Running to Remember

The teenager ran toward the rising sun. His feet dug into the gravel trail, his legs burned with pain, and he fought doubt. He ran on. A pair of straggling spectators crossed his path, and he swerved to avoid them, nearly losing his balance.

The 5-kilometer race’s trail climbed into the Reno, Nevada, foothills. Ku Stevens had no teammates, and his competitors had fallen far back. There was no one to push him toward the time he needed to be the best. But he ran on.

A senior at Yerington High School in western Nevada, Stevens—whose full first name is Kutoven—raced in the Nevada state interscholastic championships in early November. He lived on a struggling Native American reservation and participated in a sport where few competitors shared his background. Yet he dreamed for years of being the state’s fastest high school distance runner. He wanted to show that Native Americans could be champions.

The teenager ran toward the rising sun. His feet dug into the gravel trail and his legs burned with pain. Still, he fought doubt and ran on. A pair of straggling spectators crossed his path. As he swerved to avoid them, he almost lost his balance.

The 5-kilometer race’s trail climbed into the Reno, Nevada, foothills. Ku Stevens had no teammates, and his competitors had fallen far back. There was no one to push him toward the time he needed to be the best. But he ran on.

It was a big moment for Stevens, a senior at Yerington High School in western Nevada. The race, the Nevada state interscholastic championships, took place in early November. He lived on a struggling Native American reservation. Few of his competitors shared his background. Yet he dreamed for years of being the state’s fastest high school distance runner. Stevens, whose full first name is Kutoven, wanted to show that Native Americans could be champions.

Winning would honor his tribe and his ancestors, especially his great-grandfather and others like him, who endured brutal treatment at federal and church-run boarding schools and the often violent efforts to strip Native Americans of their language, religious beliefs, and other vestiges of their culture.

Stevens’s paternal great-grandfather, Frank Quinn, was a Yerington Paiute Indian born in the rugged Nevada desert. He suffered a fate all too common for Native American children in the early 1900s. At around 7 or 8 years old, he was forced to leave his parents and attend the Stewart Indian School, 3 miles outside Carson City and a world away from his tribe.

Winning would honor his tribe and his ancestors, especially his great-grandfather and others like him who had endured brutal treatment at federal and church-run boarding schools. These violent efforts aimed to strip Native Americans of their language, religious beliefs, and other parts of their culture.

Stevens’s paternal great-grandfather, Frank Quinn, was a Yerington Paiute Indian born in the rugged Nevada desert. He suffered a fate all too common for Native American children in the early 1900s. At around 7 or 8 years old, he was forced to leave his parents and attend the Stewart Indian School. The campus sat 3 miles outside Carson City. It was a world away from his tribe.

The boarding school was one of more than 350 similar institutions across the U.S. created to forcibly assimilate Native Americans.

“The intent was evil,” says Stacey Montooth, executive director of the Nevada Indian Commission. “It was genocide.”

In Quinn’s era, children as young as 4 arrived on campus after being taken from their parents by agents of the school. Mothers and fathers traveled from tribal land and camped just outside Stewart’s sprawling campus, hoping to see glimpses of their children. Punishment and solitary confinement were common among students.

As with many of the Native American boarding schools, a cemetery sat nearby. Its graves are said to hold the remains of students who died at the school.

Quinn stood up to such treatment, and the Paiute have passed his story through generations by word of mouth. He was just 8 years old when he escaped from Stewart and fled into the desert. He ran, using a keen memory of the topography, and somehow navigated his way home, a trip of 50 miles.

The boarding school was one of more than 350 similar institutions across the U.S. created to forcibly assimilate Native Americans.

“The intent was evil,” says Stacey Montooth, executive director of the Nevada Indian Commission. “It was genocide.”

In Quinn’s era, children as young as 4 arrived on campus after being taken from their parents by agents of the school. Mothers and fathers traveled from tribal land. They camped just outside Stewart’s campus, hoping to see glimpses of their children. Punishment and forced time alone were common among students.

As with many of the Native American boarding schools, a cemetery sat nearby. Its graves are said to hold the remains of students who died at the school.

Quinn stood up to such treatment. The Paiute have passed his story through generations by word of mouth. He was just 8 years old when he escaped from Stewart and fled into the desert. He ran, using a detailed memory of the land. Somehow he navigated his way home. The trip was 50 miles long.

As a tribute to his great-grandfather and the many victims of the boarding schools, this summer Stevens ran the same 50 miles. He called it the Remembrance Run. Over two days, he tore through the scorched desert, stopping every 5 miles for the pack of more than 100 other runners to catch up. He thought of his great-grandfather. How did Quinn survive? Where did he take shelter?

“I owe him everything,” says Stevens, whose family hews closely to Paiute traditions. A canvas-covered sweat lodge, used for ceremonies to mark the seasons, sits in the family’s backyard. They farm alfalfa on the same land that has been a home to the tribe for centuries. “When I run, I take my history with me and especially Frank Quinn. He went through so much at such a young age. And his first escape from Stewart wasn’t the last.”

There are hardly any records of Quinn’s time at Stewart, but after that first escape, government agents dragged him back. Once more he fled, only to be caught and returned. He escaped again and made it home again. The school finally gave up. Quinn became a rancher, a tribal leader, and a respected elder—a quiet man who refused to speak ill of anyone. He died in the mid-1980s, a quarter-mile from the home where Stevens lives now.

It was near that home where Stevens fell in love with running. The speed and self-reliance of it made him feel free. He remembers that sense surging through him at age 4 in his first race, a half-mile run he sprinted the entire way. By 8, he ran constantly at the side of his father. By 12, he pounded out miles without his dad, speeding day after day down dirt paths rimming nearby farms.

As a tribute to his great-grandfather and the many victims of the boarding schools, Stevens ran the same 50 miles this summer. He called it the Remembrance Run. Over two days, he tore through the scorched desert. He had to stop every 5 miles for the pack of more than 100 other runners to catch up. He thought of his great-grandfather. How did Quinn survive? Where did he take shelter?

“I owe him everything,” says Stevens, whose family closely follows Paiute traditions. A canvas-covered sweat lodge sits in the family’s backyard. It’s used for ceremonies to mark the seasons. They farm alfalfa on the same land that has been a home to the tribe for centuries. “When I run, I take my history with me and especially Frank Quinn. He went through so much at such a young age. And his first escape from Stewart wasn’t the last.”

There are hardly any records of Quinn’s time at Stewart. After that first escape, government agents dragged him back. Once more he fled, only to be caught and returned. He escaped again and made it home again. The school finally gave up. Quinn became a rancher, a tribal leader, and a respected elder. He was a quiet man who refused to speak ill of anyone. He died in the mid-1980s, a quarter-mile from the home where Stevens lives now.

It was near that home where Stevens fell in love with running. The speed and self-reliance of it made him feel free. He remembers that sense surging through him at age 4 in his first race. During that half-mile run, he sprinted the entire way. By 8, he ran constantly at the side of his father. By 12, he pounded out miles without his dad, speeding day after day down the dirt paths that lined nearby farms.

Yerington High sits in a predominantly White town of roughly 3,000 close to the reservation. By his sophomore season, Stevens was the only member of the cross-country team. He had no one to help him run faster, nobody to work in tandem with during races against schools that sometimes featured a group of 10 runners. Undaunted, he racked up victory after victory.

Then came the pandemic: no in- person school or sports for more than a year. Stevens sometimes joined the cross-country team from Damonte Ranch High School in Reno, more than an hour away, on its training runs, but he mainly trained alone. He woke often before dawn and headed into the countryside, where he padded up rocky mining roads to hillside peaks overlooking the reservation.

His family had never been able to afford sending Stevens far away to compete against top talent at national meets, where college coaches recruit runners. But this summer, the tribe’s medical clinic paid for Stevens to fly across the country and run against some of the nation’s best.

Yerington High sits in a town close to the reservation. Most of its 3,000 residents are White. By his sophomore season, Stevens was the only member of the cross-country team. He had no one to help him run faster. He also had nobody to team up with during races against schools that sometimes had a group of 10 runners. Still, he didn’t lose hope. Instead, he racked up victory after victory.

Then came the pandemic: no in-person school or sports for more than a year. Stevens sometimes joined the cross-country team from Damonte Ranch High School in Reno on its training runs. The school was more than an hour away, so he often trained alone. On training days, he woke before dawn and headed into the countryside. There, he ran up rocky mining roads to the hillside peaks that overlook the reservation.

His family had never been able to afford sending Stevens to faraway competitions. That meant that he couldn’t compete against top talent at national meets, where college coaches recruit runners. But this summer, the tribe’s medical clinic paid for Stevens to fly across the country. That gave him the chance to run against some of the nation’s best.

In July, at the U.S.A. Track & Field Junior Olympic Championships in Florida, Stevens took first place in the 3,000-meter race. Then he won gold at a Texas meet. Back home in Nevada, he dominated his high school season.

Next up was the state championship, featuring nearly 200 runners and scores of teams. Stevens knew the history: Native Americans had rarely made a mark at the meet. He vowed to change that and to finally catch the attention of coaches from the most successful college teams. The night before, Stevens sat in his bedroom, lined with medals and first-place plaques. “Oregon,” he said, calm and sure, “that’s the school for me. I want to run for Oregon.”

In July, at the U.S.A. Track & Field Junior Olympic Championships in Florida, Stevens took first place in the 3,000-meter race. Then he won gold at a Texas meet. Back home in Nevada, he dominated his high school season.

Next up was the state championship, featuring nearly 200 runners and scores of teams. Stevens knew the history: Native Americans had rarely made a mark at the meet. He vowed to change that and to finally catch the attention of coaches from the most successful college teams. The night before, Stevens sat in his bedroom, lined with medals and first-place plaques. “Oregon,” he said, calm and sure, “that’s the school for me. I want to run for Oregon.”

The state meet took place on a hilly, windswept course in Reno, where Stevens watched runners from the biggest schools race first. He paid close attention to the winner, Nathan Carlin, a senior from the Las Vegas area who posted a time of 16 minutes 29 seconds.

Then it was Stevens’s turn in the event for smaller schools. He stood at the starting line, thin and solitary next to the other teams. Wearing the same purple uniform he’d worn since freshman year, he glanced at his parents and friends. His eyes tensed. He nervously fiddled with his black, shoulder-length hair, which was swept into a ponytail.

Stevens didn’t just want to beat the field in his race. He knew he needed to better Carlin’s time to stand out to recruiters. “I’m not sure I can,” he thought. He prayed for strength and toed the line. A beat passed. The starter’s gun pierced the air. Stevens surged to the front, over the crowd’s fervent cheers. “That’s Ku, the Indian kid from the reservation,” he heard one spectator say. “Oh man, he’s fast!”

The state meet took place on a hilly course in Reno. As the wind blew, Stevens watched runners from the biggest schools race first. He paid close attention to the winner, Nathan Carlin, a senior from the Las Vegas area who posted a time of 16 minutes 29 seconds.

Then it was Stevens’s turn in the event for smaller schools. He stood at the starting line by himself. His thin frame stood out next to the other teams. Wearing the same purple uniform he’d worn since freshman year, he glanced at his parents and friends. His eyes tensed. His black, shoulder-length hair had been swept into a ponytail. Nervous, he ran his fingers through the strands.

Stevens didn’t just want to beat the field in his race. He knew he needed to better Carlin’s time to stand out to recruiters. “I’m not sure I can,” he thought. He prayed for strength and toed the line. A beat passed. The starter’s gun blew into the air. Stevens sped to the front, over the crowd’s cheers. “That’s Ku, the Indian kid from the reservation,” he heard one spectator say. “Oh man, he’s fast!”

Stevens struggled for breath and pushed with every step. Faster, faster. He kept on, around a bend, across a straightaway, dirt to gravel to grass. One last lap. Up and down a rocky hillside. Pain arced across his body, but he sprinted forward, grimacing, head tilted back

Finally, he crossed the finish line. Crumpling to the grass, he heard the public address announcer call out his time: 16 minutes, 28 seconds. One second faster than Carlin.

Ku Stevens was a state champion and the fastest high school cross-country runner in all of Nevada. Standing before the crowd to receive his gold medal, he draped himself in the flag of the Yerington Paiute tribe.

Stevens struggled for breath and pushed with every step. Faster, faster. He kept on, around a bend, across a straightaway, dirt to gravel to grass. One last lap. Up and down a rocky hillside. Pain shot across his body, but he sprinted forward with his head tilted back.

Finally, he crossed the finish line. As he crumpled to the grass, the public address announcer called out his time: 16 minutes, 28 seconds. One second faster than Carlin.

Ku Stevens was a state champion and the fastest high school cross-country runner in all of Nevada. Standing before the crowd to receive his gold medal, he wrapped himself in the flag of the Yerington Paiute tribe.

Kurt Streeter writes the Sports of the Times column for The New York Times.

Kurt Streeter writes the Sports of the Times column for The New York Times.