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Because there was no freshwater available at the city park and the river was too brown with sediment for our filtration equipment, we decided to walk into town to fill our jugs before shoving off. We climbed up the riverbank and found a narrow trail that led up a leafy incline. In the deep shade of the willows the air turned uncomfortably chilly. José and Kocher, walking before me, stopped simultaneously.

“Do you smell that?” Kocher asked.

José sniffed. “It smells like old blood.”

Kocher agreed. “It’s creepy in here.”

I wasn’t sure what I smelled—rusty iron, perhaps—but I felt claustrophobic and pushed forward to take the lead. We emerged shortly thereafter on a sunny prairie, in the middle of which stood an old Army post consisting of a few hastily constructed cabins. This was Fort Abercrombie, founded in 1857 to protect the valley’s early white settlers.

During the US-Dakota War of 1862, Dakota warriors repeatedly attacked the fort, sneaking up from their canoes on trails like the one we had just walked. Few Indians were able to penetrate the withering hail of gunfire, and according to historians, dozens had been killed in the effort to make their way through the dense willows between the river and the garrison. When I shared this with Kocher and José, we all agreed that this was hallowed ground.