Never underestimate the universe’s brilliant, complex, and astonishing perversity.
Salish Elder Tony Incashola and long-ago friend and historian Bob Utley both died on June 7. Their deaths–and their lives– shadowed June. I knew each in different circumstances. Different geographies. Different times. Both devoted their lives to history and cultural and historic preservation. Both enjoyed the respect of many followers. And they were—in their passions and professions—diametrically opposite.
In an interview two years ago, Bob declared himself to be a Custer addict. In his 92 years, he published 23 books on the history of the American West. All but one circled around the color and conflicts of the 19th century. And much about the U.S. government and the U.S. Army as they did their level best to eradicate the native inhabitants of the American West or at least corral them into unforgiving patches of land. Although some of Bob’s prodigious output focused on Native leaders and their heroic, ill-fated fight for survival (Sitting Bull and Geronimo in particular), Bob’s life’s work began and ended in the same place: a near adoration of the men in blue uniforms.
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Tony was born on the Flathead Reservation in western Montana. Raised by his grandparents in material poverty but the cultural richness of traditional Selis-Qlispe circumstances. His mother died when he was a little over a year old. Tony—Antoine—grew up immersed in his traditional native language.
In 1966, a 20-year-old Tony came back from his Army deployment in Vietnam to bring his brother’s body home. By 1974, Tony was married and beginning to raise a family. And, at the behest of a Salish elder who had the foresight to realize how endangered the Salish language and lifeways were, Tony began his life’s work to preserve the language and culture of his people.
Initially, he struck out on his own to visit land areas sacred to the tribe (much of which had been taken from them by the U.S. government); identify traditional foods and medicines; follow early trails; conduct interviews with elders; begin recording voices and vocabularies that were on the edge of extinction. All the while, with an archivist’s instincts, taking careful notes.
In the later 1970s, as governmental entities began their required consideration of cultural places and values, Tony’s work and foresight morphed into a Salish Culture Committee. He directed the Committee most of the rest of his life. The Committee and its staff continued to document historic places, record the Salish language and Salish language speakers, unearth and catalog historic photos, find ways to engage Salish young people in the preservation of their culture.
And as Montana worked to implement its constitutional requirement to introduce all students to Native history and culture, Tony and the Committee became educators. Helping others select information, stories, and images that would introduce Montanans to Salish lifeways.
Every single Culture Committee responsibility put Tony in the position of being an advocate, a spokesperson, a mediator, a messenger, a counselor for his people. Often for the whole tribe. Often in the midst of racial and political and land management tension.
Tony was one of the first indigenous leaders I learned to know when I came to Montana in 1980. Over the years, our Preservation Office worked with every Montana tribal culture committee and many native educators. There was frequently an edge in our dealings. Standard archaeological practices often threatened traditional values. Landscapes were as important to indigenous people as our cathedrals—a concept hard to wrangle within regular historic preservation protocols. We stumbled over each other’s vocabularies and strategies for handling meetings and meeting preservation law.
Through all of that, in ways that set an example for all other tribal contacts, Tony remained calm, not angry; gentle not indignant. Willing to go the extra mile in explanations. Able to grasp ways to integrate tribal beliefs and practices with those of federal and state preservation regulations.
Tony was invariably soft-spoken, articulate, able to perceive the framework of a meeting or an audience and meet people where they were. He remembered individuals he had worked with—and their particular personal and professional situations. His passion caught fire with other Salish educators and preservationists. Unassuming, patient, humble, courteous, Tony led always by example.
All of this while Tony raised an expanding family—welcoming children from a variety of circumstances. While he found time and energy to follow local and state football and basketball teams. While he took time to be in touch with people who needed a word of encouragement. I was the recipient of one such note and call.
During Covid, Tony adopted Zoom and other electronic ways of carrying out his work. Right up until the end. “’He loved his work,” Peone-Stops [a Culture Committee colleague] said. “He didn’t think of it as a job; he saw it as his responsibility. And he was happy to do it to ensure our people know who they are and know where they come from.’” And from his hospital bed: “When culture committee staff visited in the hospital the day before he died, he shared with them one last piece of advice, ‘Continue.’” +
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The coincidence, the fluke of Bob and Tony’s deaths—on an early June day as our world doubles over in paroxysms of war and famine and flood and fire and tyranny—caught my heart. Startled me. I can wrench only some wisdom from that twist of fate–if that’s what it was. For sure, the fluke provided me with the opportunity to understand the gift of friendship I’d been given by two disparate humans. Maybe, maybe most of all, to realize the special good fortune of finding myself in Montana and being given the opportunity to learn about and from this landscape’s original inhabitants. ©
+Nora Mabie, Indigenous Community Reporter, Lee Newspapers
