Journal

Until now I’ve had plenty of time to compose my thoughts. But now, as I hastily write a final post in the Alternative Fuel coffee house in downtown Rapid City, I find myself with no time left. No time to tell the stories of a few other people I’ve met, who have left their lives in the east behind and are charting a new course for themselves here in the west. At least one of them, Karen, set out alone when in her 50’s. I found in her a bit of a kindred spirit. “I was dying back there. I was desperate for a change. I guess that doesn’t make sense.” “Yes,” I said. “It does to me.” We talked for some time. There are definite advantages to traveling alone. It is the purview of the single person to have an open ear and endless hours to listen. The reading from Isaiah 50 at Mass this past Sunday spoke to me. “The Lord God has given me an open ear, that I may hear.”

I hope I’ve heard well.

Thank you for joining me.

“Farewell.”

“Good bye!”

“Yeah! Thanks for coming!”

“We’re prairie dogs. PRAIRIE DOGS!!”

On my last full day in this extraordinary place I set out to do a hike of a longer length, in a remote area. “Remote” here can be one hundred yards off the highway. I set out to hike two miles straight in, along the little used Castle Trail.

The Castle Trail, although a day-use trail, still has a hiker registration box. This box contains a register of people’s names, their vehicle make, model and license plate, and departure time. As a backpacker I’m used to registration boxes for long overnight trails. Its presence for day use was slightly unnerving. Setting out, I came across the usual warning sign.

The sun was already well into the western sky as I headed further and further into the east and away from the park road. Checking it with my outstretched hand I had at least two full hours before sundown. Sundown in this place is when the sun goes behind a canyon wall. A trail which at times is difficult to find in the middle of the day becomes impossible to find in the evening.

Taking no chances I brought along my GPS and a lot of water. Within the first two hundred yards of setting out I lost the trail. It had crossed over an expanse of ashen badland and without markers it was impossible to tell where others had gone. I think everyone had taken their own route, to pick the trail back up again when it entered prairie.

For the first mile I stopped frequently for photographs. The trail would descend into gullies only to come back out again on top of the grasslands. It would approach formations, go around behind them and continue on, always deeper and deeper into wilderness. I was mesmerized by the landscape and frustrated by my inability to capture it with words or photographs.

Eventually the camera came out less and I walked on in silence. My thoughts calmed down and I began hiking in my usual rhythmic gate. The ocean of blue sky stretching from the prairie horizon to over my head was like a solid flawless gemstone. I might as well be hiking this land before the first humans appeared.

The sound of a breeze would occasionally sweep across the top of the grass. A startled bird would take flight just feet away from me, both parties surprised. The sun felt unnaturally hot, the water in my camelback disappeared faster than I expected. Somewhat abruptly the trail came out along the edge of the badlands. As I hiked along, the limitless grasslands stretched away as far as I could see on my left while the forbidding badlands swept out below me on the right. I walked along on the edge of two worlds, both of which seemed to go on forever.

I stood here lost in wonder and in thoughts which are impossible to express. But there comes a time on many solo hikes into wilderness areas where an almost undetectable bell goes off; a warning alarm that it is time to take notice of things. The shadows have grown long, the sun is now but one hand width above the horizon, the temperature is dropping, the water is disappearing.

I pressed on, eager to hit the two mile mark. I’m not sure why, but I needed a feeling of completeness to the hike, and four miles sounded like a good number. The trail itself is five miles one way, with no alternate way back. There wasn’t a sign of anyone all afternoon, nor a sign that this trail had been used for some time.

I reached the two mile mark. My GPS showed nearly one hour of hiking time and twenty five minutes of stopped time. I checked the sun again and was comfortable with the amount of remaining daylight and so stood there for a few minutes longer, reluctant to turn back. The trail stretching out ahead of me beckoned to me relentlessly and was hard to refuse. I wondered if I could survive the night out here. Smiling to myself I decided to be grateful for what I had found, and instead of being foolish I would instead try to share the experience with others. I turned, set a quick pace, and hiked back.

The foreground is fifty yards away.  The small peak visible through the notch in the center is several miles away.

Driving in to Badlands National Park on my final full day I noticed a huge plume of smoke rising up off the prairie.  “A prescribed burn,” said the gate attendant, confirming my suspicions.

I witnessed evidence of these intentional fires throughout the Black Hills as well. In the mountains, a runaway infestation of the Mountain Pine Beetle is threatening two million acres of woodland in Colorado, another two million in Montana, and much of South Dakota as well.  The cause? A century of well-intentioned but woefully misguided forest fire prevention by the park service. As it turns out, pine forests are naturally sparse. After one hundred years of putting out fires, our forests have become choked with trees.  This has allowed the Mountain Pine Beetle to infest the forests like never before, wreaking destruction on a level which has never been seen. Signs by the park service throughout the Black Hills admit to the error. Workers are now trying to play catch up by cutting down infested trees and thinning the forests to natural levels.

It seems the prairies and forests have evolved to require adversity to thrive. We are now finding out that people have too. Harvard studies of adult development have shown that it is the presence of adversity, not the absence of it, that lead to healthy human development. Even more intriguing are the latest findings in neuroscience. We now actually possess the technology to show scientifically that the human brain requires challenges to its survival in order to remain healthy. It seems a brain which is preoccupied with its survival rather than its comforts is significantly less likely to fall prey to depression and anxiety disorders. A recent article in Scientific American Mind magazine discusses how activities which are performed in order to assist in survival, such as gardening, sewing one’s clothes and so forth, cause the brain to produce beneficial neurochemicals which protect it against mental illness. It is no wonder therefore that the developed nations which no longer require essential survival skills have the highest rates of depression and suicide. It is quite literally no good for you to be without adversity.

For the second time in as many days I suppressed my instinct to skip a tourist attraction, in this case Devil’s Tower, in Wyoming.  Although the very first of all our National Monuments, it’s just a big rock, why drive 80 miles through the middle of nowhere to see yet another huge rock?

“Don’t miss it,” a fellow told me when I was at Jewel Cave.  “A lot of these attractions are questionable.  That one is not.”

Ok.

North and West out of Deadwood I went, across country with seemingly limitless vistas.  At first it mesmerizes one not accustomed to it.  Then it makes you edgy, then it hypnotizes you.  I crank up the volume on any radio station I can receive.

Eventually the destination arises out of the plains in front of you.  You start to get the feeling that this is more than just a big rock.  While still in the haze of the distance it occupies a considerable portion of the field of view.

I was still miles away from it when I took this shot with a 200mm lens.

After entering the park itself, I began hiking the trail around the base of it.  Like so many things out here I struggle to accurately capture the largeness of things.  From the bottom of the boulder field, which may not be entered except by climbers, I took this shot with a wide angle lens, which distorts things but is at least able to capture the field. Take special note of the individual vertical cracks; try to imagine their width:

How wide across do the individual columns appear to be?

How about now?

Devil’s Tower is considered sacred among the Northern Plains Indians. Hanging in trees around the base of it are colorful prayer cloths, not unlike Tibetan prayer shawls. As I hiked around the base I heard the mournful sounds of a flute arising from somewhere up in the boulder field.  It could have been a college kid from New York City or an elderly Native American at prayer; in any case it greatly added to the overall emotion of the place.

I spent quite a bit of time here.  There is an effect the largeness of the place has on you.  Oddly, for the first time in days I was able to get a cellphone reception, so I took a picture with my phone and sent it to friends. An instinct to connect and share arose in me.

I felt very glad this place is held in respect.  Respect leads to conservation.

As I was leaving Hot Springs I stopped into the mammoth dig site, thinking it was a tourist trap.  Far from it.  The Mammoth Site happens to be the world’s largest mammoth research site and is the location of an active dig where they are unearthing over 50 mammoths.  Nearly all of them are Columbian mammoths, which are considerably larger than Wooly mammoths.  An african elephant could walk under the chin of a Columbian mammoth.

Back in the 80’s a fellow was digging up earth to build a new house and he unearthed some bones.  Thinking they may have been of significance he contacted park officials and turned the land over.  As it turned out the entire hill he was on was a sinkhole.  The surrounding land was softer and eroded away and what was left was a massive pile of mammoth bones.  Here’s a picture showing what happened 35,000 years ago: the mammoths entered but then couldn’t get back out:

Here is a picture of the dig site.  They actively dig only about 6 weeks out of the year. It takes them the rest of the year to work on and catalog what was removed. The basement is the laboratory.

I then proceeded north along the famous Needles Highway, which is part of the Peter Norbeck Scenic Byway. This is a very dangerous road in places, with the mountain dropping away mere inches off the side of the road in many places, with no guardrail.  I’d be very surprised if many vehicles haven’t plunged over the edge. There is also a spot which is a very narrow tunnel, barely allowing a single car to go through.

The scenery at the top is incredible, and shortly after this photo I parked at the trailhead of the Cathedral Spires trail and headed into, up and over these spires. It was one of the most remarkable hikes I’ve ever done, second probably only to the ridge line up on the Presidential range in New Hampshire. I took several high definition movies which I’ll post once I figure out how to compress them.

After that I went north into historic Deadwood, South Dakota, with a planned stop over en route to Devils Tower, Wyoming.  Deadwood isn’t anything like I thought it would be.  It’s like a mini Las Vegas, with the entire downtown comprised of nothing but little casinos.  The elderly are bused in and dumped at the front door of these places where they gamble until the wee hours of the morning.  I walked around distressed for over an hour because I couldn’t find a simple pub with a good beer and food. Luckily, for the first time in days, I got a cell phone signal and after a quick google, found Diamond Lil’s, which I think is owned by Kevin Costner.

After gorging on an entire pizza and a couple of mugs I walked the mile or more back to my room, passing a dead buck along the way which was a recent road kill.

Went through Custer State Park, which is a remarkable place.  I was going to skip it, since after having seen two days of the Black Hills I thought it looked too much like the Appalachians I’m all too familiar with.  I’m glad I resisted my instincts.  Custer State Park is exceptional; it is the perfect mix of high prairie sprinkled with Ponderosa pine.  Wildlife is abundant.  I was nearly run over by a pronghorn antelope.

Wild burros (small donkeys) are also plentiful.  They are also fed plentifully too.  This guy stepped up for a treat.

And when another one on the driver side didn’t get a treat he decided to threaten me with the removal of my mirror:

I can’t say enough about how beautiful I thought Custer State Park was.  It’s so difficult to capture the vistas.

I turned down a lengthy dirt road to do some hiking. Coming back from one of my hikes I walked straight into a cattle drive, complete with cowboys whistling and cracking whips to drive them on.  It lasted for quite awhile, like a slow moving train. I captured video of it with my other camera.  Once I figure the best way to shrink the massive size of the High Definition video I’ll post it.

The park is home to the largest herd of privately owned bison in the country.  One of the rangers told me that the bulls which are out near the road are those that lost the recent rut.  She said the bulls that won the rut stay off in the hills and keep an eye on the females from a distance.  She said they are significantly larger than the older, weaker bulls which lost the rut and don’t mind being closer to the road.

I then went into Wind Cave National Park for the afternoon.  It’s nearly as large as Jewel Cave and contains over 90% of the world’s box work formations.  I enjoyed the tour and the cave less than Jewel Cave, however, as did everyone else I spoke to.

Afterward I went into Hot Springs to finish the day.  Hot Springs has an active main street, which snakes its way all through town and is rather confusing.  Side roads come into it with no stop sign or traffic light, and it’s impossible to know who has the right of way.  It seems that the main flow of traffic has the right of way – you just have to know what that flow is!  The Best Western where I stayed lost its internet shortly after I got there, requiring me to post this the following day.

“Plus free housing.  Plus a free cell phone, fully paid each month.”  The gentleman I was speaking with was enumerating all the things which the Indians here receive.  “People that don’t live here don’t understand.  All they think is ‘the poor Indians, what we did to them.’  They don’t see the new government housing built for them.  Then once they move in, they gut it and sell the furniture.  The whole situation is just…I don’t know, it’s..” he struggled to describe it.

“Pathetic,” I said.

“Yeah, pathetic.”

Pathetic was the word I came up with when I spent two weeks touring Utah and talking to everyone I could about the state of Indians on the reservation.  Not pitiable, not needing justice, none of that.  Pathetic.

The definition in the little dictionary I currently have access to defines pathetic as “miserably inadequate.”  I don’t think anyone who is aware of the situation would argue that it is not “miserably inadequate.”  Such a definition avoids blame, avoids emotional pity, and even historical guilt.  I think both sides would agree on that term.

The man I was speaking with continued.  “The cell phone really gets me,” he said.  “I give my Indian friend endless shit over that one.  And a free $600 a month?  How is that actually helping them?  How does it help them to build free houses only to have them gut them?  They have brand new cars and sleep in a slum.”  I only nodded.  I had seen plenty of that before.  “People think I’m prejudice,” he said, shaking his head.  “In fact, I adopted two Indian babies and raised them to 18 years of age.  They changed, became different.  The adage is true: you can take the Indian off the reservation but you can’t take the reservation out of the Indian.  Call me prejudice, but who has raised two children for 18 years?  I think I have an insight or two into the situation.”

* * *

“He said they gut the houses and sell the furniture,” I told the woman next to me at the bar the other evening.  “Oh definitely,” she said.  “And they rip off the front door and burn it.  It’s just what they do, it’s what they’ve always done,” she stated matter-of-factly.  She may have seen my eyebrows raise slightly, and so added: “And I know.  I’m a schoolteacher here and I teach their children.  They tell me all about it. And I don’t know why they give their children up for adoption.”

* * *

When traveling through southern Utah in 2003 I struck up frequent conversations with people about Indians, reservations, government welfare and the like. I vividly recall one conversation with a hotel manager.  After she checked me in we both sat outside in the clear night air on a bench by the front door.  “The younger kids want to fit in, the adults refuse,” she began.  “I see their kids come into the schools, or when playing with my kids.  They are often beaten.  The phrase we use here for that is ‘beating the white out of them.’  Their parents hate that they are integrating into white culture, so they repay them with beatings.”

Then, as now, the ones who speak in terms of pity, of what the United States government did to them and what they deserve back, are tourists.  Tourists, or people who have not bothered to seek out alternative viewpoints than the ones Hollywood has given them by means of melodramatic movies.

* * *

Recommended Books: “In the Spirit of Crazy Horse.”

That is the name of one of several highly controversial books written on a small card on one of the shelves of the “Indian and U.S. Government Affairs” section of the bookstore in Prairie’s Edge, in downtown Rapid City.  It is wildly popular, because it pulls at the heartstrings of mainstream America’s obsession with guilt over Native Americans. The book is sympathetic to Leonard Peltier, an Indian activist who is currently serving two life sentences for murdering two FBI agents in cold blood. It occurred during the incident in 1973 of Wounded Knee, a town not far south of here, on the Pine Ridge reservation. In trying to sort out fact from fiction, one is reminded of other incidents such as Waco, where it seems truth depends upon if you are an activist or a government sympathizer.

Another recommended title is “Pagans in the Promised Land.”  It is a book which asserts that the U.S. government is still operating on an Indian conquest mentality it received from Christianity.  I read through some sections of the book.  It talked about the lack of separation of church and state in the U.S. and the conquering mentality that Christians have because of the mandate given them by God in the Old Testament [sic].  Scholarship was not given a priority.

Trying to muddle through all the opinions and polemics is distressing.  What arises in the depths of my psyche whenever I try to understand all this is a gnawing suspicion that I am looking at a culture of great beauty and profound loss, but a culture which is trying to cling to a past it cannot have, prodded on relentlessly by a collective, insatiable guilt from those who keep a comfortable distance from the situation and learn about it through the lens of an ever eager Hollywood.