W. G. Cordaro

More than half a year since I departed life as I knew it and began life as a whore to the open road, I have touched the other Ocean.  The Pacific.

“Yeah,” the older man who has just joined his sister and her husband for a BBQ tells me, “I lived off of music for fifteen years, but, you know, life, the wife, kids…it was time to settle down.”

I had been talking to his brother in law before they arrived.  His wife, this fella’s sister seemed slightly unnerved by our discussion about what I was doing.

“That’s the problem,” her husband tells me, before his brother in law arrives, “The rest of us work our whole lives and don’t do that till we retire.”  He looks at his wife.  “By then, we’re too old to really do everything we could have, you know.”

She smiles. 

“But John,” she says to me, “Is a truck driver.  So he’s traveled a lot, haven’t you?  He’s seen every part of the state.”

‘Well,” I tell the lot of them, “I’m going to head out to the state park there and check out the coast.”

Quite a few people have taken long boards into the water.  They mostly lay around on the board, occasionally paddling. Ecola Beach is more like a social hang out, a place to bring your surf board and chill.  This is not the surfing of John From Cincinnati or Bay Watch.  Some have truly come to brave the waves, which at first do not impress me.  Of course, when I say don’t impress me, what do I know?  I surfed one time in my life, maybe twice, with Brushback boy.  I think in those two or three outings I actually stood on the thing once.  The rest was like the pain of first learning how to play guitar.  Still, those waves just south of New Port Rhode Island looked bigger than these things. 

“Good looking swells,” an older gentleman says to me.

“It’s nice,” I tell him, but he’s already off to more important things.  The Ranger has pulled in just behind us. 

“Hey,” I hear the ranger say, “No skateboards buddy, not in the lot here or down by the beach.”

The young man is respectful.

“Ok, sir.” He throws the board back in his trunk.

“Any more reports, Big John,” the older man asks the ranger. The older man is much bigger than Ranger John.  I’ve seen this sort of thing before.  I have a buddy, the fella I bought this bike off of, he’s maybe 10 feet and 8 inches tall…something like that, he’s big.  He used to call me “Big Boy.”  It seemed to be his way of saying, ‘Fine, I see you have the balls of a big, big man, little fella, let’s just go now.’

“Anymore reports Big John?” he asks.  “Sharks, activity?  What’s the good word?”

“Nothing new this morning,” the Ranger tells him.  But something particular has brought this man here.  A young woman knows it.  She waits just feet from the Ranger vehicle.  Waits for Big John to place the binoculars to his head.  Waits for the older man to disappear.  She moves in. 

“Can you tell what it is?”she asks.

What it is, I think.  What is he looking for?  I peer out but see nothing. 

“They said,” she tells him, “that it’s moved south-east since this morning.  It doesn’t quite seem just to be a log, but you got the good binoculars.”

“No,” he says, “It’s not a log, but it’s not a person either.  It looks like something might be hurt out there, but I can’t quite make out what it is.”

“Well,” she says, “Long as it ain’t a dead surfer, I’m happy.”

I make the crossing into Oregon, from Washington, just north of Portland.  There are a number of bridges to cross.  Thus far, the coast has been splendid, but very much in the same way, the Maine coastline, Arcadia, is splendid.  Steep cliffs drop straight into ocean, massive rocks, mini mountain peeks jet out from the waters to form tiny islands, mist and mystery surrounding the lighthouses and the like. 

Along the Pacific, in Oregon, there are State Parks and National Forest all up and down the coast.  They have done well to preserve their areas this way.  However, throughout the parks and in between, it is much like every other coastal area, clogged with expensive property and extravagant resorts that most Americans will never enjoy.

The parks themselves contain beautiful beaches and preserves; though none of the campgrounds have such access or views.  The camping is generally back in the woods a mile or so, for good reason. 

The private RV parks along the coast are some of the most expensive I have seen, running around $50 a night.  The national forests, too are the most expensive National Forest campgrounds I have seen.  $20 a night.  Doesn’t sound like much, but considering you can generally stay for free in a national forest, and, if you pay, it’s usually $12 at most, $20 is a bit high. 

After heading south, I find a secluded camp in the Forest just north of Helecet. 

 “Do you have any sites that are less treed in?  Something more open?” I ask the camp hostess. 

“You looking for a beach view?” she asks.

“That’d be nice, but I just need something open.  There’s a full Lunar Eclipse at 3am this morning and I’d like to be able to see it.”

“You know, if you’re only staying a couple nights, there are some spots up top.  The whole thing is reserved starting Thursday, but it’s open till then.”

“Are there any places,” I ask her, “Like other national forests where I can just go drive, find my own spot and dry camp?”

“Ah,” she cringes, “The coast is pretty prime real estate.  I don’t think they have any of that around here.”

“I see.  Ok then, I’ll go check out up top.  Thanks.”

Up top is a five or six acre loop, open field in the center, sand dunes to the west and not a soul in any one of the sites.  For two nights, a good day and a half, Jasmine and I have the entire place to ourselves.  With no one to bother, I set up the PA, microphone, guitar, hoot and holler into the open air.  Then Jasmine and I are off over the dunes.  Sons a’ bitches, this is hard.  The steep grade leaves both of us sinking into the deep sand, making half progress with each step or worse, in the words of Springboy, “One step ahead, two steps back.”  After ascending and descending three dunes, not sure when they might end and the beach arrive, we begin our trek back to camp.  Don’t want to get lost out here. 

To access the public beach at Helecet you pay $3.  For that, you’re allowed to walk through the narrow opening between the massive condos to the beach.  There are sea lion caves and seal coves.  After two nights, we continue our trek down the Pacific Coast highway in Oregon.  Views of the coast itself are less frequent than views of the small beach towns and forest.  The highway goes from 50 mph, to 25 mph about every ten miles, as we pass through the resort towns and small cities.  

Braving America’s Deepest Lake & The Bees
8-28-07

Crater Lake:   Elevation -1943ft

I may or may not have been right when I said Glacier National Park runs the cleanest waters I’ve ever seen.  I suppose as rivers go, I am still right, because Crater Lake has no rivers.  It is what geologists refer to as a “Closed” eco-system.  The deepest lake in the United States and one of the deepest in the world was created by a massive volcanic eruption nearly 8,000 year ago.  In my infinite wisdom, I had imagined it was caused by a massive meteor.  Ah, what did I know?  Crater Lake never had any fish, until white people threw some in, but they are dying out naturally now (not the white people –still, a man can dream).  An island peeks our from its southwestern tip.  Wizards Island is believed to have been formed quite recently – a secondary eruption within the crater.  Crater Lake is the bluest water I think I’ve seen. 

7,700 years ago (way before Jesus Christ or Buddha), the 12,000 ft mountain exploded and collapsed into itself.  They say the eruption of Mount Mazama created 150 times the ash that Mt. St. Helens produced and that some of that ash can be found in three Canadian provinces as well as eight U.S. states.  They also say that the lake, in fact is no more blue than is the sky.  The lake is clear.  Light is absorbed, color by color, as it passes through clear water.  First to go are the reds, then yellows, oranges, greens.  Last, blues.  The deepest blues are reflected back, in very clear water.  As this water has no rivers running to or fro and is fed only by rain and snow, it is quite clear.  Mazama Village camp grounds do not bother with special brochures and procedures, rather, the sign as you enter says it all.

“Bear Are In This Campground.”
What about Chiye-Tanka, I wonder?  Wasn’t it the Pacific Northwest where two police officers reported a sighting of Sasquatch, Bigfoot?  The Lakota Indians named Sasquatch Chiye-Tanka, Big Elder Brother.  The Sioux, Hopi and Iroquois have other names for the creature.  Well before the hoaxes of the white man, the natives knew of Sasquatch.  Many tribes attributed special respect for the creature because they believed the Chiye-Tanka is unique in that it holds the consciousness and awareness of beast and human.  Other tribes believe the Sasquatch is supernatural, able to exist in dimensions we cannot access and that we only see it when it takes the form of Chiye-Tanka. 

No signs about Chiye-Tanka here.  Just this…

“Bear Are In This Campground.”   

At Glacier, I was quite impressed by the fact that they publish a full brochure warning of bear and giving detailed instructions of what to and not to do.  Most parks just have a small note about keeping food inside or hung high in trees, but Galcier had a full color brochure.  Still, Crater Lake is the first place I’ve come to that has a big sign simply stating, bear are here.

I can’t say whether it was my reckless parking job or Jasmine’s attack of the tree roots that set loose the bees, but something got them going.  As most the National Parks go, the loop to the site is a one way street.  Unlike most parks, this pull through site has the picnic table on the left.  All RVs and trailers are built so that the awning and door are on the right.  Most parks and sites are designed to accommodate this.  Not site B-7 at Mazama Village.  For some reason I pull in as if all is well.  Then I pull out and try to maneuver.   A man from who-knows-where hears all the screeching of my level jacks scraping ground, my trailer crunching.  He stops by to make sure I’m all right.

“They’ve got the thing set up on the wrong side,” I tell him, “But I’m fine.  Just trying to turn around.”

“Oh,” he says, “O.k.  Maybe you can just pull all the way out and come back through.”

“Right,” I say, but that is not my plan.  I will back this thing up, pull into the site across from B-7 and get a good angle.  All is well.

Jasmine has been in the truck for a few hours.  Before I get situated I tie her to the trailer and give her water and food.  As I pull the motorcycle out of the trailer I can see she’s done filled her water and food bowls with dirt, while digging at the base of the tree, which sits in the center of our site.  I reel her in. 

Bees are everywhere.  I did some back and forth finagling with the trailer; maybe hit a tree or two.  Either I disrupted a nest, or she dug one of those ground nests up.  Either way, I take Jasmine for a brief walk.  Whatever got these things going, I figure we better let them sort it out, before they blame us.  When we return, there are countless bees probing the trailer and truck inch by inch. 

Jasmine, being a Pit-bull, and me, being a Neanderthal, we’ve got different approaches.  With her quick snap lock jaw, she only cares to eat the damn things.  Her method seems to work.  She goes after them with her snout and they don’t bother her.  As far as they’re concerned she’s the bigger threat.  I, on the other hand, not wanting to reap the wrath of the homeless fuckers, let them swarm around me, so long as they don’t get too curious or aggressive, occasionally swatting at the air around them, to usher them away without making contact.  It’s a sketchy couple hours before theysimmer down.  I hop on the Harley and drive around the big fat lake. 

Here’s the other thing they say.  7,700 years ago, before Christ, before Buddha, there were Native Americans living here who witnessed the catastrophic explosion.  Fear not, we done got rid of most of them. 

8-30-07

Somewhere on Mt. Scott…  It’s a 2 ½ mile climb to the tallest peak at Crater Lake.  Elevation;  8,929ft

Before Mazama collapsed into herself, she was King of the Hill at nearly 12,000ft.  Not in my best hiking shape, I take a break midway up the climb.  Some sort of grasshopper or cricket pervade.  The green grasshoppers seem to peep like most others, but these grayish black fuckers make rapid crackling sounds like machine guns.  For their size, they make quite a noise.  A good defense mechanism, I suppose.  I am swarmed by a flock of birds.  They swoop in, dance around, as if to say hello.  Then they are off.  Like the Clark’s Nutcracker, they seem to be something between a Jay and a Crow, but they have gray upper torsos, pitch black tails with white ends.  No where to be found in the Audubon guide I have.  Their wings make the swooshing sounds of the condor, but they are only the size of a Jay.  Beyond their dance is a grand view of Scott Bluffs, Bear Butte, Sharp Peak and the expanse of the Winema. 

Among the many trees, twisted and torn by the forces of nature, lays a contorted trunk, large boulders swallowed up into its belly.  The insects have followed my many scents.  Time to move on. 

Just before the peak I stop to photograph a tall, lonely flower swaying about the edge of the cliff.  Behind her, a couple thousand feet down, is the deep blue of Crater Lake.   I take in the wide open view in all directions, from the peak, then attempt to access the fire tower. 

Encased in glass walls, propped up on stilts, it’s the only place with a potentially “better” view.  Aside from the three signs stating “No” and the blocked staircase, there is the watch woman to contend with.  I sit, eat my tuna sandwich and prepare for the descent. 

I feel I am in much better shape on the way down, skipping weightlessly.

“You see that Jas?” I point to the sky, having returned to camp.  “Those are two friendly looking cloud formations, but the way they’re racing toward each other…When they meet, they ain’t gonna be so friendly looking anymore.”

Seeing that there are no squirrels or deer in the sky, she pays me no mind.

As the two formations come together they take the shapes of beasts with many faces, large jaws and engulf one another.  The white turns to gray, then darker gray.  The wind picks up.  There’s a lot going on up there.  I head inside to cook dinner, in hopes to finish in time for the storm. 

For a moment I am pleased with myself.  Then, all hell breaks loose.  Solid white balls of hail pounce the trailer, awning and everything else.  The sky lets out a massive roar and a torrent of water and ice.  Crisp lightning bolts.  Thunderous cracks.  The awning is sinking in.  I make to lower one side.  As soon as I release the latch the weight is too much.  It comes crashing down into itself.  Buckets of ice cold water and hail splash about me.  I rush to lower the other side, then go back and adjust the first.  The ground is white with ice balls.  The fire pit looks like a water well in winter.

Jasmine is torn.  She’d rather be inside, but I’ve got dinner, Shrimp Pad Thai outside with me.  She stands at the door.

“All this,” I tell her, “And still all you care about is food?”  I give her some peanut covered egg through the screen door slide.  The lightning is upon us.  Camped on the south rim of the canyon, I can now see it striking the other side.  It’s good not to be the tallest thing in the area.  I use the free water streaming down from the awning to clean my hat, which is quite grimy from the day’s hike…and all the other days before. 

Damn, that’s cold.  Things settle down for a bit.  I take Jas for a romp through the puddles.  A magical mist passes through the canyon like a ghost.  The green and river below are darker, brighter, more defined.   

When we return, I towel Jas down.  She is euphoric, thinking I’m giving her the rub down of her life.  If she were a kitten, she’d be purring right now.  She’s a Pit Bull.  She don’t much purr. 

Sometime around 4am the trailer shakes.  I am wide awake suddenly, with not much chance of sleeping.  The shaking feels like Crater Lake and all the other volcanoes spread out through the area, have burst.  It is like earthquakes shaking the ground.  It is the thunder at 6,000 ft eleveation.  Hail pelts the trailer.  It is about an hour of strong wind, trailer shakes, hail and lightning before things calm down enough to go back to sleep. 

The Pumice Desert, lava rock fields, gardens, and mountains at Crater Lake are beautiful.  The lake itself is the bluest I’ve seen.  The steep cliffs of the crater, which line it in full, are part of what make it a one-of-a-kind sight.   Still, no Chiye-Tanka, but things are about to get quite mysterious.

Growing & Shrinking, Inertia & Headache In The Vortex
The natives called it the “Forbidden Ground.”  They said that even the animals would not venture there.  Down a small country road in the Pacific Northwest is a phenomena Einstein hypothesized about, known as the Oregon Vortex.  A small tourist attraction called, The House Of Mystery, allows access and tours.  A vortex is a sort of whirlpool field of force which can change or distort not only the common perception of things, but the things themselves.  The Oregon Vortex gives me a headache.  There is pressure on my body.  Is this all the power of suggestion, the effects of unleveled land and crooked buildings, or the power of vortex?  I take the tour with a family from southern California.  They are fun and friendly.  We all participate in the various demonstrations.  First, I line up with the tour guide, a seventeen year old kid who waits for his German fiancé to return from New York, where she is vacationing. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells us, “You just got me on a good day.  I got paid today and my fiancé is coming home.  I am in a good mood.”

“That’ll change,” I mumble to the woman next to me.

“What’s that?” he says.

“Nothing,” I say, “I didn’t say anything.”  But everyone heard.

“Don’t blame me,” the woman says.

I line up across from the guide.  He is in fact taller than me by an inch.  At the moment he appears three inches taller than me.  When we switch places, standing outside under some trees, I am taller than him.  We take a level to the board.  It is flat and even.  We do this twice.  All of us are amazed.  The other girls in the group take their turn.  The explanation is that in the vortex, mass actually compresses and expands like a sponge.  Light, too, compresses, expands and warps.  These two things create a partial optical illusion, together with a change in reality. 

We make our way up the hill, toward the center of the vortex.  I feel a pressure.  No one else notices anything until they step into the house itself.  Where we stand, the house, an old mining building, has slipped down a hill and rests crooked.  I take photos, as the woman at the campground says photos are encouraged because you can often capture light forms.  There is another demo.  The guide asks me to point a level, like a gun, from the southern corner of the floor, from outside of the house, through the opening where a window once was, and point it to the north corner of the floor to determine how far we’d have to raise the southern end to make it level.  I point it at the corner.  Then he says,

“Look at the level.”  The level isn’t even close.  “Now point it till the level is even.  I do.  It points to the center of the floor. 

“We’d have to raise this corner,” he says, “About five feet higher than it appears we should, to make it level.”

We enter the house.

“Oh my god,” the woman says, “Do you feel that?”

“I felt it outside, actually,” I say.

“Have you been to other vortexes?” the guide asks me. 

“Nope,” I say.

“I feel dizzy,” one of the girls says. 

The guide demonstrates some very interesting things.  The first is that he stands on a level platform and appears to be leaning heavily.

“When I’m done,” he says, “I encourage you to stand here.  You will see that you are standing straight and comfortable.”  Then he steps out to the center of the floor.  There, he leans forward as if something holds him in place.

“You can actually feel the force of the vortex pushing against you,” he says.  “I encourage you to try it.”  He turns around and leans back, as if held up by magic. 

The husbands steps forward.  Leans into the force.  He is amazed.  So is the wife and the children.  The guide then demonstrates items rolling up hill.  Splendid.  Then the guide places a broom in the center of the room and lets go.  It stands in place. 

“Can I do that with my shoe?” the wife asks. 

“I’ve done it with everything from a cane to a tripod.  My friend can make the broom balance upside down, but he’s six foot tall.”

When he is done, I try all the things myself.  It is all true.  I lean into the force and am held up.  Even backward.  I stand on the platform and am perfectly comfortable; though appear to be leaning drastically. 

“Reptiles and insects,” he says, “Do seem to come here.  Domestic animals, like us, some like it, some don’t.  Otherwise, occasionally birds might fly overhead, but not often.  Nothing else lives here.”

There is one last demonstration near the center of the vortex.  It is a slow demonstration.  I stand toe to toe with the guide.  We are almost even height, him slightly taller.  As we switch places, we see each other’s height change.  I grow taller, he gets shorter.  I watch the girls do it.  Fascinating.  

Skeptics claim this is all optical illusion.  One skeptic explains that she has even felt the energy of the vortex, but says that it was only power of suggestion.  The second time she felt nothing.  Einstein gave a perfectly rational scientific explanation that relates to black holes and the physics of vortex.  The natives called it the “forbidden ground.”

In The Words of A Scottish Physicist
John Litster, not the European Football fella, but the Scottish physicist, geologist, mining engineer (depending), spent most of his life “studying” and “experimenting” with the Oregon Vortex.  What he says, is this:

“The circular area is not always the same size; but expands or contracts periodically…The lines within the area move, or oscillate, with a period of 22.320 seconds.  This is the square root of the astronomical light unit of distance…the phenomena constitute a vortex…Experimentation shows that the energy-wave involved in both the vortex and the Terralines is transverse.  Its power and penetration is neither affected nor minimized by a heavy lead shield…The eleven Terralines penetrating the vortex, and also the four Terralines in contact with it, oscillate with a period of approximately 22.33 seconds…throughout the oscillation of the lines, the Vortex remains in its normal area…The change in size…is not effective in all directions…A blind person is able to check the change in height by his sense of touch.  He also finds the change in height confirmed by the change in elevation of an opposing party’s voice.”   

What others say about Litster is that he used his scientific knowledge to build this phenomena, which has since been replicated in many “Mystery Houses” throughout the world. 

Still, I have a headache.  Maybe it’s just the magnets they’ve planted around the place.        

My Vortex Photo Phenomena
Of the forty-seven photos I took, twenty three of them are distorted to some degree.  The majority of the photos from within the house either came out blurry or appear to be in motion or covered in moving light.  The house is open.  Where windows or doors might have been, are big fat voids to the outside.  Some of the photos from outside the house are partially in focus and partially not.  For instance, in one photo, the house is perfectly clear, yet the guide, sitting on the steps in front, is blurry.  One photo from in the house, shows the young man giving the demonstration.  He is a ghostly figure, completely absorbed in light.  If there are magnets placed about, maybe they affect a camera thusly.  I have not been big on taking pictures on this journey.  After the woman at the campground told me,

“They say you can pick up the light distortion on camera.  Make sure you take pictures.”

I stopped and bought batteries.  I shot away.  Whatever the case, it is not normal that half the pictures I take are distorted to some degree.  If the Vortex is a hoax, it is a hoax that gave me and my camera a headache.  

“Glacier,” I told a man who’d asked me if there’s one particular place I haven’t been, that I definitely plan on, “Before the thing melts away,” I said, “and becomes Small Pond National Park.” 

This morning I wake to find my right hand remains virtually useless.  My back fights every movement with a determined, sharp pain.  When a dear friend emailed with sympathy and queried as to whether or not I’d seen a doctor it occurred to me that a doctor hadn’t even crossed my mind.  It also occurred to me that I may have truly lost that mind.  I responded to her explaining, that even though my trailer is flooded with gasoline and even though I threw out my wrist and my back, and even though parts of the trailer seem to be coming apart, and even though the entire state of Montana is burning, my point is that “nothing sucks.”  Have I gone crazy?  I elaborated to her that some groups believe that a woman’s monthly menstrual cycle and the act of giving birth are great opportunities for enlightenment and that my current pain was and is only an opportunity to witness the miracle that is the human body, human pain, emotion.  I meant it.  And when I said, “A doctor?  They know about as much about the human body as G. Bush knows about peace in the Middle East,” I meant that too.  I may have lost my mind….but then, what’s that annoying little thing worth anyway?

Lill Sue’s American Dreams & Finally Getting Out of Sturgis
8-11-07On a stop like this, where water is limited, yet interaction with masses of humans is not, baby-wipes are a must. 

 “Lill Sue,” I tell her as I’m about to take off, “Can you think of a love story to tell me for tomorrow?  You really need more love in your life.”

She’s just got married, but her husband, Freddie Kruger is asleep.  He’s not monitoring his diabetes well.  She tells me about her last husband.  He killed his own son by mistake.  The son broke into his father’s house, robbing him of prescription drugs.  Unfortunately for the son, his father had been invaded the previous nights by other thieves.  This time he shot the thief.

“He didn’t die right away, but the brain damage, they said, shut down other parts of his body.”

Now, that man, too is dead.  While Lil Sue was married to him, his adulterous girlfriend killed him.

“She didn’t care.  He done her wrong too many times.  He beat her like he did me, but she was done with it.  She drove her van right into a truck on the highway.”

“She lived?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Lil Sue says, “She hit the truck with the passenger side.  She got away with it.  No-one liked him, especially not the judge.”

The American Dream.

I’ve met plenty of folks around the country who can tell me about “the good old days,” and a happiness they believe they had “back when.”  Even more people who tell me they do what they do, ‘cause they’re planning on a happiness in the “future.”  There is something very awry with the empire, but choo, choo, choo, the train tugs along.  

The southerners told me of a compound they are going to build.  Not for protection or anything crazy, but for peace and happiness.  A property by the river where a group of grown men and woman can live.  The American Dream of a white picket fence, around a sheltered, manicured lawn home, didn’t bring….what’s that word, that all allusive….happiness.   So, a group of friends will buy a plot of land and build their houses in a small community. 

Hosting the stage at Buffalo Chip, is a comic music duo. 

The first song…a love song

“I hate every bone in her body, I hate every bone in her body, I hate every bone in her body…but mine…”

2^nd song…a prison tune

“Sleeping with my butt to the wall, wishing that my lawyer would call…”

3^rd song…of friendship…

“he’s nothing but a dickhead….been one all his life…if ever he gets married he’ll be one to his wife…”

8-12 Sunday Morning

A refreshingly cool wind howls across Western South Dakota.  Monday is predicted to be over a hundred degrees.  Looks like today is a good day to pack up, make my way to Rapid City and bust the bitch out of doggy prison.

Rapid City…

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the young woman, maybe twenty six or so, working behind the counter of the convenience store says to me. 

“Nope.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” she says, giving me one of those up and down looks.”  I wear the white cowboy hat, a wife beater, my black hiking shorts, sunglasses and the Apache jewelry I’ve worn virtually every day for a number of years. 

She looks out the window toward my bike.

“What’d you think of Sturgis?”

“It was alright,” I tell her.

This is the second or third time I’d dumbed it down like that, but it was the truth.  Nonetheless, each time I answered someone this way I thought, ‘just say it was fucking great and get on with it,’ but the truth came out too quick.  In fact, it is more what I would call a polite truth.  The truth would have been, “I’ve been to enough rallies.  I could’ve been in the mountains, frankly.”

“Your first time?” she asks.

“Yup,” I tell her, “I ‘been to some of the other rallies.”

“It’s better than all the other rallies, though, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Have you been to Rushmore?”  For some reason when she asks me this I take notice that there’s no-one else in the store and she seems genuinely interested in talking.

“Yeah,” I tell her, “I went up there last time I came through South Dakota.  I saw Rushmore, Crazy Horse, the Badlands, you know.”

“You’ve been through here before?” she asks.

“Yup.  I’m just traveling the country till I run out of cash.”

“Have you seen Rushmore lit up at night?”

“No,” I smile, tilt my head.  “Is it really worth it just for the lights?”

“Well I live here, so I’ve seen it a bunch, but you should see it.”

“Well,” I tell her, “Maybe you’ve talked me into it.  Maybe I’ll do that tonight then.”

“Tonight?”she says lighting up a bit, almost startled.  “I have nothing to do tonight, but I don’t get off till midnight.”

Huh?  I thought….off at midnight?  Nothing to do?  Did she really just say this? 

Someone comes in the store and walks right up to the counter.  Confused, startled, I respond with some strange joking tone…

“Ok then.  I’ll come by after the mountain.” I walk away to let her wait on the next customer, wondering why I’d just even said that.  Of course I was not coming by at midnight, but why did events make me respond such?  I shake my head at myself, get on the bike, drive away. 

At the RV Park in Rapid City a heavy Georgian man makes conversation.  Hard to understand.  He talks extremely fast, veins trying to find their way out of his forehead.  Extreme high blood pressure?  Nerves?  I don’t know.  He is kindly.  He apologizes for cutting wood, but “it’s my only day off till Tuesday and I want to get this shelf built.”

He offers me a Cuban cigar.  “If you saw the cigar shop at Buffalo Chip,” he says, “That’s my good buddy’s from Texas.”

“Sure,” I told him, “I bought a lighter there last night.  Only place that still had lighters left.”

“Honey,” he says, “Could you grab my cigars?”  She does.

“Let me give you one.”

He pulls one out of the fine cigar box and hands it to me.

“Dam good cigar,” he says, “Though I can never tell the difference. Singing Cowboy up at the pavilion tonight.  Yup, 7:30.  They say he comes every year.”

“Well, thanks,” I tell him, “I think I’ll join you.”

I meet them under the tent. 

“Joe,” by the way, “and this is my wife…”

“Bill.”

He buys me a beer.

“Hey,” he says. “Meteor shower at midnight tonight.”

“Really?” I ask.  “No kidding.  Well, I’m glad I ran into you.  I wouldn’t have known about the singing cowboy or the meteors.”

A little princess has kept me up yapping about the potential for true love.  She’s dangerous…a woman who could fool me into believing there is such a thing.  We wrap

up just before the showers.  I sit and watch the sky light up. 

The Bitch Is Back
It’s delightful to see Jasmine’s head hanging out the window of the King Ranch again.  She rolls around the back seat, like a horse might in the dirt.  Then she’s off, like always, bouncing from one window to the other, from the back to the front, smelling things, spotting things, chasing things with her eyes and nose. 

As we cruise down I 90 West, heading through Wyoming for Montana I decide to pull off at the Devil’s Tower exit.  I had once before made a pass by, but thought, for thirty miles out of the way, maybe I should go on in and get a good close look.  The road leading to the park welcomes me with that red clay cliff I love so much.  Atop the Red Sand cliffs are Ponderosa Pine with their auburn bark and dark green needles.  The prairie is covered in fine, silver and green grass.  The sky is a pale blue.  Fluffy white cotton candy clouds.   I think we’ll camp here the night.

Dogs?  Who The Fuck Named These Things?
I’ve been traveling with a dog for some time now.  I. done met every type of dog every type of person brings with them (most the old folks bring those rat fucker nasty dogs).  There is a road, just after you enter Devil’s Canyon National Monument, on which, you can pull over and watch the many prairie dogs going about their days business.  They are very active in daytime.  At night they burrow into their dens/tunnels, which can go as far as ten to fifteen feet down and as far in length.  After being somewhat amazed at the sheer number of them, and their tiny little dirt mounds, I count forty of them, then give up.    They’re cute little things.  Something like fat chipmunks or squirrels.  They eat like chips, with their two front hands.  One thing for sure…they ain’t no kind of dog.

“It’s just Another Rock.”
The Indian name for Devil’s Tower is Mateo Tepee (though I am sure other Indians had different names for her).  Kiowa legend tells of the rock’s creation.  Seven young Kiowa girls were playing away from the village when they were chased down by bear.  Not able to make their way back to the village, they took refuge on a rock that was only three feet tall.  They prayed to the rock to please save them.  As the Bear approached, the rock raised itself out of the ground.  The bear scratched and clawed at the rising stone (creating the horizontal pillar appearance), but did not get the girls.  Those girls are now the seven stars in the sky known as Pleiades. 

Cheyenne legend tells of seven brothers and a medicine man.  A bear had kidnapped one of their wives.  The medicine man took the brothers to the bear’s cave, turned himself into a golfer, put the bear to sleep and rescued the woman.  When the bear pursued them, the medicine man sang a song and made a rock grow from the earth, until the bear could not reach them.  The largest bear clawed at the stone relentlessly, creating the vertical lines.  When the bear left, the men were carried back down by eagle.   

Today, as I hike Mateo Tepee, I stop to observe the prayer cloth and other offerings the natives continue to bring her. 

What the white man says about Devil’s Tower?  Somewhere around 70 million years ago there was a great upheaval of magma which formed the Black Hills.  When this occurred, there were offshoots of magma which moved away then hardened elsewhere.  Somewhere around 50 million years ago this happened again and the Missouri Butte and Devil’s Tower were left to harden where they are now.  They call the very hard rock that make up the tower, phonolite Porphyry.  Of course, like most things, there are disagreements.  Some geologists believe Devil’s Tower is the neck of an ancient volcano. 

In 1906 Theodore Roosevelt made Devil’s Tower the first National Monument.  In fact, the locals will say he gets too much credit and never even visited the place.  There were local politicians and nature enthusiasts who fought to protect the rock.

It is something.  Surrounded by boulders, like tooth decay, erosion has torn off the face of the thing, it stands nearly 1000 ft, emerging, seemingly out of nowhere.  The most unique feature is the vertical crevices which line the entire massive stone from the ground to its peak. It truly looks like a Jurassic bear might have clawed at it, creating perfect verticle layers like great roman pillars. 

Great Spirit Show Me The Way To Park This Damn Thing
As much as I like to think there is Indian in me I do not seem to have the natural native instinct to face my door east.  Once again, as I chose my spot, I find my door faces south, southwest.  The natives, believing all good things come from the east (you know, like the white man did), traditionally face their Hogan, tepee, or traditional house doors to the rising sun, east. 

It is clear who rules this land…The Ants!  These are the fastest, most abundant, most varied ants I think I’ve seen anywhere.  Large red ones, tiny black ones and these things that look almost transparent.  They are on everything, including the chair, the table, the computer.  They’re goddamned fast!  No sooner do I lay the carpet on the ground than I see them trying to pick the thing up and take it home.  There are ant hills everywhere, but one large hill fascinates me.  Its nearly a foot tall with a hole larger than an inch wide.  Parades of large red creatures trample over and through one another in massive columns going both in and out.  I settle in…Something settles in on me. 

Sometimes the road is like this….a country song plays. 

“..if I die before I wake…feed Jake…”  Jake is the dog. 

I tell Jasmine I love her. 

There are moments when awareness just seems to fly away, as if scooped up by a great big eagle.  Another song plays.  There is a strange, curious loneliness.  If I see that fucking awareness snatching eagle I’m gonna shoot him in the head.  The bastard’s too smart for me.  When he returns, he has brought awareness back.. Sly fucker knows I can’t kill him now.

Montana Burns, Custer’s Dead & The Bitch’s New Trick
Montana is a blaze!  Smoke fills the sky, the prairies, the valleys, blocks the view of the mountains.  I will come to find that it gets thicker and thicker the further in I get.  The whole state seems to be on fire, but before I get that far, I must make a stop.  First stop is to shut the door.  Driving into Montana, a very strange thing occurs.  A light on the dash flashes at me.  Instinctively, I reach for the seatbelt.  Seatbelt is fine.  Granted, I don’t really wear it right, but to keep that annoying noise from sounding, it remains clicked in place.  I look at the light.  It is the door sign.  What the…oh shit.  Sure, the windows are locked in place.  Sure, Jasmine won’t jump out, but goddamn it, she’s gone and pawed the door handle so that the passenger door is now open.  The wind at 70 MPH keeps it in.  I yank her leash. 

“Sit down,” I tell her.  She is totally confused.  She wants to know what the hell she did wrong.  I try to explain, but it doesn’t make sense to her. I can tell. 

“Just stay.  Stay.”

She stays.  She knows something’s wrong, but that last for all of ten seconds.  We pass horses and she’s off for the window.

“Sit, goddamn it!” I scream at her.  She knows I’m serious.  She sits.

I get off at the next exit to shut her door.  The next stop…

For entertainment of late, I have taken on the years of the Civil War and Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee.  As I come to what used to be called Custer’s Battlefield, I have to stop.  Before I get there though, thoughts of all that was going on the year’s prior boggle my mind.  Civil and other wars going on in America.

“My shoes are gone.  My cloths are gone.  I’m wary, I’m sick, I’m hungry.  My family have all been killed or scattered. And I’ve suffered all this for my country.  I love my country.  But, if this war is ever over, I’ll be damned if I’ll ever love another country.”

                                                          Union Soldier (Ken Burn’s “Civil War”)    

During the Civil War years, America was fighting and killing America, while at the same time they were fighting and killing Mexicans and Indians.  The incredible thing is that both north and south, blues and reds found themselves not only fighting the other, but so greedy for expansion, gold and land that they made war on other sovereign peoples all at the same time.  One U.S. Army general was quoted as threatening the plains Indians with “You think just ‘cause we fight the Red Coats you can fight us, but the Great Chief in Washington has many armies.  We will crush you if you don’t surrender.” Commanders and Governors convinced tribes across the nation to fight rival tribes.  Within tribes there were betrayals.  Murder was everywhere.    

Civil War commanders begged for reinforcements, battle after battle, while fighting for the union against the rebels and got from Washington news that they must fight on and no reinforcements are available.  Those reinforcements were busy securing business interests, railroads, mining in the great American west, by killing off the American Indian and running out the Mexicans.  Murder was everywhere.

The Big War was over by the time of Little Big Horn. 

Little Big Horn National Monument used to be called Custer’s Battlefield, named after the famous  Lt Colonel, “General” Custer.  This was Custer’s “last stand.” A few years ago the Indians finally got to name the park that sits on their reservation, and now it is known as Little Big Horn. 

They called him “General” Custer after the Civil War, though he was a Captain.  He received the wartime grade of general and led a Cavalry unit in a number of major battles.  Custer made a name for himself with seemingly fearless, some might say insane cavalry charges and tactics.  Under McClellan, he led a charge at Gettysburg to push back the rebels.  After the war, during the Indian campaigns, Custer was suspended from the army for being AWOL.  The suspension was supposed to be for a year, but like happened with other war time leaders, like U.S. Grant and William Tecumseh Sherman, the government needed him and reinstated him only days later.  After leading the 7^th Cavalry through many battles against the natives, Custer saw his battalion disbanded.  They were separated by company to enforce tax laws in the south and suppress the rise of the KKK.  In 1873 they were reunited to pick up the battle against the Natives.  Three years later, Custer and the 7^th were annihilated by Sioux and other Plains/Black Hill tribes.  This was Custer’s Last Stand.

“We want no white men here.  The Black Hills belong to me.  If the whites try to take them, I will fight.” 

               Tatanka Yotanka, (the Sitting Bull)

Sitting Bull was not the only war chief at Little Big Horn.  There were Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapahos, Sioux.  There was Chief Two Moon, who answered Crazy Horse with, “I have fought already.  My people have been killed, my horses stolen; I am satisfied to fight.”  And Crazy Horse who “dreamed himself into the real world, and showed the Sioux how to do many things they had never done before while fighting the white man’s soldiers.”  Crazy Horse gave himself the name, because he found that he had to dream himself into the real world and that when he did, his horse danced as if it was wild and crazy, and he, Crazy Horse, could endure anything.  During what the natives called the Moon of Making Fat, Sitting bull fasted for three days, cutting, bleeding himself during the Sundance until he fell into a trance.  Wakantanka (The Great Spirit) told Sitting Bull that he gives into his hands the life of the white men who approach, because these white men have no ears to hear.  Sitting bull prophesied to his people that the white men will come to them and be killed.  Days later, they did. 

During the Battle of Little Big Horn, Custer and all the men in his five companies were killed. 

I stand on the battlefield.  There are a few large hills, crests.  It is easy to visualize exactly how and why with the weapons and strategies of the day, the various factions took the positions they did.  But then there are many small rolling mounds where it would seem to the native’s great advantage, being much more adept at using these pieces of earth, more swift and stealthy against the ground, than the white soldiers.  And I can’t help but think, like virtually all wars, each side is compelled to believe their divine purpose over the other.  There are too many people here to linger long.  For some strange reason I wish I could have the sacred land to myself, just for a night, but there’s no reason and it is not possible. 

Little Big Horn is just over the border, passing north through Wyoming, into Montana.  The I90 corridor through Wyoming into Montana is just as the woman in Rapid City told me it would be, “Incredibly scenic.”

I haven’t had a decent shower in weeks.  I decide to stop in Billings and take up at a Super 8 Motel. 

The young woman is very friendly and kind.

“There’s usually a pet surcharge,” she tells me, “but I don’t care.”

The room is $74.00 for the night.  That’s $74.00 more than a National Forest, $62.00 more than a National Park, but only about $30.00 more than a KOA in any tourist town.  I take two showers.  Interestingly enough, I thought with all I had to write I could use the electric in the room and whip it all down.  There is something about the closed in walls, the room itself, the television, the ice machine, microwave, sounds, energy that are not conducive to writing.  I wrestle with Jasmine on the bed, then the floor, then put on the television.

With the fires and all, I leave Billings unsure whether I will head north toward Glacier or get the hell out of the Smokey Mountains.  I have a couple hundred miles to decide.  There was smoke in South Dakota when I left.  They said it was from Montana, but there are fires in South Dakota, too, and Wyoming, and Utah, and Idaho and just about every other western state, so I couldn’t know for sure where that smoke might have originated from.  In Montana it is clear.  Montana is on fire. 

Mysterious Fires
Some areas have only burnt the trees to a crisp, leaving the grass and brush below alone.  Other areas have burnt the ground vegetation, but left the tree tops alone.  Other areas are completely fried.  The further east and north I go the worse the smoke gets. 

“Which way do I go, which way do I go?”

In some areas, Mountains only a mile away are completely grayed out.  I can’t help but wonder how magnificent this state looks in the clear.  Then, somewhere around the Absaroka Mountain Range the scenery is so fantastic that it occurs to me.  I’m heading north to see Glacier.  And I’ll be goddamned if the universe didn’t answer that thought with splendid welcome. 

As I approach I 15 north a silly thing occurs to me.  All the while I’ve been traveling, whenever I’m in mountain country, highways heading north give me the impression somehow that I’m going to have to climb with this truck and trailer even more.  It is a ridiculous notion.  Elevation does not increase North to South or decrease East to West.  I turn onto I15 north.  Sure enough I am climbing like a motherfucker up the mountains of Helena National Forest at a whopping 40 mph.  As I make the climb the skies ahead of me darken.  It is not the smoke.  This is a good old fashioned thunderstorm.  The brief, but hard rain washes the smoke away.  Lightning lights up the cliff, followed by thunder.  I don’t know what happened to that fear of thunderstorms Jasmine used to have, but she retracts for a moment and sticks her mug right back out the window.  When the clouds part, the sun shines down and lights up the mountains.  A brilliant scene.    

Thunderstorms are an interesting thing in relation to these fires.  The firefighters will tell you they welcome the rain.  They’ll also tell you most of the fires have been started because the thunderstorms often come without the rain and only the “dry lightning.”  Dry lightning is what started the fires up by Glacier. 

Helena is the capital of Montana.  On the map, it appears to be one of only two major cities for the couple hundred miles or so between me and Glacier.  I’ve been driving most the day.  Gas is low.  I decide I’ll stop there and gas up, maybe get some information on what kind of shape Glacier’s in. 

Helena is the smallest state capital I have seen in the whole country.  I pass the first exit, expecting more exits, signs of gas stations, hotels, restaurants, all the usuals.  Well, I passed the only exit into Helena.  Ok then, I think to myself.  62 miles till empty.  I should be fine.  Just a few miles up there is a gas sign in some small town.

A Trailer Inferno Catastrophe, “My Awareness, Why Have You Forsaken Me?”
The kid behind the counter does not know that I have a major catastrophe on my hands when he explains, “Glacier, huh?  I got to tell you, that’s the most incredible place on Earth, but you picked the wrong time.  Spring is the best time for Glacier.  You can see the water come over a cliff a mile long.  It’s incredible.”

“Well,” I tell him, putting the fact that my trailer is flooded with gasoline out of mind for the moment, “Spring, unfortunately is the best time to see all sorts of places.  You gotto pick and chose.  I saw the best spring desert I’ve ever seen and that was my choice.  What about the fires?”

“Shoot,” he shakes his head, “You got the Great Divide right here and that blows the wind right over this side, so that smoke just lingers in those mountains.  It’s gonna be bad.”

“Well,” I smile, “I have to go see it anyway.  I’m here.”

“It’s worth seeing,” he says.

Thanks for the kind words, friend.

The Trailer Catastrophe…

Since I haven’t been able to locate a Bank of America in Utah, South Dakota, Wyoming or Montana, I go to the trailer, where sits a stash of hundred dollar bills.  It’s either cash or rack up the interest on a credit card.  Plus, most the gas stations out here give you a .04 cent discount for using cash.  I step into the trailer to get the cash when I am ambushed by the distinct, thick odor of gasoline.

Fuck!  The bike is down.  It has fallen on its side, onto a case of beer, a bag with my handmade djembe, onto a plastic bin of stuff.  I look down and see that I am standing in gasoline, that the entire floor and everything on the floor is drenched in gasoline.  I like to fill up the bike before I hit the road, just to make sure I got plenty of gas.  I had plenty.  The Honda ACE 1100 is not a light bike.  Some people cannot stand it up once it has fallen.  They need help.  It’s fucking heavy.  What to do?

I have to give it a go.  I’m taking up an entire island in the gas station, truck, with trailer in tow.  Pick it up now or drive around like this?  I decide to give it a go.  My first attempt nearly does me in.  As the bike rises, my feet slip on the slick gasoline and I am lucky to have jumped away from the thing before it came down on me.  My second attempt is simply stupid.  I brace my feet against the wall so that I can’t slip, then I yank the bike upward only to find I have not undone the straps and the rear strap yanks the bike right back down.  ‘Ok smiley,’ I think, ‘Slow the fuck down.  Undo the straps, take a breath.’ 

A breath?  I don’t feel so well.  I jump out of the trailer.  The thick fumes were getting to me.  I jump back in, leaving the side door open for ventilation.    

In the end I get the bike standing up again.  I put her on her kickstand and strap her down to it.  I reek of gasoline and sweat.  So much for Glacier at this point.  I resign that I will need to find a full hook up park where I can take the bike out, hose down the inside of the trailer, clean everything off and get straight before I travel on. 

Back on I 15 north, finding my way to Great Falls, Montana, it hits me.  If the fumes in that trailer got to me that quickly, how bad are they?  With two large propane tanks in the front of the trailer and pilot lights for the stove and refrigerator, am I pulling a time bomb?  I wonder what the propane tanks will do.  Will they shoot upward and give me a chance to pull over or will projectiles pierce me from behind and fire engulf me?  I consider just carrying on.  If you die, you die.  Wait a minute, I think, that’s just retarded.  I pull over, open the back ramp to let the fumes air out and grab a couple towels.  The least I can do, out of respect for my own physical existence, is to get some of that gas out of there.  Then, I make my way to Great Falls.

How Important, Really, Is One Right Hand?
Getting the Honda out of the greased up Sportster didn’t go so well.  Aside from making a complete spectacle of myself for the camp cook, my right wrist is shot and my back is so unhappy to perform even the slightest function that it chooses to scream at me with every motion.  Also, there’s a dent or two in the ramp.  How important is the right hand, if you’re right handed?  Well, let’s forget about the big stuff, the heavy things that sometimes require two people, at the very least two hands.  Things like; putting out the awning, jacking up the trailer, jacking down the stabilizers, lowering the bed, pulling out the table, etc.  What about the simple things?  If you’re right handed, try wiping your ass with your left hand.  It’s fun and exciting.  Just getting in the truck, never mind turning the key, shifting, putting it into reverse…these all become pure adventures.  And when the folks playing tunes that night asked me if I play and wanted to do a tune, well, strumming that thing is just out of the question.  So then, have I gone insane?  When I told my friend, “Really, nothing sucks.  It’s just an opportunity for me to witness the miracle that is the human body,” I can’t help but wonder, has “awareness,” gone to my head?  Am I simply crazy? 

The band plays Johnny & The MTA and another Boston tune for me.  I see the past and future of my former life in that band.  The leader is Richard Baker, a David Letterman look-alike, who, after chatting with him, has in fact sat in on the Letterman show and with the band.  He plays banjo, fiddle, guitar and sings.  With him is Dianne Stinger who plays guitar, fiddle and sings.  There is a high school band mate on bass.  He plays a stand-up.  “He played jazz a lot of years,” Richard says, “but he wanted to eat.”

“We made plenty of money playing country in the seventies, but, well, we kept playing the music we wanted to and here we are.”

This is their fifteenth or thirtieth year playing the KOA in Great Falls. 

“No-one walks in with a stand-up bass,” I tell the bass player when they’re done, “who can’t play.  That was great.  I guess you really do play jazz, yeah?”

“Love it,” he says.  “I just love playing.  That’s why I’m here.”

They talk of the forties and fifties, of Lawrence Whelk.  They are not young.  Like a marriage, divorced “amicably,” I long nostalgically for the only real band I’ve ever been intimate with, played with for ten years of my life, Colonel Mustard.  Something happens when you play with a group of people for some amount of time.  The drums, the bass, the playing just gets in your head.  I can’t help but picture Jumping Joe Dirusso, magic fingers on the guitar, sitting and playing with me at the age of seventy, just for the love of playing.  Ah, it’s all nostalgia.  Shakespeare daydreams of histories that weren’t and futures that won’t be.   

Besides the gasoline catastrophe, I had some other business to take care of.  My truck is four thousand miles over the three thousand mile maintenance and oil change.  I have no phone.  I need to make some shifty money movements.  Great Falls accommodates the lot of it.  On my way back to camp I see a vehicle that reminds me of the things people in Thailand and Mexico throw together.  It’s a Chevy van, pulling a trailer, only the trailer is an old bed from a ford pickup.  He’s rigged it like it was always meant to be a trailer.  It’s loaded with wood and tools.      

Glacier, Big Fire Country
The Glacier National Park web site states plainly that “all campgrounds, trails and facilities are open…no fires currently burning in the park…”

Having driving across, now up all of Montana, East of Glacier, I have seen remnants of fires and smoke everywhere, but it is only now, as I make my final approach that I see fires themselves.  Glacier is bordered, on its east end by Black Feet Indian Reservation, to its south by Lewis and Clark National Forest, to its west by Flathead National Forest and to its North, the park morphs into the world’s first International Peace Park, a partnership with Canada at Waterton.  There is much boasting of the fact that Glacier is the first International Peace Park.  However, they are run by two separate governments and citizens must make border crossings to enter the other, just like any other border area.  I was more interested in the lack of truthful information with regards to the raging fires.   Technically, the web site may not be lying, but it’s a thin line between the truth and “The Truth.”  Fires rage on the left hand side of the highway which divides Glacier National Park and Lewis And Clark National Forest.  On the forest side, fires stream down toward me as I pass along a road filled with fire crews, vans, trucks, tents, wash stations.  There is a helicopter overhead dropping water or fire suppressant of some kind.  Well, I am here now. I pass the entrance to East Glacier, head south, then north along route 2 for 60 miles around the park, following the fire, and make my way to West Glacier.  With the wind constantly blowing East over the Great Divide, I assume West Glacier might be slightly less smoky.  I take a right, into the thick gray cloud known as Glacier.    I find a spot on the outer edge of Agpar village and set up camp.  No one between us and Lake McDonald.  Two young Christian boys come by to tell me about tonight’s program on nocturnal life. 

“Are you guys running the program?”  They look too young for that.  Maybe nineteen, twenty. 

“No.”

“So how come you’re advertising it? I ask.

“Well,” the taller one answers, “We are running the services tomorrow.  8:30am and 7:30pm.”

“Services?” I ask

“Church,” the shorter one answers.

“Are you two ministers?” I ask.

“No,” they laugh.  “We’re just part of a program that offers these services to the park.”

“I see,” I said.

“It’s not like mass or anything,” the tall one assures me.

“Great,” I say.  “Take care.”

I mix Bonnie’s secret salad dressing recipe and have dinner. 

The next morning we are up at a reasonable hour.  I let Jasmine run around and bark while I read and make breakfast.  I know she will be in the trailer most the rest of the day as I go out and see what kind of shape Glacier is in. 

“Crown Of The Continent,”
                     B. Bird Grinnell 1908 (describing Glacier National Park)

I’ve crossed the Great Divide in other states, places south of here.  Each time I thought ‘What’s so great about this?  Shouldn’t there be a big hole or crack in the Earth or something?’ 

With a 1,000+ foot drop just feet to my right, the divide is sort of obvious here in Glacier, travailing Going to The Sun Road and Logan’s Pass. 

“They actually train us to smile.  Isn’t that ridiculous?” the girl working at the St. Mary’s Visitor Center says to her friend. 

“It seems to have worked,” I tell her, “You are smiling now.”

Now the other girl and the young man smile, also.

“Look how good the training is,” I say, “All three of you are smiling now.”

“We just sense each other,” the other girl tells me.  “We’ve been best friends since 6^th grade.”

I nod. 

“Well, do you guys have a weather report?  I heard it was supposed to rain in the next couple of days.” 

The girl hands me the card with the forecast.

“They been saying a chance of rain every day all summer,” she tells me.  An older woman employee comes by.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?  Rain,” she says. 

I make my way through the Blackfoot Reservation to the another entrance of the park, at Many Glaciers.  A river, a dam, then the lake.  A group of three stand on the side of the road, out of their vehicles looking at something.  I look across the river and there she is (I say she ‘cause it sounds more romantic, than he.  I never got close enough to the damn thing to know for sure).  It’s a big fat grizzly bear.  She is drinking water from the river bed.  I stop the bike, shut it down, jump off.  A man snaps a photo.  The grizzly looks up at us then wanders back into the woods.  A biker pulls up to me.

“What are they looking at?”

“There was a grizzly across the river, but it’s taken off.”

“Damn,” the biker fella says, “Just what I been wanting to see, too.”  No kidding, I think to myself.

“I wouldn’t have shut off my bike though,” he says, “I don’t want to see one get that close.”

I make my way to my bike and head toward a little café I’d seen on 89 called, Two Sister’s.  Being on the Blackfoot Reservation, I figure I might meet me some Ingins there.  Instead I am waited on by two white boys working for the summer. 

“Did you hear,” I ask one of them, “That we’re supposed to be getting rain?”

“No,” he says, “We’re not going to get rain.  They just keep saying that so people will keep coming.  They don’t want to scare everybody off during tourist season.”

“The weatherman?” I ask.

“Whoever,” he says.  “Look, today is 40% chance, yesterday was 30, everyday is some percent chance and we haven’t gotten any rain.”

“Jeese,” I tell him, “I thought the National Park website was a little less than forthcoming with the ‘no fires’ and ‘everything open’ and no mention of smoke, but I never considered the weatherman might be in on the conspiracy.” 

“It’s all right,” the other one tells me.  “Every other day is different.  It could clear up tomorrow and not be so smoky.  Like, yesterday was clear.”

“You know,” I said, “You’re as bad as the weatherman.  I was here yesterday and heard that same shit from someone else.  The smoke was terrible yesterday.”

“Well,” he smiles, “Not as bad as it is today.”

Blessed Be, The Rains Have Come
8-20-07

I’m giddy with joy.  The rains came last night, shortly after my “weatherman conspiracy” discussion with the fella at Two Sister’s Café on the Blackfoot Res.  More rain this morning.  It seems the conspirers decided they better produce quick, before they are disscovered. 

The sky is a medley of crystal blue and smoke free clouds.  As the coffee water heats up, I put together a couple peanut butter and onion sandwiches, strap the backpack on the bike and prepare to make my way up the Great Divide for a hike. 

Along Lake McDonald, the deepest of Glacier’s many lakes (nearly 500ft), reflections of mountain peaks ripple in the clear water.  Even the river runs clear, clearest water mine eyes have ever beheld.  Climbing Going To The Sun Road, what was only a ghostly mystery the day before reveals itself; lush greens, browns, reds, waterfalls, sharp vertical crevices.  I pause before Weeping Wall to take it all in.

“You must be cold,” a woman says to me.

“A bit chilly,” I tell her, “But I’m too happy the smoke is gone to really care.  Incredible, isn’t it?”

“Yesterday,” her friend says, “We couldn’t see any of this.”

“Massachusetts?” the first asks, having spied my license plate.

“A little south of Boston,” I tell her. “Just traveling till I run out of cash.”

“We’re from Worcester,” she says.  “Interesting.  We just met a man from Michigan doing what you’re doing.  It must be great.”

“It is,” I smile.

I see a group of maybe ten bikers pass.  All have windshields, their faces fully covered, leather chaps, the works.  

A man steps out of his van and makes for us.  He sees me watching the bikes.

“Yeah,” he says.  “I just come from Logan’s Pass.  It’s a lot colder up there, you know.”

“No face mask or rain pants?” the Worcester woman asks. 

I look up toward Logan’s Pass.  There is a thick gray cloud which appears to take over the road as it climbs toward the peak.

“What?” I ask them.  I point to the cloud.  “You don’t think it’s going to be cold up in that thing, do you?”

“It’s cold up there,” he says.

“Well,” I tell them, “I am looking to hike up there today, so I’m gonna give it a go.”

Hell, it was only yesterday, with the heat and the smoke that children and adults were swimming in Lake McDonald.  Sure, that’s hundreds, maybe thousands of feet less in elevation, but how bad…

By the time I arrive at Logan’s Pass Visitor Center, somewhere around 7,000 ft, my thin hiking pants are soaked through, drenched by hail which stuck, then melted.  My glasses are covered with bits of ice and water which had crashed into my face carried along by 30mph winds (not including the bike speed, of course). 

It feels like winter atop Mt. Washington.  I did not quite “bundle” up for this. 

“’Suppose this would have been a good time for a windshield,” I joke to the couple who just climbed of their decked out BMW, themselves covered head to toe in leather.

“Not even a helmet?” the man asks. 

 “That would’a been nice.  I got a full face helmet at the trailer, but what did I know?”

“Would have been a good day for heated seats,” he says.  “This is pretty bad.  Think we’ll wait it out.”

“I was hoping to hike down to Hidden Lake,” I tell him.

“Good luck,” he says. 

I head inside to warm up.  I check with the Ranger on the trail conditions.

“I was up there this morning,” she tells me.  “It’s incredibly gusty and the trail is very slippery.  You picked a tough time.”

I make my way back down to the bike to get the backpack and pull out the poncho.  If I leave the bike in this cold for a number of hours, it might not start.  In the mildly chilly weather this morning it took about 7 attempts to warm it up enough.  The choke control has been broken for some time.  Isn’t much of an issue in normal weather.  If I push it, if it takes more than ten times to get it going, I’m liable to kill the battery trying.  If that happens, I’m stuck.  I’ve been stuck before, but not at 7,000 ft in a hail storm.  I determine the safest thing to do is head back down the steep, slick mountain road through the blinding hail storm.  The first few miles are rough.  My face is numb with cold, glasses are impaired with ice and water, fingertips sting a bit.  After ascending the first five miles or so, the wind calms and the temperature rises.  By the time I reach Avalanche Creek, I am comfortable enough to stop.  I lean my pant legs against the hot pipes to dry them out a bit.  I hear the hissing sound of evaporating water.   Then I press my gloves against the pipe till they are burning through.  I take a short hike along Avalanche Creek.  There are two young men by my bike when I get back to the parking area.   

“Maybe this guy will know,” one of them says.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“What’s that song…the numbers before 3 – oh – 9?” he says.  “He thinks it’s 4-5-3-6,” he says.

“8-6-7-5,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says, “That sounds right.  Maybe that’s it.”

“No,” I say, “It is it.” I sing, “8-6-7-5-3-0-Niyeeyine.”

I get on my bike and make my way.   

As soon as I’m on the road again –a bad scene.  Two trucks park on the right side of the road, facing each other.  Behind each truck is a ranger vehicle.  There is no one in the vehicles.  In the trees I catch a glimpse of people and stretchers.  I pull off to the right to let the reinforcements pass me.  An ambulance and fire truck. 

The sun plays hide-n-seek.  I stop along McDonald Creek.   The warnings are clear…

“Most Deaths At Glacier Are Drownings”

Nearly end of summer and the river continues to run hard.  Trees are strewn across.  The high cliff edges profess how much higher the waters do rise, probably during spring melts.  The rock cliffs along and within the river are splendid, some swirly like the Utah canyon beds, others sliced sharp, cut uniquely, like the mountains themselves, by glaciers.  Where there is not white water it is no problem whatever to see straight through to the bottom, the water like clean glass.  Then it hits me… ‘those sobs, they got that stupid song stuck in my head.’

8-21-07 5:40 am

                    Morning Melody

Oh, all ye bear who are about me, might you be leaving sometime soon?

Maybe I rose a bit too early this morning, but I mean to make you room.

Before the sun lights up this lake, and her reflection greets my eye

Might you make your way back home, to Mountain Close To Sky

I’ve been pursued all through the evening, through this early morning too,

By dreams and visions vivid, the Future mounts her relentless pursuit.

I bid you well in all your wild ways, now please return to where the winds are great

Where man knows he has limits, and those keep him well at bay

The dew’s in view on the grasses green, the white glimmers in my eye

We all know this can only mean, it’s time you make your way back to

Mountain Close To Sky

Mountain Close To Sky

What a place you all roam

Mountain Close To Sky

How times I wish you were my home

In the Valley of the Shadow of Lies

Greens, silvers and golds

This is where my people roam

The valleys we call home.

Oh, all you bear who were about me, before I ever came this way

You set your claws upon that great stone, like the legend of Mateo Tepee

And though you barely scratch the surface, you never alter your routine

Some hope for me small failures, that I might validate their scheme.

But the bear knows when to hibernate, when just to lay on down and dream

And when her long sleep is done, she rises, a great tsunami from the sea

As you claw upon that great stone, you need only pause and take a breath

Turn away for but a moment and get a taste of all the rest

In that hour or just that minute, you’ll know why now that I

Make my home as near as I can to

Mountain Close To Sky

Mountain Close To Sky

What a place to call home

Mountain Close To Sky

Never need I roam

Wherever I may find myself

I know she’s there nearby

What a place I now call my home

Mountain Close To Sky

Dreams did occupy my evening and morning, till shortly after 5 I can dream no more.  I step out into bear country while the coffee water cooks.  It is not quite light out.  The sounds of large movement rumble through the trees.  I take the guitar inside and write Morning Melody while waiting for a little more light.  Jasmine does not understand why we need to be up so early and takes advantage of having the blanket to herself.  My right hand is back to being mostly useful.  There are certain angles and things it still won’t do, but it’s getting there.  The back has gotten close enough to normal that I can’t tell if it is pain still left from the bike catastrophe or if it is my back simply saying, get your ass out and hike for god’s sake.  When finally Jasmine stretches and makes her way to the door, no one else in the campground is up.  I take her down to Lake McDonald.  I meditate briefly until she can not resist the call of a tree squirrel.  Clouds rise off the mountains.  That evening a mix-breed Blackfoot/German plays guitar and tells stories.  It’s the evening program by the lake at Agpar.  He is the founder of the Native Voices Speak series.  His mother’s family came over from Germany, homesteaders, settling out here back when the lands were stolen from his father’s people, the Blackfoot.  His father, a full-breed, served on the Iowa in WWII. 

He explains the connectedness of all things with a passionate, gentle sincerity. 

A wing insects falls onto my hand, then he is on the ground.  Something’s wrong.  I offer my finger for companionship, sensing he may not have much time, but he declines.  He is the color of the dry yellow and brown grass.  He struggles on, disappears into the camouflage ground. 

The sun makes no promise here, so far.  She teases with a blast of summertime shine, then spits down icy rain seconds later.

         Ambloria, Ambloria, Glory Hallelujah, Glacier National Park
How many times have I used superlatives like dandified, incredible, beautiful, stupendous and shocking to describe the brilliant wonder of how many places?  So then, how to express the uniqueness of Glacier?

Abloria!

Definition; Ambloria is a place whose beauty inspires even the gods, where at any given moment it is so unique and gloriously inspiring that no wordy description can do it justice. 

What makes Glacier Ambloria?  It’s the glaciers, der.  If not for the particular way massive ice rivers cut through, down, across the mountains, then Glacier might look the similar spectacular of any mountain lakes surrounded by deep forest.

From the southwest end of Lake McDonald, the reflection of eight distinct mountains ripple majestically.  Looking north, a portion of each mountain is visible, one jagged mountain side appearing to have been sliced finely for the soul purpose of providing a wonderful view to the next mountain, and the next, and the next.  The path of the mighty glacier has left behind a wide expanse, a valley straight through the ranges.  The mountains themselves have not been left to the usual ebb and flow of erosion.  Instead, violently torn and ripped by the ice so that more than one mountain side gives the impression that a mythical giant took an ice cream scooper and simply scooped out a big smooth chunk.  The west face of one mountain looks as though someone simply broke it right off.

The remnants of a 1980s fire give a salmon color to the west, which, too, reflect in the glass clear water of the lake.  The salmon is surrounded by the greens, yellows, browns and shades in between, which make up the living earth around it. 

This is the low ground.  To describe the truly breathtaking views, the Weeping Wall, the Neverneverland from atop the Great Divide, the waterfalls along Logan’s Pass, the snow caps in the sky along Going To The Sun Road…well, the only way to do that justice is to simply say, Glacier is Ambloria, glory hallelujah. 

Jasmine, of course, cares only about the tree squirrels and deer, who pay no mind to who might be around or what time of day it might be, tramping to and fro all through the campground.  I beat her as necessary.  So long as the bike’s out front and I occasionally don the bad-ass outfit, no one comes to complain of animal abuse.

Then There Were None
Maybe Jasmine is elated that there are no clouds, no smoke, nothing but brilliant blue sky and wide open sunshine smiling down upon Montana this morning.  Maybe that is why she lets the squirrels squawk only feet in front of her without pursuit or bark.  Maybe the beatings have finally stuck.

A mother deer, doe trailing behind, stops in her tracks only 20 feet or so from us.  Both deer are still as statues.  Strangely, so is Jasmine.  She tries to outwit me and the deer, hoping to allow the deer to get in close enough before I, or it, reacts.  I am way ahead of her.  I reach down and pull her leash back toward me.  She lets it rip. Barking aggressively, she pulls, bucks like a horse, whips her head around wildly desperately trying to get free of the collars.  The deer does not move.  Finally, Jasmine is in my arms, quiet. 

“You really need to be moving on,” I wave the deer off.  With almost perfect unity, as she moves, the doe moves, following precisely.  While at Glacier, having finished Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee and after listening to the Blackfoot tell his tales, I was inspired to write a short story, called, “In The Moon Of New Wind.” 

Even Idaho, Really?
I have driven through the roly-poly hills of Idaho before, and till now, pretty much assumed that was Idaho, relatively flat, except for the roly-poly hills, and mostly grassy and of course, potatoes or some shit (or is is “potatos or some shit –someone consult the elite).  Don’t get me wrong, I’d thought it pretty enough, but I had only seen the south and southeast, coming up from Utah, then across to Wyoming into Yellowstone.  But crossing that thin strip of state to the north, from Montana to Washington, where Idaho points like a finger toward the border, a whole new Idaho awaits.  She comes on you fast, too.  The minute I pass the “Welcome To Idaho” sign, the road curves sharp left, dropping off for about a thousand feet to the right and providing a view of a magnificent canyon and wild mountain ranges.  There’s mountain, canyon, river, lake and the quaintest little towns peppering the I 90 corridor.  These are the C’oeur D’ Alene Mountains.  To the south are the Bitterroot and Clearwater ranges.   Between the two cities on the eastern border, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho and Spokane Washington, rush hour traffic slows me to 70mph. 

The Washington Surprise
Washington, too, is a surprise.  I guess it should be, since I’ve never been here.  But I’ve read enough books to know to expect plush forests, even what they call rain forests (though I am doubtful what a rainforest by the Canadian border really means).  My expectation is something like Montana, but wetter.  However, crossing the eastern part of Washington I am shocked to find it has more a feel of New Mexico, with it’s desert like terrain, canyons, cliffs.  Long stretches are quite flat, like Nebraska, only not as bland, somehow.  They are peppered with small brush, large rocks, browns, reds, oranges.  About midway across, things begin to change.  In the far distance I see a great white peak and imagine it must be Mt. Rainier or St Helens (It is Mt. Rainier).  Something called The U.S. Department of Energy Test Site to the south.  This doesn’t sound very inviting.  Just south of the Wenatchee Mountains, I stop at Ellensburg.  I am dumbfounded how diverse and wonderful the entire state is.  I have a brief chat with the clerk at an Exxon station.

“I got to tell you,” he says, “Rainier, that whole area is some of the most beautiful country anywhere.  Definitely go there.”

“What about Olympic?” I ask.

“Olympic is nice, too.”  But he is not very enthusiastic. “If you go there, make sure to see the rain forest.”

South it is.  I make my way down 82, then across I 12 west, toward Rainier National Park.  Before Rainier are two national forests, Gifford Pinchot and Mount Baker Sinqualmie.  As route 12 seems to meander along the border of the two forests, I am not sure exactly which one is the most beautiful national forest I have ever seen, but I am certain it is here.  Most national forests are beautiful.  That is why they are National Forests and not someone’s property to be bought, sold, and raped.  However, this national forest is a unique combination of the diverse beauty of the southwest and the forests of the northwest.  I make my way up to Mt. Rainier. 

White Volcano In The Cloud
Like St. Helens, Rainier is alive and could blow at any time, though the brochure explains, “Geologists expect there will be warnings of activity prior to any major eruption.”  At 14,000 ft she is a massive beast, her pure white, glacier covered face rising above the fluffy clouds.  I have entered the park from the southeast, which turns out to be the “long way” for a trailer. 

“Well,” the young ranger man tells me, “You got 28 miles of mountain road, then you can park that thing and camp at Cougar.”  It’s a magnificent road, but would have been better for just the motorcycle.  Instead the up and down, sharp turns, bumps and dips is not good on the motorcycle at all.  Unbeknownst to me, a strap has torn and the bike is again on its side as we weave through the mountain road.  There are rivers and waterfalls, lakes and streams and incredible views of mighty Mount Rainier.  But, when I arrive at Cougar it is “crowded,” at least with reservations.  There are three sites available, most of the others reserved.  I look at the reservation dates on some of the sites, as most are entirely empty, and find that some are reserved all week.  These a-holez, many of them, have paid for the sites and not come, yet they remain “reserved.”  Others seem to have reserved a few days in advance of their arrival.  Maybe they will come eventually.  The other thing is this.  I am not thrilled with the campground itself.  I find a spot.  Later, I come to find there were once more campgrounds, sites friendly to trailers and RVs, but the worst flood in Rainier’s recorded history hit only last year, washing out roads, buildings, campgrounds.  Rainier is an intimidating mountain to behold.  Deep into summer she is covered in white, snow, glacier, clouds.  And though she is alive with the firey breath of a volcano, I do not see any venting.  Just south of rainier is Mt. St. Helen’s…intimidating in her own sort of way.

If Ever There Was Proof
  

The closest camping to St. Helens is in the Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest.  This is not like the other.  It is a rain forest.  I’ve been in the rain forests of Thailand and Jamaica and it is not exactly like that.  There are no palm trees.  Otherwise, it is a rain forest, as thick, plush, mossy, green, green, green as a forest gets. 

If ever there was proof of the physical connectedness of all things, then it is here, where from beneath the earth itself, to the highest reaches of the tallest trees, all is one organism.  Moss climbs up and down everything, connecting it to everything else.  Pines, whose needles cannot be seen, are simply hosts for the green fluffy stuff that crawls up their spine, covers their torsos, blankets their arms and hangs down like soft curtains from their hidden fins.  The ground is soft.  The 600 year old Douglas Fir, whose trunk might require five men, holding hands to encircle, is soft.  The sharp needles are soft.  The rocks are soft.  Everything is soft, blanketed by the one-ness of green which connect the whole. 

The moss is not the only thing that connects the lot of it.  Spider webs reach from one tree to a rock to another tree, building great big dream catchers that sparkle when the sun shines through the dense forest.  I spy a tree slug, the size of my hand.  It is soft and green like all about it.  The sword fern, too light for the moss, cover the ground and trees.  The fern, like the wild mushroom, western hemlock, salal and other plants make their home from ground to sky, some climb the trees, others creep along the soft ground.  Smooth narrow branches stretch their arms, presenting snow flakes shaped leaves the size of three human heads.    

The dead trees are even more alive than the breathing ones, whether they are lying upon the ground or still standing.  Fern and ‘shroom spring from the moss, blanketing the “dead” trees in living green.  Bark beetles, carpenter ants, termites and all assortment of insects have eaten into the dead bark, making way for voles, pacific tree frog, salamander, shrews, slugs, who burrow their way in, all calling the soft dead tree home. 

The mushroom?  Gosh, I’m tempted.  How is it that one mushroom will nourish me, the other will kill me and another will show me things that the human mind alone does not offer of it’s free will?  And why?  Just a mushroom.  One will save your life if you are starving, the other will kill you if you are foolish and the other will enlighten you if you are open.  Just a mushroom.  But this land is the magic fairytale land that magic mushroom might open your eyes to, only they are not necessary.  This land is the magic fairy-tale land of movies and novels and the living proof of the one-ness, the connected of all things the Natives, the Buddha, The Christ all told the world of before science began stumbling upon it. 

There is a loud bang!  Holy shit, has Helen just blown? 

The camp hostess drives over to greet me.

“Good evening,” she says.

“Good evening,” I reply.

“How long you gonna be here?” she asks, looking at the post.  Holy cow, I think, I didn’t even look.  It has a reservation on it.  Goddamn it!

“You know,” I shake my head, “I didn’t even notice that thing.  The first site I pulled into turned out to be a double, so I just took the next one.  It’s so empty here, it didn’t even occur to me that the sites were reserved.”

“Well, you got two nights in this one,” she says, “Before anyone shows up.  Or you can move to any of the others.  But, if you don’t move now and you decide to stay, they could all be taken by Saturday.”

“No,” I tell her, “Two nights should do.  Well, is there a campground at St. Helens?”

“This is as close as you get camping.”

“Then two nights should do.” I smile.  “I’ll see St. Helens tomorrow.”

“Come all the way out from Massachusetts, huh?”

I give her the spiel. 

“Well,” she says, “we been retired nine years and we come back here to work every summer.  This is it.  The most beautiful place we’ve ever seen.  Tomorrow, just walk around the campground.  You’ll see Douglas firs like you’ve never seen them.  We got trees that are 600 years old and 8ft in diameter.  This is truly a rain forest.”

“I will do that,” I tell her.

“Oh,” she says, “And with what you’re doing I have to let you know, you can work like we do and live in these places and get paid.”

“No kidding,” I say.  “Most the people I’ve met are volunteers.  I’ve got a few months before I have to sort that out.  You get paid, uh?”

“Minimum wage, but we’re retired, so it’s enough for us.”

“Well, goodnight,” she says.

“Oh,” I stop her.  “We can have fires, here I take it?”

“Sure,” she says. “Only in the pits.”

“Well,” I say, “Where I been the last couple months has all been a blaze, so I haven’t had a fire anywhere.”

“You must have come from the east,” she says. “Burn all you want here.”  She drives away. 

Damn, forgot to ask her about that bang.  Is there hunting nearby? 

Mysterious sounds dazzle the quiet air of the rain forest.  The rain forest is quieter in than other forests.  It is the softness of the moss, that covers the leaves, so that even if the wind blows, it’s not a sharp crisp rattle, but a cottony whisper. 

Iron Creek rumbles about.  She seems to be the only thing that distinguishes herself from the connectedness of the rest.  But she is water and water is in all of it and everywhere and she knows, without a doubt, that she is connected to everything that is called life.  

Mt. St. Helens, Steady As She Blows
Somewhere between mile 6 and mile 7 on the road to Mt. St. Helens’ Windy Ridge Overlook, things get creepy.  Just about the same time Helens’ smoking crater comes into view, the green and life disappear as well.  There are miles upon miles of white, gray, black trees, many standing, others strung about like straw, all dead, making more than obvious the destruction of the eruption of 1980.  I look up at the smoke venting from Helens as she breaths.  I wonder why I am approaching it.  I remember watching specials about the eruption and commenting to the effect of “why the hell would anyone go camp out by a volcano.”  Here I am.  My camp is actually 20 miles out.  Sounds like a lot.  Now, however, as I see her smoke, I am approaching.  They say seismologists and geologists should be able to provide days, if not weeks of warning before another major eruption.  They also say the time since it last blew, 27 years, is like the blink of an eye in the life of a volcano, so it’s a bit difficult to know certain things for sure.  I am only a few miles out and getting closer.  There are peculiar patches of perfectly green forest in between and about all the dead, dry stuff.  I will come to find, those were planted after the fact.  Low to the ground, where life is rebuilding itself, are incredible flower gardens and bright grasses. 

The Windy Ridge Overlook is only a mile from the venting, just south of where the face of the mountain was blown out.   It is something to see, to face the mountain and clearly witness the destruction, where it has been torn right in half. 

Lawelatla, Loowit, Tahonelatclah,
These are the names the natives gave to Mt. St Helens back when, One From Whom Smoke Comes, Keeper of The Fire, Fire Mountain.  They respected and feared her power so much that if a young boy wanted to become a fearless warrior, a spiritual warrior or the like, he would climb the mountain, only to where the grasses stopped and take his vision quest their.  When he came down, he would be accepted into the ranks of the warriors and braves. 

The Klickitats, Cowlits, and Salish who lived around St. Helens, Rainier and through the northwest before encroachment of westerners, all had legends surrounding St. Helens.  The legend says that two brothers fell in the love with the same shapely maiden.  The brothers are Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams, the shapely maiden is Helens.  They fought, until the battle got furious and fire and smoke filled the sky.  There is thunder, lightning, till finally even the sun is gone, as the sky is dark with smut, smoke, gas.  All three mountains fall back to the earth.  The great spirit rewards Helens for her bravery throughout, making her the prettiest, wisest and shapeliest of all the mountains. 

What the whites say, according to Mt. St Helens, The Eruption and Recovery of a Volcano, is  “The basic geology underlying these tales is fairly consistent with what actually happened.  Geologists believe Hood and Adams may in fact have erupted at approximately the same time, causing widespread damage to the landscape.”

I stop at Miner’s Car Viewpoint.  It is a car, fried, demolished.  The four occupants died in a cabin in the mountains, May 18, 1980.

So, how far is twenty miles, then?

Winds of almost 700mph, and 800 degrees Fahrenheit “flattened 230 square miles of forest,” when last she blew.  The force is said to have been equivalent to many atomic bombs.  1,300 feet of mountain top were projected into sky and through the air, along with fine ash, rock, lava, gas and everything it picked up along the way.  Mt St. Helens dropped from Washington’s 5^th highest peak, to it’s thirteenth.  57 people and countless (estimated in the millions) plants and animals were annihilated.    

Regurgitating Facts & Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis
 

I know it’s all been covered before, but there are a few interesting facts about the eruption of 1980 that are worth revisiting:

Fact:  Don Swanson, today’s leading expert on Mt. St. Helen’s, was scheduled to man the USGS Observation Post closest to Helens the night before the big bang, but had a friend visiting from Germany and wanted to take him to the airport on Sunday morning.  He asked his subordinate, a leading volcano expert, David Johnston, to switch shifts with him. 

“Johnston didn’t want to.  He had other things going on and felt uncharacteristically nervous about spending the night so close to the volcano.  Johnston reluctantly agreed.”

David Johnston’s body has never been found.   

Since, Swanson pretty much lives the volcano, but has said he does not feel guilt over his friend’s death, just a responsibility to “do my job as well as can be done.”

Fact:  Governor Ray held fast to his “Red Zone” restriction, not allowing residents who owned cabins in the vicinity of Helens (Spirit Lake), to return to get their belongings.  He held out for months.  On May 17^th, the day before the eruption, he gave in.  He allowed two caravans, to be escorted to the area, then escorted out.  The first was May 17^th.  The second was scheduled for 10am the next morning, May 18^th.  The eruption occurred at 8:32.

Fact: Despite the constant warnings, Logging Company, Weyerhauser, refused to stop stripping the forest around Mt. St. Helens straight through.  Approximately 300 lives were saved due to the fact that the eruption occurred on a Sunday, day of rest.

Fact:  Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis is a word.  It is the lung ailment resulting from inhalation of volcanic ash.  It is thought that nearly half those killed by St. Helens died of suffocation from ash.  It is thought they were the lucky ones, dying within minutes.  Some of those burned by the lava and ash, managed to walk miles before expiring.   

On that happy note, I rest.  It is Sunday, after all.