The frozen river laid before them. Preventing any forward progress on the eight-hundred-fifty-mile journey, all on foot from their ancestral homes to an unfamiliar land never seen before. The hard winter of 1839 forced them to wait out the storm on the icy ground in almost white-out conditions. Looking up it was difficult to distinguish where the ground ended and the sky began. Through the blinding snow and whistling winds, he could barely make out the uneven terrain a few feet in front of him. The harsh flurries felt like hundreds of tiny needles hitting against their faces and exposed arms and feet.
The entire cluster of men, women and even children already tired and weak had yet another obstacle to overcome. His wife and child were already sickened with cold, hunger and disease as were the thousands of the misplaced indigenous peoples driven out, some at bayonet point with just the garments on their backs. Huddled together with his family trying to stay warm as best as they could, some of him wished the Great Spirit Above would take his wife and child to relieve their suffering. How much injustice and humiliation must one endure? As they all slowly walked, in a chant he would repeatedly ask himself, what was our crime? Their skin was dark. Their languages were different and strange. And their customs and spiritual beliefs were beyond most white men’s understanding. I would willingly lie down and die if I could stop this wrong.
With eyes closed he imagined the lush green forests and sparkling clean rivers under the hot sun where he was born and raised as was his father and his father before him. His beautiful wife singing as she harvested their planted corn for the upcoming winter and young son running in the field among the spring crops. It was truly their paradise. And yet they were forced to give up the ancestral land that they held so dear. Theirs was a proud and strong sovereign nation, working hard for generations and creating many cherished memories and traditions and it was all stolen from them.