I was wrong, entirely.
Little Big Horn is sacred ground. The visitors, including children, were hushed, respectful, almost reverential. No music, no earbuds, no sibling squabbling. The only sounds were the calls of the prairie birds, the clicking of cameras, and whispered conversation.
The memorial marker is on a hilltop, the highest point for miles around, on a never ending treeless prairie. White stone markers tell where the soldiers and civilians fell. Granite markers tell where native warriors fell. The markers dot the landscape.
We stood where 7,000 died.
On the walk back to the parking lot I passed a young Indian. He was tall, lean, with braided black hair. He was standing near a group of markers, quietly chanting.
It was very moving.