There I was in a mid-March snowstorm riding shotgun in a truck heading south through the Crow reservation in Montana. I made a stupid comment to break the silence: “Man, there is nothing out there.”
Crow member and my guide for the day, Emery Three Irons, politely corrected me: “There’s a lot out there.”
I saw an empty vastness. Three Irons saw a landscape of history and culture, and all of the splendor and pain attached to both.