I loved reading Mike’s all too true account of last year’s trip to Quiltman’s. When not on the road performing in his cousin John Trudell’s band, Big Dog, Quilt indeed lives in a very stunning place in a house built by his grandfather, father, uncles, himself, brothers, cousins and friends on land never officially controlled by Caucasians.

 

Life is quite slim materially on the Rez – especially when part of a small minority band tucked away in a remote corner of an already remote Reservation. Quilt and his neighbors don't have a lot of wealth. But, they all benefited greatly from the wisdom passed down by Quilt’s mom and her sisters – his aunties, one of whom, Nettie, is still alive at 105 – his T’ygh band being one of the last matrilineal fishing societies. I've always admired and envied how he and his siblings and friends hang out so easily and all pitch in and help each other – folks they've known all their lives. To live in such a beautiful place surrounded by others who all recognize their commonality is a blessing. It’s a tribal thang.

 

By necessity, Quiltman and buddies are resourceful. They all know how to fix things most whites would have given up on long ago. Quiltman has 22 vehicles on his place. Last I checked, two were running. The one time I broached the unsightly subject, Quilt said, “Michael. You never know when a brother may need a part.” End of topic.

 

Well, back to our visit. Mike and I did spend the first night watching action movies on Quiltman’s VCR. The next day, we walked out Quilt’s backdoor and up a half-mile trail along a ridge to a beautiful lake.

 

A few years ago, an Osprey nest blew out of a snag by the lake. One chick died, but Quiltman saved the other two. He built a “nest” – a wash basin – up half under the eaves of his house and filled it with sticks and the two fragile birds. Every few days, Quiltman would hike to the lake and catch some trout, which abound in the lake. He'd throw them up in the nest. After awhile, he'd throw them up on the roof where the chicks would have to go get them.

 

Finally, the chicks got so big they left the nest and started hanging around on the ground. At some point, instinct took over and they began practice flights. I watched one day when they were trying to fly and whined uproariously at getting over-matched by the wind. But, they prevailed and learned to soar the thermals over the Mutton Mountains and now themselves nest at the lake. To this day, every so often they fly over Quiltman’s and cry out a greeting when they see him puttering about.

 

Again, back to the visit. Mike, Quiltman and I walked back from the lake. We stopped at a Medicine Wheel Quilt had long ago made of crystals from a nearby mountain. Right in the middle we sat, sharing a smoke, munching some celery-like stalks Quiltman knew were edible and looking out over a thousand square mile panorama of volcanic peaks – with Pahtoo (Mt. Jefferson) and Olallie (huckleberry) Butte dominating in the center, Wy’east (Mt. Hood) and the other Pahtoo (Mt. Adams) to the north and Three-fingered Jack, Mt. Washington and the Three Sisters to the south.

 

Mike looked out over the stunning tableau, turned to Quiltman and said, “I heard about the squalor you guys had to live in over here, Quiltman. But, I had no idea it was this bad.”

 

Quiltman, the Lowbagger King and I rolled on the ground between the crystals and laughed until our sides hurt. Only Roselle could have gotten away with such a joke.

Michael Donnelly dispatches from the old-growth forests of Oregon.