Famously cold N. Dakota winter menaces pipeline protest camp
|
| In
this Tuesday, Nov. 29, 2016 photo, Grandma Redfeather of the Sioux
Native American tribe walks in the snow to get water at the Oceti
Sakowin camp where people have gathered to protest the Dakota Access oil
pipeline in Cannon Ball, N.D. "It's for my people to live and so that
the next seven generations can live also," said Redfeather of why she
came to the camp. "I think about my grandchildren and what it will be
like for them." |
CANNON BALL, N.D. (AP) -- So far, the hundreds of
protesters fighting the Dakota Access pipeline have shrugged off the
heavy snow, icy winds and frigid temperatures that have swirled around
their large encampment on the North Dakota grasslands.
But
if they defy next week's government deadline to abandon the camp,
demonstrators know the real deep freeze lies ahead, when the full weight
of the Great Plains winter descends on their community of nylon tents
and teepees. Life-threatening wind chills and towering snow drifts could
mean the greatest challenge is simple survival.
"I'm
scared. I'm a California girl, you know?" said Loretta Reddog of
Placerville, California, a protester who said she arrived several months
ago with her two dogs and has yet to adjust to the harsher climate.
The
government has ordered protesters to leave federal land by Monday,
although it's not clear what, if anything, authorities will do to
enforce that mandate. Demonstrators insist they will stay for as long as
it takes to divert the $3.8 billion pipeline, which the Standing Rock
Sioux tribe believes threatens sacred sites and a river that provides
drinking water for millions of people.
The
pipeline is largely complete except for a short segment that is planned
to pass beneath a Missouri River reservoir. The company doing the
building says it is unwilling to reroute the project.
For
several months, the government permitted the gathering, allowing its
population to swell.
The Seven Council Fires camp began growing in
August as it took in the overflow crowd from smaller protest sites
nearby.
It now covers a half square mile, with living quarters that
include old school buses, fancy motorhomes and domelike yurts. Hale
bales are piled around some teepees to keep out the wind. There's even a
crude corral for horses.
The number of
inhabitants has ranged from several hundred to several thousand. It has
been called the largest gathering of Native American tribes in a
century.
Increasingly, more permanent wooden
structures are being erected, even though the Army Corps of Engineers
considers them illegal on government property. The Standing Rock Sioux
insist the land still belongs to their tribe under a nearly 150-year-old
treaty.
Nate Bison, a member of South
Dakota's Cheyenne River Sioux, came to the camp after quitting his job
in Las Vegas a week ago. He said he intends to stay indefinitely, a
prospect that may cause him to lose his house in Nevada.
"But since I've lived in these conditions before, to me it's not all that bad," he said.
Camp morale is high, he added, despite the onset of winter.
"Everybody
I've talked to, you hear laughter and people just having a good time,
enjoying the camaraderie and the support from each other," Bison said.
"And the love. People are taking the shirts off their own backs for
other people. No one is left out that I've seen."
On
Thursday, the camp near the confluence of the Missouri and Cannonball
rivers was shrouded in snow, much of it compacted by foot and vehicle
traffic. Temperatures hovered in the 20s. Next week's forecast calls for
single digits and subzero wind chills.
Camp
dwellers are getting ready for the hardships of a long stay. Mountains
of donated food and water are being stockpiled, as is firewood, much of
which has come from outside of North Dakota, the least-forested state in
the nation.
A collection of Army surplus tents with heating stoves
serve as kitchen, dining hall, medical clinic and a camp-run school.
Many of the smaller tents have become tattered by the wind.
Thane
Maxwell, a 32-year-old Minneapolis native who has been living at the
camp since July, said North Dakota's bitter cold will not deter
protesters committed to fighting the pipeline, or "black snake" as they
call it.
Tribes from the Great Plains states
are adept at surviving brutal winters, he said. Others from warmer
climes are being taught how to endure the frostbite-inducing
temperatures that are sure to come.
"A lot of
these people have been living in this climate for hundreds of years,"
said Maxwell a member of Minnesota-based Honor the Earth Foundation.
"It's a skill set that can be learned. The danger is escalating from law
enforcement, not the weather."
Reddog said she has confidence in the camp community. "Everybody's really stepping up and taking care of each other," she said.
Maxwell
put out a call on social media for more donations, seeking four-wheel
drive trucks and foul-weather clothing. He also asked for gas masks and
protective baseball and hockey gear to shield protesters from any future
skirmishes with police.
More than 525 people
from across the country have been arrested since August. In a recent
clash between police and protesters near the path of the pipeline,
officers used tear gas, rubber bullets and large water hoses in
sub-freezing temperatures. Organizers said at least 17 protesters were
taken to the hospital, some for hypothermia and one for an arm injury.
One officer was hurt.
North Dakota has often
conjured images of a wind-swept, treeless wasteland. The perception was
so great that it led to a short-lived proposal to change the state's
name by dropping "North" and leaving just "Dakota," to dispel the image
of inhospitable winter weather.
Morton County
Sheriff Kyle Kirchmeier, who is heading the law enforcement effort
around the pipeline, said he hopes the harsh conditions force people to
leave the encampment, something the state and federal governments have
so far been unable to do.
In addition to the
federal order, North Dakota Gov. Jack Dalrymple issued a "mandatory
evacuation" for the camp "to safeguard against harsh winter conditions."
But he said Wednesday that the state has no intention of blocking food
and supplies from coming into the camp.
Doing so would be a "huge mistake from a humanitarian viewpoint," the Republican said.
The
federal deadline probably will not have any immediate effect on the
camp either. Soon after it was set, the Army Corps of Engineers
explained that the agency had no plans to forcibly remove anyone,
although violators could be charged with trespassing.
Back
at the camp, about 75 people lined up Thursday to draw propane for
heating and cooking from a fuel truck. The driver, Rodney Grant, said it
was his seventh trip in a week. The propane was free to campers.
Grant
said he did not know who was paying for it.
Dani
Jo McKing, a member of the Standing Rock Sioux, was among those in
line. She and her husband have been sharing cold-weather tips with
people who are not from North Dakota. She said people with out-of-state
license plates, including California and Nevada, have been seen driving
away from the camp.
The cruel winter is bound to induce others to head
home, she said.
The cold weather has never bothered her.
"This is where I live. I'll stay until the end. This is God's country," she said.
Summer
Moore arrived last week from Paintsville, Kentucky, and quickly learned
the power of the whipping North Dakota wind.
When a snowstorm rolled in
Monday, it ripped her tent to shreds.
"It wasn't that cold, but the wind was so bad it knocked me down three times," Moore said.
She hitched a ride to the casino on the Standing Rock reservation and rode out the storm in a hotel room.
A
carpenter named Joel Maurer came from California last month. He's been
building small shed-like bunkhouses that will sleep seven people each
with room for a stove.
"I know things are going to get real here real quick," he said.
