Standing Rock Cleanup Crew: the True Story

I was hoping I could get ten warm bodies to Standing Rock before the eviction on February 22, 2017. Ten people, from all the friends who had expressed interest and all the people who had been there and were feeling a call to go back in the final days of Oceti Oyate: the frontline NO DAPL encampment. I was hoping I could raise $11,000 to cover plane tickets for those ten warm bodies, rent a monster truck, a passenger van, and a couple recovery nights at the Prarie Knights Casino ten miles down the road from Oceti. Instead I raised just over $2,000 which went to help myself and one other activist get there, rent a monstrous truck for 10 days, buy supplies needed for the breakdown, tobacco for the folks at camp, and some financial support for the family who ran Oglala Kitchen, in a shocking turn of events on the day of the eviction. To everyone who contributed, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Every single dollar went towards helping clean-up in those final, epic and challenging days of Oceti Oyate.

I knew a lot of the water protectors who returned to camp to help in the final days. There were the Veterans Respond, the group at Red Lightning (who built the Dome which was used for many a meeting throughout its service), my dear friends with Digital Smoke Signals, who ran an epic operation of drone flights all over DAPL territory and a nonstop media production unit, Max Mogren and his road warriors who spent their days throwing hay on the roads in their noble attempts to keep them passable, and of course the familiar faces who had stayed on the ground for months, their cheeks weathered from frost and eyes bright with the innumerable sacred moments camp life provides: an epoch had passed since I’d been there two months before. Still, there were not enough hands. There were not nearly enough hands. People were evacuating and situating their own camps in new locations. There were two new camps at Sacred Stone known as 7th Generation and Eagle’s Nest, though these would meet their own demise just days after the military occupation of Oceti when BIA agents sent in by the Standing Rock Sioux Tribal Counsel forced their evacuation. Then there was the Cheyenne River or Four Teepees camp located just down the road on 1806 which was the only camp on safely leased property, with a population cap of 75.

We entered in a sacred way, and I got to know Robert White Mountain, as we made ties together for a beautifully hot, full, and long sweat that lasted past midnight. The prayer was powerful, intense, and strong. The weather, which had every structure iced into the ground, took a turn for the much warmer after certain geo-engineering. On my first day I helped the folks at Red Lightening free the dome from ice, and pull off the cover, a beautifully cinematic moment that took a crew of 6 eight hours to produce, and a team of 30 to actually pull off in the final moments. All day as I hacked into the ice I noticed planes flying above us, a chris-cross of chemtrails over the sky. Soon the temperature rose by 20 degrees, and the entire camp became mud. It was a good thing I rented the truck because it was one of the few working vehicles in the final days. And during our endless journeys back and forth across the mud lake, even it got stuck three times. It was used as a tow truck, it was used to evacuate a yurt to South Dakota, it was used to move wood burning stoves, and teepees, and food and gear to higher ground and out of camp. To be frank, most of the white allies seemed to have themselves pretty situated. Many of the indigenous families who had been there for months had less resources available to help with the evacuation. Also, collectively, folks did not know where to turn our attention.

Much useful energy was diverted in setting up new and beautiful camps that would soon be lost and preparing for the coming potentially violent military occupation, and less than optimal amounts of energy were focused on actually evacuating sacred objects and valuable gear. People were there in many capacities, doing important work on many fronts. I turned my attention to helping the Oglala, who had been promised a crew that seemed to never show up, too busy in their own operations at Eagle’s Nest. So we cobbled together volunteers and took down the most important structures, including a sacred longhouse, packed together the most important belongings, and moved them into two little houses on the hill above the flood-plane, Grandma Dorothy insisting they would stay past the eviction. I spent hours with trash bags by the river, finding Matter Out Of Place everywhere. You could spend an entire day just towing people out of the mud, it was that thick, the paths dangerous even in four wheel vehicles. Once the Army Corps brought in the heavy machinery, any hope of passing through at all was completely demolished. I was a road warrior, who drove like a maniac, surfing the mud like a monster truck derby, and praying every single time that I could make it to dryish ground by the sacred fire. We needed that truck.

The trailer I fundraised for and brought with team Sustain Standing Rock in early December became home again for those days. It sat on the horn, surrounded on all sides by lakes of mud. And as the weather shifted it became clear it needed a new home, or it would be stuck and impounded on eviction day. On what was truly the last morning with any ice over the mud, Joe, the head of construction, helped us tow her out. We practiced our route and went for it, getting all the way to the South Gate exit before his bumper fell loose on his trusty work truck. With a smile and a kick to the old rusted bumper he laughed that he was glad not to have to pull anyone else out of the forsaken mud. Of course at that very moment an elder drove by and offered to get our dear Canadian Bacon up to the Four Teepees Camp, and I gave him an entire pack of American Spirit Organics, like gold. So we unhitched her again, and set her up, door facing east, in a patch of corn and horse manure at the new campgrounds. She is safe, and currently residing in South Dakota, where a No KXL Camp is in the planning phase. It’s not official yet, but keep an ear out for a Keystone camp on Res Land, coming soon.

Every day there were meetings on the bridge with the Army Corps of Engineers, representatives from the Governor’s office and with Holy Elk, our chosen go between. She is such a brave warrior, a protector to the highest, that I will always admire and send thanks to. Through the end she stood tall and advocated for the most peaceful and humane outcome. I went to a few of the meetings, us relating human to human, every day the same response. The eviction date stood. Despite the weather, despite our seemingly miraculous progress considering the lack of people, despite the fact the flood they predicted was nowhere near, despite the fact that elders and children had no place to go, despite treaty rights, despite the first amendment of the constitution. In spite of everything, 2/22 was it, no matter what.

There had been so many false threats in the months leading up to 2/22, and many folks did not believe the camp would be successfully shut down. But as the situation became clearer, a steely gaze, a prideful prayer, fell into the eyes of those who chose to remain. They would come, the men with the guns and the tanks would come and many, many, would stand, even in the face of certain arrest and possible violence. The time around the sacred fire became absolutely precious, the gift of tobacco and sage, a salutation. The end of something can be so very, very beautiful and each of us soaked our moments up, tucking them away for safekeeping inside our hearts. There were two nights of no sleeping and ceremony for me in those precious ten days. There were two nights in a hotel, and three showers. There were countless hugs, countless bags of potato chips (that’s what you get for camping with a Vegan in the Dakotas), fry bread and the most tender Buffalo Stew you’ve ever had.

On the last night I stayed late by the pow-wow at Two Kettles Camp, the drum a constant heartbeat there. In the wee hours I walked with a friend around the many bonfires burning across the plain, offering tobacco. I ran into Sonya who I knew from the Taos Pueblo Camp during my first trip, and we shared laughter and courage, her camp close enough to the DAPL lights that you could have shouting matches across the line, and they would. As the first crest of sunrise came up we were greeted by snow. I prayed by myself on the icy river. Two giant Hogons burned to the ground. I had friends that were supposed to be sleeping in one, so I ran to it in a panic, but was told the fire was controlled. However the tarpees behind the structure hadn’t been cleared and I woke up two friends of mine that were sleeping in them. It felt dangerous to me. Fires started all across camp, people choosing to burn structures rather than have them desecrated by the armed forces. We prayed the morning in at the seventh generation kitchen, and word had it that the very sacred White Buffalo Calf Woman Pipe and bundle was praying with us that day, for the first time in over 100 years. We passed messages person to person throughout the morning, as anyone seen to be a leader could be up for felonies for “inciting a riot” and we were under constant surveillance. There would be a safe-zone, there would be ample time to get out. The authorities were playing nice. We certainly all held a very strong and clear prayer.

I had been tasked with getting some youth to South Dakota, and it involved me borrowing a car to drive up the road and retrieve my truck, then driving on. I had left the rental outside of camp in case the road block turned hard in the morning. The Oglala packed up the last of their belongings and we got Robert White Mountain’s trailer out of the mud, everything seemed squared away except for the camp Love Water Truck, which would end up being impounded. When I had stopped by to tow it out two days before no one was there, and so it goes… The kids had to get the last of their things out, and I went to the sacred fire for the prayer and walkout. My dear friend Uncle Raymond Kingfisher had us in tears with his eloquence. Grandmother Dorothy plastered our cheeks with mud and buffalo blood. We sang and circled together, then we marched out the north gate and down the road, heads held high, tears tucked just behind the eyes. I held the line to keep the media back, facing the drummers and singers, holding space for them, walking backwards, the moment seared into my heart like a brand.

I barely noticed the ambulances go by, but as the march concluded I ran the long road to the North Gate, looking for my people, ready to leave before the 2 PM deadline. Then I heard the terrible news, that two of the children from Oglala camp had been injured badly in a structure fire. From what I was told, they were inside one of the tarpees (a tipi made out of plywood and thick plastic) getting some last things, and it had exploded in flame. Their relative was nearby and pulled the 17 year old girl out, putting her in the mud, but she had bad burns all over her face. The ten year old boy had burns on his face and hands. They had been taken to Bismark in an ambulance. The boy’s father and sister were still in camp. I of course offered to drive them to the hospital. I was enraged. I ran out into the mud-field, crying out in fury. How could folks be so careless, why was it children that had to be hurt? I screamed loudly and wanted to throw rocks, to run to the crowd in the distance and yell how fucked up they were. I was called back by a sister who calmed me down, breathing deeply with me. I had to help now.

At the hospital the family wasn’t allowed in to see the boy for quite some time. The girl had been airlifted to a special burn unit in Minnesota, and neither of her brothers had been let in the helicopter. It took over an hour for the boy’s father to see him, and everyone was questioned by federal agents. I called legal and got them out there to stop the intimidation. It was an accident, but the agents were very concerned about booby trapped structures and weapons at Oceti. There were none. Finally I drove the gang back to a South Dakota safe house, got a couple hours of shuteye, and then drove back to Bismarck for my early morning flight. The military invasion held off until the 23rd. On the 22nd they violently sent independent media running: arresting four and badly hurting one journalist’s hip when they threw him to the ground. Many of the elders left the next morning, as the tanks lined up and drove down the hill. There was plenty of time to escape if you wanted. However Grandmother Regina and protectors from the Veterans stayed: my friends Evan Duke and Ed Higgins arrested for her stand. The fire-keepers stayed, and there was fantastic visual media coverage by Unicorn Riot, who live-streamed for tens of thousands through a Facebook feed that day. I encourage you to watch and see for yourself the level of force used to arrest the 44 souls brave enough to stay until the very end.

I was on a plane, watching through my phone, the final moments of Oceti Oyate. And though we scattered like seeds, the movement continues. The seed planted in those final days of camp grows in the hearts of everyone who shared those days together. Now we move towards other pipeline camps and to divestment campaigns in each of our own places called home, in each step we take onward. All of us (and this includes you) have waters and lands to protect, everywhere that we travel. The fossil fuel industry, supported by the US Government and Military, is coming for you: they are poisoning waters across the country and de-regulating our environmental protections. The indigenous tribes are bearing the brunt of the force now, but they will come for everyone. I encourage every single person who has read this far to think about what they can do to protect the waters and lands that give us all life, and how we will stand up for a future for our coming generations. I know that this is a cause I will carry with me for the rest of my days, in every step that I take from this day forward. The water protectors at Standing Rock will always be water protectors, we have been moved, and we will stand. Will you stand with us?