‘Racism in a Can’ — How One Beer Epitomized the Native American Struggle for Treaty Rights

In recent years, brewing cause-based beers has become commonplace. From small, local fundraisers to large, international campaigns, beer is often used as a way to raise both critical awareness and money.

In 2018, Sierra Nevada led the effort to fundraise for victims of California’s deadly and enormously destructive Camp Fire with its Resilience release. In 2020, Black Is Beautiful was started by Marcus Baskerville of Weathered Souls Brewing Co. in San Antonio, Texas in protest against the police brutality and racism faced by Black people in the United States. On Indigenous Peoples’ Day in 2021, Bow and Arrow Brewing Co. in Albuquerque, New Mexico launched the Native Land campaign to raise funds for Native organizations, and awareness about ancestral lands. And Brienne Allan, formerly of Notch Brewing in Salem, Massachusetts, founded the much-heralded Brave Noise collaboration with Ash Eliot last year to advocate for more inclusivity in the brewing industry. All of these examples saw hundreds, or even thousands, of breweries sign on to further the cause and celebrate the progress being made. 

But what happens when a campaign beer is brewed for a cause that is blatantly hateful, prejudiced, and violent?

[Content note: This piece features descriptions of racist language and slurs, behavior, and imagery.]

In the late 1980s, northern Wisconsin was rocked by anti-Indian violence over treaty rights secured more than 100 years prior by the Ojibwe. Born from the conflict, and a product of Wisconsin’s tavern culture, was Treaty Beer, a symbol of the hate and prejudice that were beamed across TV news stations throughout the nation. Critics of the beer dubbed it “Racism in a Can,” and it’s true that Treaty Beer encapsulated the struggle for Ojibwe treaty rights in Wisconsin—as well as the violent reprisal that Ojibwe people faced for trying to exercise those rights.

SETTING THE SCENE

Minocqua, Wisconsin, like many northern Wisconsin towns, is quaint, even idyllic. Supper clubs and kitschy shops line the main drag, and vacationers mosey among storefronts in search of souvenirs. The city, situated on an island in the middle of a lake, is surrounded by resorts and cabins. Many recognize the lakes’ connection to tourism as integral to the northern Wisconsin economy. Fishing alone brings $1.5 billion to the state’s economy, according to a 2021 study conducted by the American Sportfishing Association. However, while scores of visitors enjoy opportunities to relax and partake in water sports and other leisure activities, few understand how central the lakes are and have been to the Ojibwe.

Waaswaaganing, also known as Lac du Flambeau, is used by the local band of Lake Superior Ojibwe historically known for fishing at night, aided by the use of torchlight. French fur traders translated the Ojibwe name to Lac du Flambeau, or Lake of the Torches.

“Critics of the beer dubbed it ‘Racism in a Can,’ and it’s true that Treaty Beer encapsulated the struggle for Ojibwe treaty rights in Wisconsin—as well as the violent reprisal that Ojibwe people faced for trying to exercise those rights.”

When non-Native encroachment increased in the region in the early 1800s, it resulted in a series of treaties between the Ojibwe and the federal government in 1837, 1842, and 1854. In exchange for ceding millions of acres of land to the United States, the Ojibwe, including the Lac du Flambeau band, retained rights to hunt, fish, and gather off-reservation in ceded territory.  

However, state authorities largely ignored the rights secured in perpetuity by the Ojibwe, instead enforcing state hunting and fishing regulations. This meant Native people attempting to exercise their rights off-reservation regularly encountered game wardens who would arrest them, confiscate their equipment, and, in some cases, send them to jail.

In 1974, two brothers, Mike and Fred Tribble—college students from the Lac Courte Oreilles band of Ojibwe—decided to test the treaties in court. After crossing over the reservation boundary, they were met by a fish and game warden from the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources who arrested them, despite the fact that they produced a copy of the treaty. The dispute made its way through the court system until, in 1983, the federal district court ruled in favor of the brothers, affirming the Ojibwe’s off-reservation rights to hunt and fish.

THE WALLEYE WAR

The backlash against the Ojibwe was swift. Misinformation circulated that tribal members would deplete the natural resources of the area and sink the tourist-reliant economy. Signs were posted stating: “Wisconsin – A Wildlife Wasteland. The Chippewa Can Do It.” The Milwaukee Journal reported that some resort owners, urged on by talk at local taverns, warned guests not to walk into the woods for fear of Indian hunters. These and other similar claims were unfounded, but continued to fuel the false narrative about the Ojibwe having “special rights.” This led long-simmering racial tensions to explode into open conflict at boat landings, as well as other displays of overt racism and hostility.

In spring 1985, tribal members began spearing annually in area lakes, making them easy targets for anti-treaty protesters who gathered at boat landings and on the lakes to harass the fishermen. White people carried signs reading: “Save a Walleye, Spear an Indian” and “Timber Nigger.” Faux hunting contest flyers were distributed, placing point values on killing Native peoples. “Plain Indian – 5 points, Indian with boat newer than yours – 20 points, Indian with High School Diploma- 50 points, Sober Indian – 75 points,” one flyer read.

“It really put a stain on northern Wisconsin history,” said Mike Michalak, a reporter for WJFW-TV in Rhinelander. Michalak received an Emmy nomination for his coverage of the conflict that became known as The Walleye War. “I had to wear a flak jacket,” he recalled, as physical violence from protestors intensified.

Tribal members were shot at with wrist rockets while they were on the water, and had rocks and beer bottles pelted at them at the landings. Explosive devices were found by police at some landings. Once on the water, protesters would try to disrupt the spearing by taking boats larger than what the tribal members were on to stir waves and drag their anchors through the walleye spawning beds. “Now I ask you, who is doing more damage to the resource?” Michalak questioned. 

Following the 1983 court decision, groups sprang up intent on stopping the Ojibwe from exercising their treaty rights. Hate groups ironically named Equal Rights for Everyone and Protect Americans’ Rights and Resources staged large rallies and organized protests at the boat landings. Another group, Stop Treaty Abuse-Wisconsin (STA), not only held rallies and protests, but also sought to raise funds for legal challenges.

“The beer can featured a fish being skewered by a spear with the line: ‘True Brew of the Working Man,’ insinuating that Native peoples did not work for their right to fish.”

The main player behind STA was a Minocqua, Wisconsin businessman named Dean Crist. Crist was the owner of Alexander’s Pizza and wanted to see more action on the part of anti-treaty groups. In a perplexing twist, he saw opposition to treaties not just as a natural resources and economic issue, but as an extension of the civil rights struggle of the 1960s. “[Martin Luther King] certainly fought uphill for equality,” Crist said on a local radio show. “And yet the people of northern Wisconsin are going to be subjected to inequality … and it’s not going to work.” While comparing himself to Martin Luther King, Jr., Crist also praised Ku Klux Klan leader David Duke, saying it was as if Duke “might have been reading from STA literature,” as author JP Leary points out in “The Story of Act 31: How Native History Came to Wisconsin Classrooms.”

Crist’s method of fundraising for STA was through producing a new beer, Treaty Beer. The beer’s label hit on the main themes of Native Americans having special rights, while what Crist purportedly wanted were equal rights. The beer can featured a fish being skewered by a spear with the line: “True Brew of the Working Man,” insinuating that Native peoples did not work for their right to fish.

BREWING UP HATE

Hibernia Brewing Ltd. was located in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, in the northwestern portion of the state. Its facility was formerly the Walter Brewing Company, a brewery with historic lineage in the state. Industry consolidation forced most breweries like Walter out of business long before the 1980s, but Walter limped along until Chicago investor Michael Healy bought the operation in 1983.

Hibernia was a very early craft brewing pioneer in Wisconsin. It had multiple releases that signaled a departure from the products that Walter had traditionally marketed, which were mostly Light Lagers. One of its first releases, a Dunkelweizen, earned second place at the 1985 Great American Beer Festival. Hibernia also released seasonal beers, and its flagship was Eau Claire All Malt, a reworked version of Walter’s pre-Prohibition beer. 

Starting in 1987, Hibernia also contract-brewed Treaty Beer for STA.The Chippewa Herald Telegram reported that Treaty Beer sales were steady one month into the brand’s release, though not all cans were being sold to staunch anti-treaty supporters. Many liquor stores reported that collectors were after the cans as well. Customer motivation aside, Crist reported that the STA had sold over 500,000 cans in its first month, which he saw as a bulwark of support. “Through free enterprise, we’ve been proving that people are against treaty abuse,” he commented.

“Treaty Beer is a slap in the face of Indian people. It’s a shame on our society that this beer was ever created, that it’s being sold and that the profits are going to racist, anti-Indian groups for their campaigns against our Indian brothers and sisters.”

Hibernia’s brewing of Treaty Beer did not last long, however. The release was met by boycotts, led by former Wisconsin state legislator and executive director of the Lutheran Human Relations Association of America (LHRAA) Sharon Metz. Under Metz’s leadership, LHRAA passed a resolution condemning the beer, which it sent to Hibernia. At first Healy did not seem phased by the resolution. “It doesn’t make any difference what they do with Treaty Beer,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt me because I get paid up front.” Healy changed his mind when Metz started calling for boycotts of Hibernia’s other products, which affected his bottom line as well as that of liquor stores and taverns.

Healy said that the owner of a tavern near a reservation pleaded with him to stop brewing Treaty Beer. “She was almost in tears. Well, that was more than I could take,” Healy said. Healy also pointed to letters and phone calls opposing Treaty Beer. Additionally, he said Crist had demanded that Hibernia install a separate phone line at the brewery exclusively for Treaty Beer orders. This, apparently, was all that Healy could handle. In all, Hibernia made around 700,000 cans of Treaty Beer. On August 15, 1987, the brewery announced that it was severing its relationship with STA. The damage had been done, however. Rising costs, a bad batch of beer going to market, and Treaty Beer’s dismal PR led to the brewery closing its doors for good in 1989.

Treaty Beer did not die with Hibernia, however. The next brewery that was contracted to brew the beer was Hudepohl-Schoenling Brewing Co. in Cincinnati. During this run of Treaty Beer in 1988, Native rights supporters staged a demonstration where they poured a six-pack of Treaty Beer down a toilet on the steps of the Wisconsin State Capitol in Madison. Treaty Beer had become synonymous with the anti-treaty movement and racism in northern Wisconsin.

“Treaty Beer is a slap in the face of Indian people,” Madison minister and protest organizer Tim Kehl told the Stevens Point Journal. “It’s a shame on our society that this beer was ever created, that it’s being sold and that the profits are going to racist, anti-Indian groups for their campaigns against our Indian brothers and sisters.” Around the same time as the Capitol protest, Hudepohl-Schoenling stopped production of Treaty Beer as well.

“Treaty Beer symbolizes racism. You think it’s been stamped out and [it] keeps reappearing,” Metz told the Stevens Point Journal in 1990. By this time Metz had started a treaty support group, Honor Our Neighbors’ Origins and Rights. Metz had sent a letter to Treaty Beer’s third and final contract brewery, Dixie Brewing Company in New Orleans, asking it to stop production or else face a boycott. Dixie Brewing’s president, Kendra E. Bruno, said, “As a small, independent, family-owned regional brewery, we were unaware of the negative connotation of the Treaty Beer issue.”

Crist countered that it was he who had canceled the contract with Dixie Brewing because of how time-consuming the rallies and protests had become. Crist also said he had planned distribution of the beer in Washington State, where similar treaty rights were being litigated, but after the state’s governor spoke out against the product, distributors pulled out, drying up any chances of Crist expanding Treaty Beer beyond Wisconsin. In all, Crist told the Wausau Daily Herald he lost about $100,000 trying to establish Treaty Beer. “As a fundraiser, it just wasn’t there,” he said. “You can’t make it cheap enough to attack brand loyalty.”

THE STENCH OF RACISM

Crist marketed the last iteration of Treaty Beer as “The Beer that Made Minocqua Famous.” More like infamous: In the years that Treaty Beer existed, from 1987-1990, the boat landing protests turned increasingly violent, which in turn had a negative effect on northern Wisconsin tourism—the very reason that protesters said they opposed Native treaty rights. Reporter Paul DeMain in News From Indian Country wrote in 1989 that an unnamed resort owner said, “What the spearfishing issue started, local protesters are finishing, some tourists simply aren’t going to go to an area where first of all there are questions about the availability of fish, racism and now the threat of mines in the waters capable of killing people.”

In 1991, the Lac du Flambeau tribe successfully sued Dean Crist and STA. Judge Barbara Crabb issued an injunction against STA members’ activities, including engaging tribal members in intimidation and violence as they attempted to assert their treaty-given rights. Crabb wrote in the decision, “The stench of racism is unmistakable in this case.” As STA was effectively shut down, the number of protesters decreased at boat landings, and the media eventually moved on to other stories.

One thing that did emerge from the treaty struggles was a renewed emphasis on education. Rebecca Comfort, a member of the Keweenaw Bay Ojibwe, is the American Indian Nations Liaison for the Wisconsin Historical Society and president of the Wisconsin Indian Education Association. Comfort said the conflict arose from the state’s failure to educate residents about their American Indian neighbors and important issues like tribal sovereignty and treaty rights. Thus, the 1989-1991 biennial budget included a provision called Act 31, which mandates teaching of Native American history in the Wisconsin school curriculum, hoping to stave off the racism that led to the Walleye War and Treaty Beer.

As for Treaty Beer, cans still exist on shelves in Northern Wisconsin bars, antique stores, and in the possession of collectors. They feel like a relic of a distant age, yet the conflict that produced them was fewer than 40 years ago, and the struggle persists today. 

While the widely broadcast mass protests and clashes at boat landings may be a thing of the past, there are still incidents of anti-Indian violence that occur both in general and around the issue of spearfishing. While educational standards have been put in place, more work still needs to be done, not just for the benefit, safety, and dignity of Native Americans but for society as a whole. “This history has been largely lost on non-Native people,” Comfort said. “This isn’t just destructive to Native communities, it’s destructive to the fabric of society.”

Words by John HarryIllustrations by Colette Holston