Searching for Crazy Horse

By Kurt Philip Behm

Award wining author Kurt Philip Behms third novel, Searching For Crazy Horse, is the seminal work of a forty-year search for the truth within himself. While touring the Rocky Mountains by motorcycle since 1967, he started to hear a voice from deep inside himself talking to him, and saying things that at first he could not understand.

The great Crazy Horses words were confusing when first spoken, but once heard clearly, they allowed the author to break through his own limitations, and finally set himself free.

Ride with them together, as they travel the high mountains along the spine of the Great Divide. You will come away with a better understanding of what it meant to be truly free, in a time when the American landscape was big enough to hold all of ones imagination within its heart.

And where the true magic within a dream, was in dreaming it together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467035415

Kurt Philip Behm

Best selling author and renowned poet, Kurt Philip Behm, has been writing both poetry and prose since 1971. In this sixth installment of his historical fiction series, The Sword Of Ichiban, William Broderick Simpson III (Cutty) takes a radically new and dangerous approach to turning the tide of World War 1.

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Contents

Dedication

A Special Thank You

The Readers Indulgence:

Introduction

The Awakening

The Calling

The Invitation

The Initiation

The Connection

Two Parents

The Revelation

The Evocation

The Celebration

The Return

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Tashunka Witko, the Great Chief Crazy Horse of the Oglala Sioux. It is a highly personal experience of how his voice has spoken to me, as I have traveled the plains and mountains of the Rocky Mountain West.

His message is still carried on the wind, across the mountains and prairies he loved, and can be heard by those willing to stop—and then to listen.

In an attempt to reach your eyes and ears through his great voice, I began to write.

Though sometimes transcendent and contradictory, this book is often not spoken by me. It is a humble attempt to pen the teachings of the Great Sioux Chief, through his spirit and then context, as spoken by him.

A Special Thank You

A special dedication of thanks to Dr. Frank Tate, who taught me in Iowa years ago that by looking west, I would then see beyond myself, to places and things that he could already see.

His gift of promise, and his belief in who I would eventually become, allowed me to take that first step along a path that I still walk.

He walks beside me still…

The Readers Indulgence:

Searching For Crazy Horse was written in three styles, each one depicting the moods and feelings of a different ride through the West. It was early on in my searching that I heard the Great One whisper to me for the first time. He has continued to guide my travels for more than twenty-five years.

Some days were narrative in scope and are described factually. Other days were a mixture of feeling and events, and are written in a lyrical prose that covers more ground than the first.

The third style is Poetic, and tries in a small way to capture the magic of the great Crazy Horse’s voice in my ear.

The three styles get mixed throughout the book, as that was how his message revealed itself to me.

The rhythm of Crazy Horse’s words have their own cadence, and like the beating of a drum, unmistakable when heard. When caught up in their music, it is impossible for your mind to not get up and dance.

I hope the emotion and insight of his teachings speak through me to you, so we can both then listen differently, and together understand.

To Crazy Horse

Whose inroad to my perception

started a grand elocution,

And in finding his words,

I set myself free

Introduction

Crazy Horse And Me

There are warriors, and there are keepers of the warrior spirit. Crazy Horse was both. There are travelers, and there are those whose spirits go willingly but blindly to unknown destinations. I have also been both.

For twenty-five years I have been on a journey without a final destination, a direction really, an elevated wind-driven direction of the spirit, with motion and distance, marking the time and miles. This is the story of that search, a search for answers to questions never properly asked, a search to begin again what the spirit of a great man would teach me—a search for Crazy Horse.

The spirit of the great and reluctant leader of the Oglala Sioux casts an enormous shadow on not only Native America, but on the history of all America and people who have been willing to fight to be free. He was more than just a great leader; he was both noble and enigmatic, and his spirit remains fighting and defiant today, long after the battles can no longer be won. His people lost almost everything as a result of their struggle—everything except the spirit and legend of the greatest of all Sioux warriors, the immortal Crazy Horse.

For a generation I have searched the West, looking for the signs Crazy Horse has left for me to find. Believing them to be there was the only requirement for my search. At times, such as being in the Wind River at dawn, I have heard him clearly talking to me, pointing me onward and inward toward the deepest recesses of my soul.

His voice, as spoken to me then, still speaks to me now

This will be more than a story about Crazy Horse’s history, his legend within Sioux tradition, or even his battle honors. Instead, it will be the story of how his great spirit has driven one man to search half a continent, hoping to find himself inside the messages that the Great Chief has left behind. In spite of being both reclusive and insular, he went on to create the greatest legacy of his generation, or maybe the greatest legacy of any generation in our nation’s history.

He wore no war paint or war bonnet. He danced no war dance and took no scalps. He was, in fact, much bigger than that!

The Awakening

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‘Something called out to me, calling me back’

The Birthright Of Being Chosen

Some come into existence to be born and reborn in stages of increasing and decreasing mediocrity. Crazy Horse was not like that.

He was at once born a man for all ages, and at the same time a man born out of time. His blazing vision was trapped on the other side of the looking glass we call life. He understood without communicating, and felt without tears. He carried the words in his heart without the ability to form the letters to change them. He knew too much too soon, and there was quite often no one to tell, and even more often, no one to listen.

It seems that those living outside of time are the best equipped to deal with its fleeting. Whether it be Patton, Alexander the Great, or Winston Churchill, the truly great are caught in the rhythm of their own awakening, the beat getting stronger as the lyrics fade away, carrying inside them what others can no longer hear.

The question of time, how it applies, and its effect on great men, is often paradoxical and oxymoronic. They see time as something outside of themselves, something to be tolerated rather than embraced. Most insight and spiritual awakening in these men happens ‘in spite of time’ rather than because of it.

I believe that Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, and, to a lesser degree, Chief Joseph, were very much men of their time. They were great men, no doubt, but not capable of creating the same timeless spirit as Crazy Horse, in their three-dimensional worlds. A world not hampered by dimension was the one in which Crazy Horse already lived. He was alone with his feelings, alone inside himself, and many times desperately alone with the truth that his vision had foretold. I have felt this in his words and in the many times he has also left me isolated and alone, questioning within myself.

For Crazy Horse, the loneliness of the false truth becomes a room with no doors, where the present drags its sorrows into the future like a twisted birthright, with no way out. Men of all colors share this deformity in their nature and seem destined to repeat it, but there are the exceptions.

It is the exceptions that allow the world to hope, the exceptions that pass on their strength to the next generation, the exceptions that allow us all to dream.

Crazy Horse was all of that—and much more

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Even at such a young age,

I could feel my life being formed by two great forces.

My Birth Vision

Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania

Circa 1954

As a very young boy of not yet five, my vision came to me clearly, and it was as frightening and unsettling as anything my imagination could withstand.

My vision was of myself lying on an all-white table about to be sawed in half by two elderly Native Americans. They were Plains Indians, as I would later find out, and as afraid as I was of what they were about to do, I could not cry out.

The first time I had the dream it ended with my father entering the room dressed in his Marine Corps uniform and stopping the gruesome ceremony. At this point I woke up and was totally covered in sweat.

It was not until thirty years later that I read about Crazy Horse’s murder. My dream then would often return, and I would see the body being divided in half and placed in two caskets. It would then be carried in a northeasterly direction by relatives to an unknown burial spot.

I am in no way suggesting that I am in any form a reincarnation or relative of the Great Sioux War Chief. What I am saying is that for reasons known only to him, I believe he visited me in my dream, a dream that has reoccurred consistently, and in the same way, throughout my entire life.

In the beginning I had no idea of what the dream meant, other than it came in the form of a frightening and disturbing nightmare. Now, however, when the dream re-appears, I try to prolong it and look into the sad eyes of the couple getting ready to divide me in half.

This never works however, because their eyes are always down and I can only follow them as they leave, each carrying in their arms half of what they came in search of. I no longer question the source of this dream or its meaning. I instead treasure the fact that I have it. It has stayed with me for all these years and has forced me to try and understand its meaning, as I have traveled, wandered, re-questioned—and then grown.

I know this dream will be the next-to-last thing that I will see in this life.

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‘Why was it all so big, and I so small’

The Insignificance

Canyon de Chelly, Arizona

Fall, 1993

Why was it all so big and I so small? Why from the very beginning of my dream was the attraction so strong? Why was it that the closer I rode toward what I thought I wanted, the more insignificant I felt, and the more important everything around me seemed then to become?

Was it really those things around me, or the missing parts from inside myself that seemed to grow larger in the emptiness of such space and wonder? Maybe stepping outside of myself, a vision that Bearheart had foretold, would allow me for the first time to take that initial step back in, back inside a place that was now prepared to greet me—and call me by name.

I see my old self now in the false images of things that I once thought mattered, things that had clouded my sight and kept me from myself.

The great ‘Shiprock’ Monument lies ahead, and after checking the mileage, I know I have left Arizona. The old cowboy expression of Been riding for days, but the mountain gets no closer, hits home to me now. Riding all alone in this arid desert, I can more feel than see its power. It’s easy to understand why the Navajo worshipped here, and no life was complete without a pilgrimage to stand in its great shadow. No matter how much this mountain road dips and winds, the eyes of ‘Shiprock’ never waver, and they stay fixed on me in the brilliance of another New Mexico morning.

Small in my footprint, but growing larger in my understanding, I now feel more important and part of this place. This is a new feeling, replacing the empty, awestruck detachment that I always felt when passing here before. There are no small connections when such majesty reaches out to you. Small is only a term that we impose upon others, and only in our confusion, upon ourselves.

Never before would I have thought that I would have so loved the Navajo Nation, with the landscape flat, and the monuments towering high as reminders of how low most of us dwell. Until we finally feel our connection, we are indeed small—isolated from the Great Mystery and any chance at rebirth.

Like all of the West there is a magic here that is felt only within itself, and to become its visitor honors me if only for the shortest time. I realize now that by taking nothing back, I am given everything, as the image of ‘Shiprock’ is today even more vivid inside of me. Some things only become sharper in your understanding of them, and they of you. I can feel all preconceptions of this place lift from my body, as I stop the bike to look at the ancient ‘Petroglyph’ wall along the giant rock’s lower face.

The ancient figures seem to come alive and dance in motion for my amusement, and I strain hard to hear the music of what they may be trying to say. In silence, I walk away as I hear a voice speaking,

Who really is the ancient one on this wall of retrieval?

I know I see the leg of ‘Mudman’ move as I turn back and then look away, as the other Kachina dancers move in unison, and then back as before.

In a lucid awareness of where I am and of what might be happening, I point the bike North, back toward the high country and the mountains beyond. I’ve been in the desert for four days now, and in the distance I can hear the mountains of Colorado calling out to me.

The desert never says goodbye as you wander higher, knowing that time and temperature will force you back, her light always on. Like a faithful mistress she watches you leave, while knowing that you have to, but with her trousseau so deep inside you, she knows your future together is secure.

Darkness falls, as I pull the bike into South Fork, Colorado. Neither working town nor ski resort, it is lodged somewhere in-between. I walk my nightly ritual along its only road as the sun is setting, and my shadow is long. I once again would swear that I see the figure of ‘Mudman’ on the mountainside in the waning light. Darkness has again filled me with the wonder of being so high, and the sky becomes a symphony of light, as I walk beneath the Milky Way and head back toward the lodge.

In bed that night, I wonder about the contrast between the desert and the mountains. Sometimes feeling like a piece of thread, I travel through the eye of their needle. I look for that one stitch that will keep me married to them both, while trying to keep them connected in the fickleness of my conflicted wanderings.

If forced to choose between the two, then I choose not to. One cannot exist without the other, and neither can I.

I am thankful tonight to be a small speck of humanity within Creation’s bounty, and thankful to have at least one eye open to more than just myself. As the one eye looks, the other remembers how short is my duration. There is not much time left to seize all that is being offered to me now.

This morning, I left Canyon de Chelly through a back route never traveled. The main canyon road was closed because of mud. My detour took me high over a pass I had never seen or read about before. It was newly paved, and the grade was higher than I thought the bike could make. It was called ‘Grey Wolf’s Pass’ and I’ve not found it on any map or atlas. A good friend who lives nearby swears that it doesn’t exist. All I can say is that from the top, where two great states meet, ‘Shiprock’ called out to me in the distance, and in the importance of her calling, I stopped asking why!

The Calling

Visions and Dreams

Rosemont, Pennsylvania

The 1950s

As a young boy, the window in my bedroom, looked west, through a great woods. One that had once been home to a prominent Pennsylvania family who had built one of our nation’s greatest rail lines. It was looking out of my window and across its landscape that I first plotted my direction. This family now divided and having moved on, had left the woods as a reminder of their glory days. Much like the West of today, reminding us only of what used to be.

Looking westward through my window, I could feel both the pull and the attraction. Looking west, a child’s imagination was being drawn outside of itself. It was being formed into a much bigger sensibility, one which was raw and wild, like the early Westerns I watched on TV. I knew what I wanted, and I could also feel the emptiness inside myself calling out for what I had not yet become. Most importantly, I knew without a compass in which direction I would eventually go.

The West was the great picture frame holding the yet unpainted image of my life. Within its boundaries and borders, all the magic of my life would be contained. Its colors were vibrant, but there was also music within the canvas, the music of drums and chants, and the music of primeval beauty. It was the music of the Sioux People, the music of Crazy Horse, and it was the music of dreams.

Let’s begin together my search for Crazy Horse

It seems a far cry from the academic nature of the Grecian times of Plato and Aristotle, to the 19th Century life of a young Sioux Indian like Crazy Horse. They did have one major thing in common though, something Plato talked about many times, and that was the need to have free time in order to inspire free thought. Free time was necessary to be able to reflect and ask in your own language the important questions, such as, Who am I; why am I here, and what is this all about? Native American culture and religion, being both highly ceremonial and spiritual, also dealt with these questions. They also had the requisite free time to search for the answers.

Greatness within any person usually comes at a cost. The speakers of truth and the keepers of the flame often become uncomfortable reminders to those who are less committed to something greater. This often results in their being shunned or banished from everyday life, even by their own people, entirely to a life on the ‘outside’. This happened to Crazy Horse. His passion for a married woman and a singular belief in his own principles, kept him at odds with tribal leaders for much of his life. It wasn’t until the United States Army had intruded deep into Sioux lands, that Crazy Horse’s status within the tribe changed. Then, he was revalued as the fearless and uncompromising leader that history has written so much about, always putting the interests of his people above his own.

The great Winston Churchill was also one who was seen in this way. His dire warnings about the ultimate threat that Hitler and Nazi Germany would pose to the rest of Western Europe were very uncomfortable to the average British citizen, who could still remember the aftermath of the last great World War. Still, Winston Churchill was unrelenting with his message. Remaining true to his beliefs, his leadership was later critical during the Nazi bombardment, urging his people to fight on, making all the difference in the end. His courage in the face of overwhelming odds makes him the singularly greatest figure of the first half of the 20th Century, as Crazy Horse, it could be argued, was the greatest figure in the latter half of the century before.

Greatness, and the call to be great, is most times a serious burden to the person who hears its message, and then answers its call. Unshared, greatness can feel like a curse, resulting in feelings of isolation, banishment, and ultimate self-destruction. Society and literature are filled with the stories of people who have tragically taken their own lives or caused their own deaths by other means because of the tremendous weight this brings. The questions they wrestled with during their journeys seemed, in many cases, unanswerable. Many times, their struggles truly were unwinnable and were ultimately lost. Native America was just one example of this, but with several shining moments on the way to ultimate defeat. Crazy Horse’s light burned the brightest, while leading his people to glorious, if only temporary, immortality.

The pain of their reflection and in knowing what had to be done, often resulted in, and caused their demise. This could have been the result of their own actions, those of someone else, or because of the sheer weight of the task they had taken on. Some of history’s greatest leaders, many times, became the ultimate sacrifice in a final ceremony of courage and their refusal to give in. When his people called, Crazy Horse carried the pain of his own death inside his vision and still walked fearlessly to the end.

As his vision foretold, Crazy Horse was bayoneted as he was being held by one of his own people (Little Big Man). He was turning himself in to the U.S. Army, who was threatening to withhold winter rations from his people if he didn’t come in, and, in effect, starving his tribe. The buffalo were now gone, and he put aside his strong beliefs and refusal to compromise for the good of his tribe. And for this he would pay the ultimate price.

Many Indians were working at the fort, and they knew of Crazy Horse’s personal power and his great influence with ‘The People.’ Red Cloud was particularly sensitive to this. They had sold out for the cheap material things and false power, which a conquering force had offered. For bad whiskey and trinkets, many Sioux leaders had turned their backs on their own people and their own way of life. In the end, with their ultimate betrayal, they had turned their backs on themselves.

As a young boy, Crazy Horse had a vision of this event. He knew, or at least sensed in some way, what was going to happen when he walked unbowed through the gates of that fort. He did this in a selfless way, in service to something more important than just himself, believing that a greater power would ultimately sort it all out, even if his life hung in the balance.

His greatness and his sacrifice are what the historians now remember, but inside Crazy Horse there was something much more. Once physically dead, his spirit was then free of his body. He no longer had to act as a shield or ‘Shirt Wearer’ that would protect his starving people. His spirit could now wander to the places that while still alive he could not go. He was free to ask again the looming questions still unanswered, free to unravel and inspire our spirit, and free, finally, because of what he had become, to continue with us on the restless search for who we are.

With his death, he now belongs to all people, and no one group can claim him alone. His spirit joins in the great message of all warriors who have gone before, and hunts now only in the land of greater meaning. Here, the trail is now eternal, and here, his spirit is finally set free.

Crazy Horse is not alone in this distinction, but through me he tells his story. He tells of the great empty and open spaces, a story of their confiscation, and of those so connected to them. He tells of how a spirit was savagely ripped from the heart of a people living very close to their true identity, and the price for its loss that we’ve all ultimately paid.

He lived inside his vision while holding forever onto his dreams. The Path he walked, although now unmarked, is for all time.

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‘From the ancient elevations, the west called out to me’

Letting It Wash Over You

The Great Smoky Mountains

Spring, 1995

In many ways, life is about getting smaller, letting it wash