On 12 May 1860, a battle erupted in the Pyramid Lake vicinity between Northern Paiute and their Shoshone and Bannock allies and white settlers from the Nevada (then Utah Territory) communities of Virginia City, Carson City, Genoa, and Silver City. The Paiute War (also Pyramid Lake War) was what I consider a symptom of strained relationships between Native peoples and white settlers over the scarce resources of the harsh high desert of the Great Basin. Economic, cultural, and political clashes invariably define the history of relationships between Native and non-Native peoples in this country, and often a smaller incident would lead to much larger conflagrations.

Wanna know what the heck this has to do with basketball? Read on!

In the case of the Pyramid Lake War, two local white traders (brothers, apparently) from Williams Station, a stage and hang-out spot in the region, kidnapped two twelve-year-old girls (sisters) from the Paiute. They raped the girls and then hid them near Williams Station. Well, such a thing most assuredly causes bad blood, and sure enough, a group of Indians, including the girls’ father, came to find them. Find them they did, at Williams Station, where the Indians killed the two traders, along with 3 other whites. In the hysteria that ensued, white settlers raised a militia from the nearby communities of Virginia City, Silver City, Genoa, and Carson City. They chased the Indians to a spot along a river but were soundly defeated. It was the single greatest loss of life for Anglo Americans in a violent confrontation between Native peoples and Anglos in 69 years.

A month later, the settlers raised another militia, this time with some 500 volunteers from California, and tried again. Vastly outnumbered, the Paiute forces retreated, leaving the door open for further non-Indian settlement. Such are the vagaries of history.

I’m standing on a bluff overlooking a ribbon of water below. I have a bit of shade, from the historical marker that was erected back in the 1950s, from the look of it, that briefly talks about the two battles that define the Pyramid Lake War. This is vast landscape, this Great Basin desert. Streaks of green line the banks of the river but beyond that, the palate is mottled yellows, browns, and grays. Though I could probably get to that river easily, distances are deceptive in the heat and I know it’d take me twice as long as I estimate. Coach NM and assistant coach J point downstream and tell me that the Paiute fishery is over there. I think about that for a moment. Fish. Desert. Does not compute. But the Pyramid Lake Paiute are traditionally fisherfolk and in the lake you’ll find cui-ui, a type of sucker fish that spawns like salmon. A tribal elder at the museum tells me later that it’s the only place in the world you’ll find this fish and in the Paiute language (the dialect the Pyramid Lake Paiute speak), the term the Paiute use to call themselves means “cui-ui-eaters.”

J interrupts my thoughts and points at the historical marker. “This is why,” she says, “the sports rivalry between Virginia City [NV] and Pyramid Lake is so strong.” I look at her, surprised. For real? I ask. The rivalry’s based on actual historical events? She nods and Coach NM offers a little smile. “Everybody here and there knows why there’s a rivalry. It’s the game of the season and nobody misses it.” I’m a little thrown about that, as I had never really considered, I suppose, the ways sports rivalries develop.

We get back into J’s Jeep Cherokee (the irony not lost) and head toward the Pyramid Lake Museum, where I’ll be talking to tribal elders and the tribal chairman himself. On the way, we stop at a convenience store, yellowed cinderblock hunkered in the heat. A soft-spoken Indian man is clerking it, and he and my hostesses trade good-natured jibes and comments. I’m looking through the glass of the coolers, debating Gatorade or iced tea. I make a stupid choice, I’ll find out about 8 hours later, and reach for the tea. Back in my hotel room that night, wracked by headache, nausea, and slight chills brought on no doubt by heat exhaustion and some dehydration, I’ll think: “GATORADE, DUMB-ASS!”

But right now, I’m reaching for the tea when three whites come in, all in their early 20s. The two men look like local rancher-types, and one wears a battered straw cowboy hat. Their female cohort is a Daisy Duke to their good ol’ boy mannerisms. They yell and hoot at each other across the store, and gather around the beverage coolers. Coach NM and J are chatting with the clerk and the whites get in line to pay for their assortment of Cokes and Gatorades. They don’t say a word to the clerk. They don’t even look at him, instead directing their attention to each other. I’m in line behind them and as one of the guys reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, he catches my eye. I smile at him and nod and in his expression I see his assessment almost instantly. Unknown white person in the company of 2 Indians. He turns away quickly, pays, and the three of them leave, just as loudly as when they came in. I’m relieved when they get into their beat-up white truck and drive away, peeling out in a haze of dust. J, Coach NM, and I pay for our beverages and pile back into the Jeep headed for the museum and I think, on the way over, about the weight of history and the legacies it leaves in generations who continue to live on the borders created in culture contact and conflict.

At the museum,

I meet R, Coach NM’s coach. He’s also staff at the museum and he tells me the same story about the Pyramid Lake War and how it formed the sports rivalry between Virginia City and Pyramid Lake. “It’s always the game of the season,” he says solemnly. I talk also to a tribal elder who tells me a story about how the raccoon got his black eyes and the skunk his stripes. He tells this to me in Paiute first, and I’m caught up in the melodic rhythm of the phrasings and how he uses the inflections to convey mood. He then tells the story in English and I think that it sounds better in Paiute. He, too, tells me about the war and how it shaped the sports rivalry. He, like practically every other Native person I’ve met thus far on this trip, either played or still plays basketball.

The tribal chairman arrives, looking slightly harried. He offers a smile and a shrug and makes a comment about tribal politics. He’s about 42, still athletic. His glossy black hair is streaked by strands of gray. He has it pulled back in a ponytail and in his quiet, thoughtful demeanor I see a man who can arrange compromises between rocks. He tells me his term is up in December. I ask him what he’ll do if he’s not reelected and he laughs. He holds an M.A. in hydrology and with that, he says, he’ll go work on the contentious water issues that plague the Western states.

He then shifts the topic abruptly and says that he’s so proud of Coach NM and what she’s doing with the team she’s taking to NABI. “Sports are good,” he muses aloud. “But sports and strong academics are better. I go around and around with the principle at the high school about that. When I went to college back in the day, I had to take remedial reading courses to get caught up. And even today, our students face the same kinds of issues. What’s going on in our schools?” He’s a little frustrated, I sense, because even though he knows the value of sports–he, too, played basketball for Pyramid Lake–he doesn’t think JUST basketball will get Indian students into college and keep them there. Coach NM nods in agreement. She knows the battles that Indian students face when they leave the relative safety of the Rez and go out into the unknown. She tried a year at Haskell University in Lawrence, Kansas, when she was 18 but returned to Pyramid Lake. “At least I knew enough to coach,” she tells me with a hint of regret in her voice.

The chairman then tells me the story of the Pyramid Lake War and how one year his daughter’s music recital fell on the day that the basketball game between the Pyramid Lake and Virginia City boys’ team occurred. So, he says, with a little twinkle in his eyes, “I kept sneaking out to the car to listen to it on the radio. OH, was that a game. Down to the last seconds.” R breaks in then. “And we won.” Coach NM and J nod sagely.

It’s nearly 3 by then and I get back into J’s jeep. Coach NM tells me that she knows some of her players don’t have basketball for blood like she does, but, she says, “I try to take the talent I see here and give it focus and discipline with drills and technique. To me, talent is a good thing. But you can only get so far with it. If you combine it with drive and discipline, you can apply those lessons to everything.” J then turns around from the driver’s seat and looks at me. “Wanna go to the Lake?” Absolutely, I say. Thank you.

Hope you stick around. Beginning Monday the 21st, I’ll be at NABI watching hoops and the next post will deal with that. Thanks a bunch for stopping by!

Posted on July 18th, 2008 by Andi
Filed under: Andi's Take, Life, Work