were foreclosed on.
Oil Shale’s promise, and eventual collapse, was a lesson to all on the damages the West’s boom and bust cycles wreaked on the region’s environment and people. A cycle many feared we might be repeating.