Journal

“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.

When approached from a distance, Rapid City seems like a deck of cards scattered out haphazardly against the base of the Black Hills, with little visual appeal.  But it actually has an active downtown area, with many shops, driven no doubt from the tourism industry.  Even so, in the middle of a Sunday afternoon there are many cars driving through downtown with South Dakota plates.  It certainly is more active than downtown Raleigh.

The best two places downtown are the Firehouse Brewery and Prairie’s Edge.  The Brewery makes their own beers and is a great place to gather.  Prairie’s Edge is an enormous store selling all things Indian.  I normally don’t have any interest in such places but this one is very well done.  They also have a large bookstore upstairs with a huge collection of books on the Lakota language, poetry, novels and Indian affairs.  The best two places in town are conveniently located right next to each other.

In the alley across the street from here is extensive street art.  At first glance it looks dumpy, but a casual stroll down it will change your mind.  It’s quite beautiful, and if this was the cities idea to keep graffiti down, it works marvelously.  It is filled with cartoon characters also.  Families stroll through here.

After a hearty breakfast of what else, buffalo sausage, I packed up and made my way west in a driving rainstorm.  In this weather you have a choice of staying indoors or – going under ground.  I opted for the latter and drove to Jewel Cave National Monument, the fourth longest cave in the world.  I was not disappointed.  I even got to be “caboose,” as the guide asked someone to take up the rear and keep our group of thirty together.  If in the area, this cave is a mandatory stop.  Once I get my other camera I’ll see if any of the photos came out.

I then drove back along 16 East and stopped by the side of the road for this shot of the Crazy Horse memorial.  Not worth paying the price to drive up to the bottom of it, but I do admire the sheer audacity of the scope of this project.  When it is complete it will be the largest sculpture in the world.  By far.  It is an entire mountain!

Then I continued on to Mount Rushmore.  On the road leading in you can stop and look back and get a good shot of Washington:

And then the money shot:

I then drove into downtown Rapid City, grabbed a room and headed over to an Indian book and art store, “Prairie’s Edge,” which came well recommended by the owner of the Sunshine Inn.  He was certainly right, as I will talk more about later.  I then went next door and spent the rest of the evening in great conversation at the Firehouse Brewing Company, drinking beers and eating what else, buffalo burgers. I’m not joking.  Four days and eight meals of buffalo, which has been fine by me.

www.kevn.com/Roll-over-accident-on-I-90-claims-one-life

www.rapidcityjournal.com/articles/2009/09/11/news/top/doc4aab02ff929bf695405721.txt

After a hearty breakfast of – what else, buffalo sausage, I relaxed for awhile then decided to reconnoiter one of the destinations recommended to me for disappearing into the back areas of the national grasslands & badlands area.  I was warned about not entering the area when weather threatened due to the mud washes, and the forecast was for rain.  So caution was the order of the day.

Not far outside of Wall is Sage Creek Rim drive, a gravel road which is by far the most direct route down to Indian Creek.  It’s also exquisitely scenic.

Further down the road I came across what has become my principal staple these days – buffalo.  I’ve had buffalo burgers, buffalo barbecue, buffalo sausage.  This big fellow was sitting right next to the road, which made me a little nervous.  If you’ve never been right up next to one, they are enormous, and could probably tip a car over if they wanted.  And they can be quite aggressive, charging up to 30 mph if irritated. Luckily this guy was relaxing.

“I…”

“…am a BUFFALO!  Yee haw!”

As I travelled a bit further south the terrain smoothed out suddenly into a vast stretch of mixed grass prairie, as it so often does, making for simply remarkable photo opportunities.

I didn’t proceed into Indian Creek itself, as storm clouds threatened and I had more than sufficient warning about doing such a thing, so I returned via 44 and up to I-90.  I know precisely where it is though, and may come back to that location and pitch my tent.  It is 8 miles back off the nearest road and would allow me a taste of the vast solitude and badlands silence I have been yearning for.

But with weekend weather moving in and my thoughts turning heavenward, tomorrow I pack up and drive into Rapid City to go to the cathedral on Sunday.  It will probably be a weekend of city noise and distraction before I then head south into the Black Hills.  On Sunday I will likely stay at Custer State Park.  After tomorrow my updates may be infrequent or even non-existent, as internet access disappears.

A peaceful good night-

Mark

The rancher sitting next to me slapped his forehead when I told him how much an Ohio couple recently paid for beef.  “My calves this year brought $1 a pound,” he told me.  I had two lengthy conversations with ranchers in different areas yesterday and they were virtually identical, so I’ll combine them into one conversation.

“Our struggle here is with the packers,” they said.  “There are essentially only three meat packing companies which control nearly all of North America and probably much of South America as well.  And those three are probably all owned by the same individuals.  There are three because of anti-trust laws otherwise there would probably be just one.  They control market price, they control the legal system, beef quality, you name it.  They pour billions of dollars into campaign funds to get political favors.”  “Sounds like a cartel,” I said.  “A couple of years ago they gave $250 million dollars for the South Dakota Senatorial race.  That was higher than any special interest group gave in the nation, including in New York, and we are in one of the most sparsely populated areas of the country. These aren’t the things which make headline news, however.”  I had asked another rancher about the “packers” ability to influence market price.  He laughed.  “Oh definitely.  All they need to do is start a rumor that the cattle in a certain county don’t look so healthy.  Wham – the price plummets.”

I got up and grabbed my second BBQ buffalo burger.  They were free because of Thursday night football.

“How many do you run?” I asked, after I sat back down.  “I’ve got 350 head.  But neither you nor I have any chance of eating them.”  “Hmm?”  “Oh no, these are hard grass cattle.  These cattle range free and spend their lives eating nothing but hard grass.  Not corn, not Texas sage, but grass.  The beef from this part of the world – the Dakotas, Wyoming and Montana, is some of the best beef in the world.  This beef goes mainly to the Japanese.  You see, there are two kinds of fat: interior fat and exterior fat.  Exterior fat is what people trim off, interior fat is what people call marbling.  That’s where the taste comes from. These cattle have a high degree of marbling.  It’s superior beef, some people raise it just for themselves.”

“So you guys must do pretty well for yourselves?”  He laughed.  This rancher worked a second job as a bartender.  The rancher I talked to earlier in the day worked a second job several months of the year for the Park service.  I pressed my bar neighbor further.  “If you ranched hard, full time, and really pressed it, what could you clear in a year?”  “Oh you can do well if you work hard at it.  Thirty five, maybe forty thousand dollars profit in a year.  But you’re looking at 16 to 20 hours of work a day.”

Prairie Dog Towns are an important part of the grassland ecosystems. They support more than just prairie dogs.  The most endangered mammal in America, the black-footed ferret, also depend upon them as do many burrowing animals.  I’m sure they are a nuisance for ranchers but standing in the middle of them one can’t help but love their little yelps and calls, their scurrying back and forth, diving into their burrows at the least sign of trouble.

This particular little fellow was getting braver and braver the longer I stood there.  If I crouched down to get a better angle he scurried away.  As long as I stood up he would approach closer.

Heading back after an eventful day I hiked down off the road and into the prairie and got this shot of some pronghorn.  With my wide angle lens it was a challenge to compose this shot so that no man-made structures are visible.  Immediately off each edge of this photograph are electric poles or radio towers.  Even so, of all the photographs I’ve taken so far I’m most fond of this one.  I think it best captures the overall diversity of landscape here.

“The Notch” was one of the recommended hikes in Badlands National Park, marked “moderate to strenuous.”  It is awarded “strenuous” status due to this large, long ladder which the hiker must climb about midway through the trail.  Although I’m using a wide angle lens which distorts things a bit, it really is close to vertical at the top.  The challenge is that the rungs are at least six inches in diameter with no way to grasp them.  So the feet go on the rungs and the hands go on the cables.

I was all alone for much of this hike, then as I was relaxing in the shade from the intense sun two other hikers came up the trail.  I was grateful for their company in this less than safe landscape.

I was also thankful to have someone there to take this picture at the terminus of the trail – a giant notch cut into the side of the cliff with a stunning view of the valley far below and stretching off into the distance for over thirty miles.

Going back the trail was a little more difficult but we had three middle aged people reminding one another to be safe and not foolhardy on the steep gravel slopes.  I tend to be a very fast hiker and so was grateful for the reminders.