Jason Beaver drove 5 hours from his hometown in Oklahoma in October, through the vast, scrubby grasslands of Southeast Colorado, to reach a quiet cluster of cottonwood trees rising from the plains outside the town of Eads.
That cottonwood grove near a zig-zagging bend in Big Sandy Creek marks the spot where, on November 29, 1864, U.S. Army soldiers killed hundreds of civilian Native Americans鈥� many of them women, children and the elderly鈥攂reaking a promise made to the village of Cheyenne and Arapaho people that they would be left in peace. The Sand Creek Massacre was one of the darkest moments in Colorado history.
Now preserved as a National Historic Site, is also sacred ground鈥攁 gathering spot鈥攆or the descendants of the people who once lived and died there.
Twenty-three-year-old Beaver had been there before.
He slipped on his sneakers, gave his legs a quick stretch and zipped up a bright yellow reflective safety vest before converging with the dozens of similarly outfitted young people practicing their war cries.
Beaver is Cheyenne. Others in the group were from the Arapaho tribe. Most of them descended from the victims of the 1864 attack. They all traveled to the site鈥攕ome from as far away as Wyoming, Montana and Oklahoma鈥攆or the , a 200-mile ceremonial route through the wind and dust of eastern Colorado.
鈥淲e鈥檙e all going to do one mile and then we鈥檙e going to trade off with the next group,鈥� Beaver explained shortly before the start of the run, which was set to last several days. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like a relay race. We鈥檙e all collectively putting together the 20 miles a day.鈥�
He took a deep breath, contemplating the exertions to come.
鈥淚 can definitely feel the difference in elevation,鈥� he said. 鈥淭here's going to be a difference when I run. But I'm sure I'll be alright.鈥�
Otto Braided Hair, of the Northern Cheyenne, addressed the crowd of young runners and their supporters and chaperones, telling the story of the massacre.
鈥淣ovember 29, 1864, this was a chief鈥檚 camp,鈥� he said. 鈥淭he chiefs of the Cheyenne have a responsibility to take care of the orphans. If somehow a child or even a widow, an elder, doesn't have any place to go, they go to the chief. That's why there were so many females and children and elders here.鈥�
Instead of a starting pistol, the run began with the of White Antelope, a Cheyenne chief who was gunned down during the massacre. Tribal elders circled around a large drum, beating a steady pulse and chanting in unison.
鈥淥nly the rocks last forever,鈥� Braided Hair said, translating the words of the song that followed the pack of runners taking off down the dusty road. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what White Antelope sang. We use it when people are making their journey back to the other side. Back to the happy hunting grounds.鈥�
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鈥淔or the healing of our people鈥�
For the Cheyenne and Arapaho, the massacre was a major trauma that changed their people鈥檚 history. Entire populations were separated from their homeland and scattered.
鈥淎fter the massacre, it destroyed negotiations (between white and Native Americans),鈥� Braided Hair said. 鈥淣ow Northern Cheyenne are in Montana, Northern Arapaho in Wyoming, and the other half, Southern Cheyenne and Southern Arapaho are in Oklahoma. And we have just now started gathering back together, coming back. Coming to know one another.鈥�
Many tribal members say they still feel the pain as an open wound.
鈥淭he way I was raised, my grandmother would tell the stories at our dinner table, tell us the stories before we went to bed and you could see the tears,鈥� said Cheyenne historian Greg Lamebull. 鈥淭he emotions are still there. My grandmother's mother slept with her clothes on. She slept with her moccasins next to her bed. My grandfather and my grandmother slept with his boots and her shoes next to the bed in case we were ever attacked again. They didn't want to be caught like they did at Sand Creek with no clothes on. That's how deep the trauma went. And even today I sleep with my boots next to my bed.鈥�
The tribes got together to start the run soon after efforts to secure National Historic Site status started in 1998.
鈥淚t's for the healing of our people, which is far from complete,鈥� Lamebull explained.
But 2020 marked another rupture. The Healing Run was called off that year, another casualty of the COVID-19 pandemic. Its funding was cut from tribal budgets and never restored. For years, it seemed like the Healing Run would become yet another tradition lost to history.
鈥淲hen we stopped in 2020, there were over 700 people here,鈥� Lamebull said.
People came from all over the world to run in solidarity with the tribes.
鈥淭he Cheyenne and Arapaho brought nearly 200 runners and chaperones and participants and elders to the run,鈥� Lamebull said. 鈥淎nd that was the last time we ran together.鈥�
But this year, the urge to run was rekindled. Private donations came into the Sand Creek Massacre Foundation to fund the event. Even the , a historical preservation and culture society for the nearby World War II-era Japanese internment camp, stepped up with financial support and sent runners from their own community to participate.
鈥淭his run means a lot because it's the first one we've had since it was discontinued,鈥� Lamebull said.
Cleansing the path
During his second mile of the day, Joshua Beaver showed up like a leader. Holding his pace with the weakest runners, he assumed the voice of encouragement.
鈥淓xpand your chest. Open up your lungs, let yourself breathe,鈥� he coached a younger runner struggling to catch her breath. 鈥淲e鈥檒l be alright, we can make it.鈥�
Their long route was designed to retrace the path of the U.S. Army soldiers retreating after the ambush.
鈥淭hey butchered our people,鈥� Lamebull said. 鈥淭hey cut the fetuses from the stomachs of the mothers, and they cut the body parts up and they tied them to their horses and to their uniforms.鈥�
The cavalry paraded those gruesome war trophies all the way from the killing fields back to the seat of government in Denver.
鈥淭he spirits that came from those people were left on that trail. That鈥檚 the trail that we鈥檙e going to be running,鈥� Lamebull said. 鈥淎long the path (the runners are) going to pray and they鈥檙e going to run and they鈥檙e going to cleanse the blood and the memories from the people that were taken back.鈥�
That cleansing is something 20-year-old Alliana Brady, also there to run, experienced the last time she participated, before the pandemic.
鈥淧hysical exercise helps heal whatever mental stuff we have going on,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t helps us get those positive brain chemicals going. And that mixed with all the spiritual stuff that we do, it just makes it a really powerful experience.鈥�
She also described a strong connection to the past.
鈥淥ne of the first years I ran, I was nervous because I'm not really a running type,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 just kept praying and it made the run easier. I felt energized by my ancestors. I felt them, felt them through me as I took each step.鈥�
Making his way along that same path, Joshua Beaver also took strength from the ancestors鈥� stories.
鈥淲henever you鈥檙e starting to feel those pains and those, struggles during the mid-run, you just got to think about what our ancestors went through,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 be tired now, I can鈥檛 be hurting like this because they didn鈥檛 get a choice to stop. 鈥淭hey didn鈥檛 get a choice to breathe.鈥�
