Holding out for a bit of good weather

We've been here in Sloan for two days now, waiting out a system of storms that could potentially be deadly to walk around in. We're making room 101 of the Winna Vegas Motel our home, and I'm not complaining; it's a nice place. Buddy certainly doesn't mind lounging about, but I'd rather not be paying a lot for a place to stay. I was so eager to be getting somewhere that I almost chanced it this morning, but storm sirens, hail and sudden 70 mph winds changed my mind. So, I guess we'll have a few long days now if we're gonna be in Omaha by the Fourth.

There's a reason it's called weed.

While traveling south this afternoon I detect a pungent smell in the air that takes me back to past travels in the Pravati Valley, Himachal Pradesh. There on my left is a fairly sizable cannabis crop growing in the shade of a corn field. Although it's not on my list of edible plants, I feel like I ought to find some sort of practical use for this find. It's quite surprising to see how quickly it's taken off, covering a solid 3/4 mile stretch beside the highway. So, I snap a few pictures, pick a single leaf and rubbing it together in the palms of my hands, apply the resin to my pits as a deodorizer. I'm pretty sure there aren't any laws against such things.

Entering a new State

We enter Iowa around 18:00. It's exciting to be in a new state. When we get into Sioux City there are still lots of signs of the flooding last week. Probably some more to come.

I'm not interested in sticking around long, so we push right on through. However, I do stop briefly at the obelisk which stands as a memorial to Sgt Charles Floyd, the only member of the Corps of Discovery who died.

 

Early morning clearance

We check out of the North Vue Motel in Avon at exactly 11:00. The owners, Dale and Shonni had been so congenial, and on a count of Buddy they even let us have the room for half price. I think that's the first time a motel's done that for us on this trip.

Anyway, with my clothes washed, and Bud bathed in an apple, deodorizing and antibacterial shampoo that a woman named Cindi had donated in Platte, we strike out for whatever place we're destined to end at. I have a feeling that we'll go 20 miles or so and pitch the tent in a field somewhere, but by 19:00 hours we've made it to Tabor. The weather's good and we still have some energy left, so even though it's breaking the rules, I put Bud in the cart and decide that we're gonna push on through 15 more miles to Yankton.

Arriving here at about half past midnight, I start looking for a toilet. Luckily, there's one bar that lets me use the restroom in spite of it being closing time. Whew! I was starting to get pretty desperate. Now we're both sitting in front of a Ford dealership so I can use their Wifi. 'Ah, nuts! It's not working now.' I don't feel much like setting up the tent, and there's no point in getting another motel so soon, so I think I'm going to go search for a sturdy bench or table somewhere to catch some zees before dawn.

4:00 am. I can't sleep. I'm thinking, 'This metal table would do nicely if it weren't so near a busy road. Might as well go find a Walmart.' Both pairs of shoes have had holes in the bottoms for a while now, and Buddy needs more dog food. So it's off to the north side of town.

5:15 am I didn't know Walmart has 24 hour stores. Look at all those sleepy heads stocking shelves. Hurray! Clearance time. Two pairs of trainers just my size for five bucks a piece. You can't even beat that in Indonesia. Follow it up with breakfast at McDonald's and I'm done.

On the road again

According to Hupa-Hu Maza, the tribe was given it's name, Ihanktonwan, in days long ago, when, at the gathering of tribes, these Nakota would camp on end of the grounds and post warriors on the perimeter as watchmen to keep the rest of the tribes safe, always ready for the possibility of attack.

These days the people are under severe attack, but their foes aren't the Crow or Pawnee. My two days at the Sun Dance have birthed a prayer in my heart, that the Ihanktonwan will once again rise up to be the warrior nation entrusted with the duty of admonishing and protecting the people on the reservations from the destructive forces of addiction, abuse and corruption.

I highly respect and appreciate those who have taken time to teach me about their culture and ways, and though I've only been able to grasp a small piece of this amazing ceremony, I look forward to a future time when we will be together again. My purpose continues, but I have realised that crossing the country on foot is a small trip compared to the journeys that some people face.

Prior to leaving Wagner, uncle Iron Wing and I get together again and he sings a traditional blessing for my travels. In turn, I pray that when the storm clouds gather and the lightning flashes, when the clown brings his pipe to the field to meet with the grandfathers, that the eyes of his heart will be enlightened and he will receive the precious gift that he needs.



Wopila Dekshi

My chance to dance

As I walk up the hill from Pickstown I'm thinking of all the synonyms I can possibly come up with for humid: sticky, balmy, sweltering...no wait that doesn't necessarily imply moisture, Oh, well. It's sweltering!

I get to the top of the hill and find that there is a casino and gas station so I connect the dots that I must have entered the Yankton Reservation.

So, after getting Bud hydrated and consuming a couple ice-cream bars, I decide the best course of action is to wait for a little while, at least until the sun is a bit less intense. While waiting a van pulls up and an Indian guy (Native American) pokes his head out the window to say hi. He introduces himself as DZ Iron Wing (Hupa-Hu Maza) and inquires about our destination. When he learns that we're crossing the country, he asks, 'What caused ya to do that.'

Now I generally tell folks something like, 'I'm out here searching for that beautiful sliver of humanity that's rarely given an opportunity to shine.' Or, 'I'm looking for that seed of goodness inherent in the hearts of all men.' And it usually seems eloquent in my head, but to others it probably comes across as either esoteric nonsense, or hackneyed attempts at witticisms. Regardless, on this occasion, I just responded by saying, 'I'm trying to sort some stuff out in my head.'

He says, 'Well, we've got our Sun Dance beginning tomorrow, and it would be a good place to come and get some of that stuff worked out. No one's gonna bother you, and you can stay for a day or two, or all four. It's up to you.'

I thank him for his offer, but ask for a little time to consider my response. 'Sure,' he says. 'I'll be back in a little while, and you can tell me what you decide.' Well, I'd heard that the Sun Dance is one of the most sacred ceremonies amongst the tribes of The Seven Council Fires, and I figure that I probably won't find a better chance to learn about the culture of the Ihanktonwan Oyate. So, when Hupa-Hu Maza gets back, I gladly accept the invitation.

That night, he takes me back to his home on the reservation and treats me most hospitably. We stay up late, drinking coffee and discussing a wide range of topics. Around 00:30 I say goodnight and head out to the tent, excited about the ceremony in the morning. As I begin to drift off, lighting suddenly starts flashing, and soon, the wind and hail come with it.

I'm not a modern camper

I walk into the Pease Creek campground, and I confess, my attitude isn't the greatest. I feel tired and dehydrated from the heat, I'm regretting my decision to go 3 miles off the route to find this place, and the dirt road caking my wheels in mud doesn't help. But the straw that sent the camel to surgery comes when I pick up the courtesy phone to get a site allotment. A young guy--I'd guess he's far away in a call office somewhere--quotes a price that's so off the charts, I mean, I've only paid more once at the Great Falls KOA, difference being that they had hot water, laundry facilities and free firewood.

Anyway, my first impulse is to just hang up the phone and go back to the dirt road where I can set up in a forested area, somewhere I won't be detected by park rangers. But then I start thinking that my conscience would nag at me all night, so I begrudgingly let the guy on the phone run my Amex card, then go to find my "modern campsite."

So as you might imagine, I'm grumbling and groaning like Bud with gastritis as I pitch the tent. Then, at some point I decide that brooding is stupid and I make a conscious effort to be optimistic. In fact, I tell Bud, 'Maybe something wonderfully unexpected will happen to make all the rest worth while.'

Well, I'd just returned from a cold shower when a guy named Gary approaches our area to say hi. He and his buddies have come from Nebraska for some Walai fishing and seem to be doing fairly well. Anyway, he says there's an extra pork chop in the fridge and offers to heat it up with some potatoes. How could I refuse when my only alternative was instant oatmeal. The food's fabulous; it really does hit the spot.

Nevertheless, if you're a traveller on foot or a cyclist doing the L&C trail, I'd steer clear of the Rec Areas in South Dakota. They're off the trail, and expensive (to put it mildly). You'd be better off pitching it in a field two nights and then using the money you'd have otherwise spent on " a modern campsite" for a nice motel room.

Good food, good vibe

Gann Valley, centre of the population for South Dakota, has a interesting bunch of people who get together in the mornings for coffee, confectioneries and general chit-chat. They waste no time making me feel right at home with their warm hospitality and friendly banter, and even though I don't win the pot in the morning's card game, 50 cents is a small price to pay for delicious carmel rolls & caffeine, not to mention the pleasure of good company.

Well, when the morning social wraps up I'm encouraged to go next door to the post office to meet Mrs. Ellen Speck, long time Corps of Discovery enthusiast and 2013 postmaster of the year. We spend a good hour discussing the Corps' famous journey and places we've been to on the route. I find our talk highly entertaining, as well as educational, but it's noon and I need to shove off if we're going to make Kimble by nightfall.

An easy 21 miles and we're at the next town. Nothing too remarkable on the road...a little rain, but then both Bud and I needed a shower. The first business I see is called The Back Forty. It's a rustic restaurant, not much to it from the front, but around back there's a marvelously well decorated outdoor eating area that utilizes spare farm parts and salvaged pieces of old homesteads. It's a very hip place, but not as though it were trying to be, you know.

My dog is welcomed to come in and meet Sam, the resident canine--I'm not entirely sure why, but Bud's not as friendly with other dogs as he used to be. Anyway, he still gets treated to heaps of leftover prime rib prepared in a Phili Cheese Steak kind of way. I order a burger, and it's a 1/2 lb of amazing, meaty goodness. Later in the evening, a band that does a sort of cowboy, surfer, fusion thing provides some musical entertainment and a local electrician named Bo introduces me to Red Beer, not quite the way his grandma would make it (with chunks in the tomato juice), but a relevant experience nonetheless.

Before I head back to the tent, Kiki--I think she is the owner--gives me a T-shirt from the restaurant as a memento. And as an additional bonus, I get serenaded until the final set since the campground is just opposite.

Small town treasures

Ah, the Great Plains. Like ever moving, green waves tossed about in turbulence, the grasses never seem to cease their tempestuous dance. We've been battling a fierce headwind since 9 am, and though it's pushed me toward some cool sites--like the wonderfully antiquated Corrin school house--to be honest, I'm exhausted. By the time we get about 22 miles from Miller, I'm relieved to find the Highway Store that Bob had mentioned the night before. You'd never know it was there if someone didn't tell you. I'm told it used to be on the east side of 45, and when they moved it across the road, no one bothered to turn it around. So from the highway, it just looks like the back of a house.

In any case, I walk inside this store that looks like something straight off the set of Bonanza and soon make the acquaintance of Edna Aims, the soft spoken granny and proprietor of the establishment for 52 continuous years. Edna says the place had been going long before she got there, so I'm thinkin' it's probably over 100 years old.

The Highway Store on the border of Buffalo County

What a wealth of knowledge to be gleaned! We chat for a while, and I wish it could have been longer, but since there's not a place available to camp there, we head back out on the road. It's 11 more miles to Gann Valley and Bud's pooped, so into the cart he goes. 'Good boy.' He's done his fair share.

Now both the backpack and cart are acting like sails in the wind,  which is trying to force an early retreat. But I'll have none of it. So I stir myself against each gale, screaming out defiant challenges and imprecations: 'Come on! Is that all you got?'

Limping into town, I feel a good deal of satisfaction that I've won this round, but I know that my chagrined foe will be back to blow another  day. Some friendly fellows give me permission to camp at the community picnic area, and it's all I can do to set up the tent before passing out, at least until a spectacularly loud thunderstorm rolls through around midnight. Then, I find myself humming These Are A Few of My Favorite Things to try to get back to sleep. Meanwhile, Bud gazes intently into the flashing sky, his face awe struck one minute and terrified the next.

The register for this old school house show the first teacher, a Mr Edward Starr, beginning in 1915. The final year of operations was 1968 and the school held an average of 14 students.

More wind

As we're leaving town, several people mention the impending storm, but my response remains, 'If I stopped every time the weather man hinted at inclement weather, I'd never make it anywhere.'
For most of the day, the storm front seems to be just off to the right or left, so I don't pay it any mind. Pearl, the local UPS package car driver, stops us outside Orient to say hello. We'd met back at the park in Faulkton. Then, almost as soon as she drives away the wind starts and it doesn't stop.
We make it to highway 45 and begin going south, but I'm eager to find shelter asap. A nasty group of clouds is coming in quickly from the west, and I reckon it could produce a less than peaceful evening for us if we don't find some suitable shelter. I certainly don't want a repeat of New Salem.
Providence favors us again, and around 19:00 we come across an abandoned gold mine owned by R E Hanks. The area is surrounded by trees and embankments which provide a wonderful alcove out of the tempestuous weather.

A day to play

After a good night's rest at the Faulkton city park, we head over to the laundry mat to do some cleaning. Sitting there waiting for my clothes to dry, I'm struck by the stark contrast between how welcoming the parks are toward camping in these small towns, and how utterly opposed large cities can be to it. I suppose when you've got a population of less than a thousand, vagrancy isn't a big issue. As Zack the groundskeeper puts it, 'With 728 people, we're not trying to drive folks away.'

I've had to take a video of his riding lawn mower. This thing's a beast. I don't think I've ever seen one that can tear it up quite as fast as this.

Since Bud's been putting forth such a good effort, I've decided to take another day here purely for fun. All work and no play makes Buddy a dull fellow. So, we're going to take full advantage of the nice park, and hopefully, Bud can reconnect with his inner puppy.

Not in PA

Although resting in Gettysburg for an extra day is an appealing proposition, I start to get itchy feet around 10:00 and feel as though staying longer would almost be transgressing against the first tenet of the trip: walking. So, we're back on 212 heading for Seneca with a light breeze and mostly overcast skies. Perfect weather for a leisurely stroll.

Not too far outside of town we receive a welcome surprise when officer Bill catches up with our funny little caravan of two. What's more, he's brought his wife and son along to meet us. Buddy's always keen to make new friends, but it certainly doesn't hurt if they've brought him a bag of treats. I'm glad these folks have taken the time to stop and say 'hi.' Sometimes the walking undermines the more valuable purpose of this journey: getting to know people. My sincere thanks thanks to the Wainman family for your kind donations as well as the interest you've taken in this trip.

Leaving the river

We've made it about 17 miles along the gravel road and now stand at the crossroads of 300 Ave and 155 St. Follow the sign right in the direction of the "Lewis ans Clark Trail" and we backtrack, but choose left and I'll be making a decisive move to bypass Pierre. Hmmmmmm. That's okay. I'm not real eager to go through bigger cities, and going back west would just feel wrong. So that's it then! Onward toward highway 212, Gettysburg (SD) and ultimately, the Atlantic.

Getting off the dirt road and onto the newly resurfaced 83 is nice. Smooth sailing with Buddy now in the boat. Just a few miles outside of town we're stopped by a police officer (as it happens frequently) who's responding to a call that a baby's being pushed alongside the highway. Well, he quickly realizes that the "baby" is a dog.

Officer Bill is quite friendly and, after running my ID, gives me a large Pepsi for the journey. He also lets me know where to find a good camping spot in the town. Such information is invaluable when arriving late in a new place. The officer's directions bring us to the city park where several lovely spots are available for camping, and there's even hot running water in the restrooms. Jackpot! I'm considering staying an extra day.

A taste of India

I turn in the key and say goodbye to our Punjabi innkeeper. However, before we leave the motel in Mobridge, Mrs. Jessica Singh insists I have a packed lunch. She goes to the back for a moment, and then returns with a sack filled with goodies: daal makhani, aloo sabji, roti, muffins and fruit.

I don't think we'll go too far today since it is drizzling. Interestingly, it was in the 80's the day we arrived, and now, two days later, it's in the low 50's. Whenever I mention these extreme variances in temperature, the locals just say, 'Welcome to the Dakotas.'

Off the dirt and gravel road that is 1804 south, I find a semi sheltered area behind a wind belt and pitch the tent. Just as the fly is being closed the deluge begins, and it occurs to me that throughout the journey we always seem to get inside just before the heavy rain starts to fall. An auspicious sign perhaps, or maybe the answers to my mother's prayers. Who knows?

Breakfast on the Standing Rock

It's 10:30. The miles from yesterday have left a slightly unpleasant reminder, but surprisingly, I'm not as sore as I thought I'd be. As the tent's coming down, my native host greets me with a huge smile, and his son Mason pulls up on his bike to meet the white guy who'd been sleeping in his yard. Tokub invites me to come in and have breakfast with the family.

Inside the house, I'm introduced to Mah^a Ska, Tokub's father and elder in the tribe. It's a privillage to be there and hear him speak about his people. Breakfast is laid out, and I kid you not, it's a meal fit for royalty. I mean, there's oatmeal, there's eggs and toast, sausages and grapefruit.

So I have the honor of eating with three generations of Lakota while learning first hand a bit about the culture. What I glean from the experience is, they are a highly spiritual people whose past suffering has made them a strong and extremely resilient tribe.

Walking away, I feel lucky to have been included in their day, and I hope I've added the Lakota to my ever growing list of friends.

Upon entering South Dakota, we get stopped by a woman named Jackie who's wondering what we're doing. When I tell her, she's quick to welcome us in the state with a big bag of sunflower seeds. Although there wasn't a sign, I think it's about the neatest way I've ever crossed a state border.

A new record

A bit of a storm keeps Bud and me waiting snug in the tent until 11:00. But since things don't appear to be changing, we finally head out. The intention is to make the relatively easy 13 miles into Fort Rice, where we can stay for the night. However, the reality ends up becoming a 45 mile adventure which sees us arriving near Fort Yates at 3 o'clock in the morning.

It's a long story, but sufficed to say, we find a place to stay on the Standing Rock Reservation with a really great Lakota guy I'd just happened to meet while stopping at the Prairie Knights Casino on the way. Around 1:30, Tokub was heading home after finishing his shift and he spots me pushing Buddy in the cart, and he must recognize me as the guy who'd been asking about camping several hours earlier cause he pulls over and asks if he can be of assistance. I explain that we're heading to the campground at Fort Yates since there hadn't been anywhere suitable before, and he offers to let us pitch our tent in his yard which is five or six miles ahead and much closer to the highway than the campground.

Well count me in! I'm really grateful for his suggestion, and although I'd also love to take him up on the offer to ride in, I figure I've got five more miles left in me. Besides, a mist has begun setting in and it provides a cool contrast to the heat of the day.

My Indian friend gives good directions, and by 3:30 the tent is pitched on his lawn. I don't bother to change clothes or even unzip my sleeping bag. I simply collapse and fade from consciousness.

Buddy wasn't happy about this 2 am photo op.

A different direction

The Missouri from Fort
Abraham Lincoln

On the way out of Mandan, we stop so I can do some laundry. There, I have the pleasure of meeting a kind lady who not only takes a keen interest in the journey, but also blesses me with a couple new ponchos and some beef jerky. She also makes sure Bud's treat compliment is up to snuff. Another great beginning to a day!

Clothes washed and supplies stocked, we make our way onto highway 1806, following "The Big Muddy" for about 13 miles. The tall grass near the river is a breeding ground for mosquitoes. Man, and I thought I'd seen swarms in Indonesia, but the tropics don't hold a candle to the menacing numbers here in the Dakotas.

Going past Fort Abraham Lincoln, we take a little break on the bank of the river. Actually, Bud prefers to hang out in the murky waters close to shore while I consider making this spot our camp for the night. Fortunately, a fisherman points out that a better campground is just a couple miles down the road. So off we go again.

In a short while we turn into the Sugarloaf Bottom, Graner Park. I find the park host, and pay the five dollar fee--well worth it considering the beautiful location and the facilities. Soon Glen returns with some and we get to talkin' about the trip. He's quite an easy-going and accommodating fellow. He even brings some firewood a little later.

I spend the last moments of the day watching a splendid sunset from the banks of the Missouri. Meanwhile, Buddy snaps wildly in the air, trying to rid himself of the constant nuisance of these implacable mozzies.