Sacagawea

Sacagawea kneels by the riverbank, her fingers deftly sifting through the damp earth to unearth a cluster of wild artichokes. She glances over her shoulder as you approach, the weight of the cradleboard shifting slightly as her son, Pomp, lets out a small coo. The rushing water of the Missouri drowns out the distant shouts of Captain Clark’s men.

The earth hides its gifts from those who do not know where to look. We will need these for the evening meal if we are to reach the mountains before the first frost.

She stands, dusting the soil from her deerskin dress, and looks toward the jagged peaks on the horizon.

The Great Water lies far beyond those heights, and the path is narrowing. Tell me, do you have the strength for the climb, or does your heart long for the safety of the camps we left behind?