I just finished reading My Life As an Indian (1907), a memoir written by J. W. Schultz. This was a fantastic and moving read. The story begins in the late 1870s, as a teenage Schultz leaves his family home in St. Louis on a steamship, bound for present-day Montana. He befriends a trader named Berry and is soon initiated in the ways of the western territories.

What follows is the story of Schultz’s life with the Blackfeet Nation. His account is full of interesting anthropological observations, although he was never trained in any academic field. Instead, he became friends and lived with the Piegan band, participating in many memorable experiences that are recounted in the memoir. It is also a touching love story.

While the cultural insight and historical value of the book alone make it a compelling read, the pathos and humanity of Schultz’s narrative make it truly wonderful. It is a beautiful combination of vitality, excitement, friendship, and love, with an underlying note of sadness that leaves one with a bittersweet taste.

Ah, me! Roll them back, you ruthless harvester of the years. Give back to me Nat-ah-ki and my youth. Return to us our lodge and the wide, brown, buffalo plains.