Different Rules Govern Reservation

Without a thought, I jammed on my brakes when I saw a hitchhiker standing along Highway 93 on the Flathead Indian Reservation.

It was about 7:30 in the morning and I was leaving my brother’s place for Spokane.

Quick visits with family give me a quick charge. As I drove, I fought off this deep sadness. Leaving feels like a small betrayal, but I keep telling myself that my place is in the city for now.

While stewing in my thoughts, I studied the snow-capped Mission Mountains range. I always try to pick out the large ram’s head formation and McDonald Peak, named after a relative.

Down the road, I noticed a young American Indian guy with a green U.S. Army bag on his shoulder.

I hit the brakes and pulled over. He ran up, opened the door and threw his pack in the back.

He hoped to find work in Missoula, about a 45-mile drive, but an all-day walk.

Originally from Pine Ridge, S.D., my passenger had just finished his two-year degree in building trades at Salish Kootenai College, which is on the Flathead Reservation.

He’d shopped his skills around the reservation for work, but no one was hiring. He was seeing about signing on with a construction crew in Missoula.

I asked him about Salish Kootenai College.

I once worked there in the student services department while trying to figure out if I wanted to stay in journalism. A lot of the faces hadn’t changed in the past several years, he told me.

Within five minutes, we were joking about some of the same people, telling funny stories and passing the time.

He’d heard of my family - McDonalds and Matts, Swaneys and Deckers. He told me about his brother who flies Apache helicopters for the Army. I bit my tongue at making a joke about a Sioux flying an Apache. I didn’t know him that well.

Before I knew it, we reached Ravalli, a small reservation town named after an Italian Jesuit priest.

He thanked me, grabbed his bag and headed for Missoula.

I told him I was sorry I couldn’t take him all the way.

He waved as he walked toward the reservation border.

My path turned toward the bigger city of Spokane.

Watching him head toward the border, I thought back to my Uncle Satch, who always talked about the invisible barrier that lined the reservation.

When an Indian crosses it and leaves the reservation, the rules change. We’re not wanted out there, he’d say.

Satch tried running for the state Legislature once. He’d also applied his energy to taking swings at a couple of policemen he felt were harassing him.

When I was still in high school, Satch sat in my car as I drove him, my dad and a cousin to Missoula’s University of Montana golf course. Satch sang Carly Simon songs as he talked.

On the golf course, he’d look at my hands and wonder how I could hit a ball so far.

He expected to see powerful, calloused mitts hanging from my side. Instead, he found soft, college-student hands.

A lifetime forester, he’d stop and study the leaves on the golf course trees.

Satch lives in my grandmother’s old house on the reservation. I haven’t seen him in years.

Family members tell me his mind is gone, burned out by pills and rage.

Hanging out with Satch was as natural for me as picking up a hitchhiker on the reservation.

Back in Spokane, I mention that I picked up a hitchhiker and I realize I’ve done something people consider dangerous.

I don’t know how to explain that picking up a hitchhiker on the reservation is no big deal.

To me, it’s as natural as looking up at the Mission Mountains and wondering if I’ll ever really return.