It was around midnight. August 6, 1969. As we approached the entrance, we noticed that the large gate was ajar. So we pushed it open and drove in. The landscape was pitch black except for the headlights of my ’64 Ford Falcon Sprint. We passed the darkened visitors center, a small gated cemetery and we continued on — passing sporadic white stone markers indicating where George Armstrong Custer’s men fell – and were later buried – on that fateful June 25, 1876. We drove the winding road about 6 miles to the Reno-Benteen Battlefield area where a small contingent of Custer’s men survived for nearly 40 hours of constant attack. We pitched our bedrolls in the center of the tiny circular drive — beneath a star-filled sky – and dozed off. I woke up early – and sat watching the sun make its debut in the Eastern skies.

The Custer Battlefield experience was quite something. 261 of Custer’s contingent were slaughtered by thousands of Lakota Sioux, Arapaho and Northern Cheyenne. The only survivor of Custer’s regiment was a horse ridden by Captain Miles Keogh — Comanche. Comanche survived his wounds and lived until 1891. Today, Comanche is preserved and remains on display at the University of Kansas.

My experience on the Custer Battlefield was particularly memorable for another reason. When the sun was up, Bob (my fraternity brother) and I walked down toward the Little Big Horn River – where some of Major Marcus Reno’s men were detailed to repel the attack on their position. As we walked back to the small turnaround – we heard a rattle. And sure enough there was a giant rattlesnake curled and poised to strike. We backed away, took off our jackets – and held them in front of us. Walking very slowly. Listening. On our way back to the car. We did not want to be victims of nature on this sacred land.