I found myself once again leaving my beloved Indian reservation that blustery March morning, but an unspoken realization that my circle would soon be complete carried me forward. After saying the proper and sometimes emotional farewells to my family and the mountains, I climbed into the van and headed eastward across the rolling prairie to New York City. Seeking a positive way in which to occupy the many traveling hours ahead, the historian in me began to record my perceptions and thoughts and to describe the beauty of our spectacular country. After a few hundred miles and many hours of constructing this journal, a theme began to emerge. As various sites and geological features passed the van’s windows, I noted and commented on them and fitted them into the grand scheme of things. For example, down the road are two rocks that have been moved to their present site from what is called the Cree (Indian) Crossing of the Milk River. They are shaped like kneeling buffalo and are part of a larger distant group. The sign by the road says “Sleeping Buffalo Rock.” They are now considered sacred, and Indian people stop there and pray. Further on are the two Porcupine Creek names that figured in determining the boundaries of the Fort Peck Indian Reservation long ago. Later, I passed the Garrison Dam, which flooded Indian land on the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation. Later still, I passed the Red River of the north, as well as the Sauk Centre, the Missouri River, Illinois, and so on; these names and places are filled with past and present Indian history. It became obvious that Indian people have been here a long time and that we have left our proud imprint upon the face of this continent. As I considered these things, it occurred to me that the eyes and mind that were observing these things now were not always so filled with Indian history and the pride such things evoke. Long ago, I was a markedly different person.