Not Dead Enough Read Free

tongue.
    I arrived at Celilo Village at quarter past one. It must’ve been a sellout crowd, because I had to park out near the highway and walk in on the frontage road. I knew lunch was scheduled for two, and the aroma of meat and fish being cooked over open fires greeted me at the edge of the village. Calling the place a “village” was a stretch, since what I saw was maybe a dozen manufactured houses jammed in on either side of a short dirt road off to my left. A single basketball hoop and a couple of dirt bikes leaning against the supporting pole were the only suggestions that kids lived there. On either side of the broad road, stakes and plywood forms gave me a sense of the shape of the village to come. It promised to be a real upgrade, but then again almost anything would be.
    I followed the rich aromas to the large wooden building that I took to be the longhouse. An elongated A-frame structure, it sported a set of huge, old-growth timbers that crossed at the roofline, tepee style. A small army of cooks was busy preparing lunch along one side of the building. I slipped into the front entryway, stood at the back, and scanned the standing-room-only crowd for Philip.
    I didn’t spot Philip but saw his father immediately. He was the one on stage wearing all the eagle feathers. He sat with the other tribal leaders next to an American flag and the four flags of the sovereign nations affected by the loss of the falls—Umatilla, Yakama, Nez Perce, and Warm Springs. Several white dignitaries sat with them, including a gray-haired man in military dress with lots of ribbons and medals. The brass from the Corps, no doubt. A man in a blue suit and red power tie stood at the podium, reading what I quickly realized was a proclamation from the Governor of Oregon. To my surprise, the words were refreshingly honest and forthright, and I found myself wanting to believe the promise that government had learned a lesson, that something like this could never happen today. I wondered.
    After a brief closing ceremony, the crowd emptied out and began queuing up for lunch.
    â€œCal. Good to see you, buddy,” Philip said as he emerged from the throng and met me with a fist bump. “How long you been here?”
    â€œOh, quite a while. Nice ceremony. Your dad was looking good up there.”
    Philip flashed a brilliant smile. He had turn-your-head looks but none of the vanity that could have generated. Black hair pulled back in a ponytail, a chin like a block of granite, and obligatory high cheekbones were all Paiute warrior. But his green eyes and narrow, almost delicate, nose came from his white mother. “Bullshit,” he said. “I saw you sneak in a few minutes ago.” He was still smiling. “Let me guess—car trouble?”
    I shrugged. “Give me a break. I did catch some of the Gov’s proclamation.”
    â€œImpressive speech, huh? Makes me confident that if you ever take our land again, you’ll do it with much more sensitivity.”
    â€œWell, don’t take our word for it. Make sure you get a signed treaty.”
    Philip threw his head back and laughed. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”
    We piled our plates high with salmon, venison, corn on the cob, and salad and sat down at a table, joining another party of three. The man I sat down next to extended his hand and said, “Hello, I’m Jason Townsend,” and then introduced us to the other two. Townsend was tall and blond and strikingly handsome. His yellow V-neck sweater with a button-down underneath, chinos, and spotless jogging shoes signaled a failed attempt at dressing down, Oregon style. He looked vaguely familiar to me. I scanned my memory banks but came up empty. “So, what brings you two to the commemoration?” he asked as we tucked into our food.
    Philip looked at me to answer Townsend’s question. “Well, Philip’s a member of the Confederated Tribes at Warm