Vision Quest II

Part 2.

Another hour of walking goes by, I see antelope, Prong Horns, off in the distance. I don’t see any more snakes, they may be around but I haven’t seen one since this morning. Down another break and back up a ridge and I come to a town, a Prairie Dog Town. In the Badlands the Prairie Dogs are the black tailed variety. Here's what Teddy had to say,

"Around the prairie-dog towns it is
always well to keep a look-out for
the smaller carnivora, especially
coyotes and badgers...and for
the larger kinds of hawks. Rattlesnakes
are quite plenty, living in the deserted
holes, and the latter are also the
homes of the little burrowing owls."

This is a small town, maybe 50 burrows stretching over an area of a football field. When they see me, they make a lot of noise. They pop in and out of their burrows to take a look at me. They look fat and happy. I’m not fat, but I’m happy. I say goodbye to the Prairie dogs and keep walking.

I have an ear worm, the opening rif of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” Dun datta dun dun, dun datta dun…”We come from the land of ice and snow, where the midnight sun and the hot springs blow…” My fraternal great grandfather came from the land of the ice and snow when he was 14, at 18 he spent his first winter on his North Dakota land living under an overturned wagon. He used the wood he had to build a shed for his animals, out of money and out of time, he dug a hole in the ground, flipped his wagon over it and moved in, he warmed the inside with a tin can stove. When the long winter was over, he plowed and planted his first crop,that done he built a sod house. This tough man with Viking blood, fathered 7 children, 2 boys farmed, another owned a gas station, the 4 girls all graduated from college. My grandmother Clara was his firstborn. His name was Gullik Gullik Gullikson, the son and grandson of Gullick. They were good looking people, one cousin, Claudia was Miss North Dakota.

Off to the Northwest the sky is getting dark, the wind has switched to that direction and it’s a cool wind. I can see the thunderheads building. I better move if I’m going to stay dry I need to get low, along the banks of the Little Missouri, in a grove of cottonwoods and make sure the grove is above the high water mark. I’ll need to break out my little mountain tent, need to get set up before the the thunderstorm hits. According to the trail map there is a river crossing about a mile away, to walk there and get the tent up I’ll need 45 minutes, do I have it? The air smells like rain already and the the dark clouds are filled with lightning. I can see bands of rain starting to fall off to the Northwest. I’d better hustle if I’m going to beat this. 

 I decide to get off the trail, I find a wash running down to the river, it’s steep, maybe a quarter of a mile long, I take it. I stumble and fall on a rocky stretch, I bounce on my ass a couple of times, scraped both my palms. I get up and keep on going, I made it to the river bank. The river curves off to the south, there is a long stretch of rocks, then grass, then cottonwood trees across the river. I wade across the river, I left my boots on this time. In the trees I threw off my pack. I found a grassy spot under the trees, I stomped the grass down and set up the tent. I threw my gear inside. I dug in a pocket on my pack and pulled out a garbage bag. Under the trees I gathered small sticks and twigs and put them in the bag. I found bigger pieces of dead fall and stacked them by a tree. I put the plastic bag over them.

The rain started after thunder and a bolt of lightning that was close at hand, I got in the tent and waited. The worst of the storm passed and a heavy rain followed in its wake. It was warm and humid in the tent. I could smell myself. I dug out my backpacking soap, my towel and my flip flops. I stripped and walked naked to the river in the rain. I stood on the rocks in the rain and scrubbed myself down head to toe. I dried off under the trees, the rain was slacking off. Back in the tent I dressed in a clean t shirt, shorts. I brushed my teeth and spit the toothpaste out the door of the tent..

My left palm was bleeding, I cleaned it up, put first aid cream on it, a sterile pad and gauze. My little first aid kit contains a pair of light rubber gloves. I cut the fingers off the left hand glove and pulled it over the bandage. The first aid done I straightened out the inside of the tent. I rolled out my thermo-rest pad and sleeping bag, bagged my dirty clothes and waited for the rain to end. In an hour it was over.

I kicked a spot clear in the wet grass, made a circle of river rocks and got a fire going with my dry kindling, I added wood and built a good sized fire. I built what the Indians call a white man’s fire, meaning it was too big.

I smell sage, I found it and threw it on the fire, sage is supposed to cleanse your soul and it smells good too. Does my soul need cleansing? Probably.The thought crossed my mind that I could use a peace pipe as well. The grass was wet, but a plastic garbage bag kept my butt dry. I poured some whiskey in my camping cup, I sipped it and watched the sunset by the warmth of my fire.

Dinner was from the only can I carried, a jumbo sized Dinty Moore beef stew, I took the top off, cleared the fire off to the side and set the can on the coals to warm. Every once in awhile I stirred it with a fork. It was delicious. I heated water and made some tea, added a bit of my whisky, ate an apple and cheese for dessert. I strolled the river and watched the sun go down it was a quarter to nine when the sun ended its journey.

I was tired, I hiked maybe 10 miles today. It’s a good tired, I’m clean, I’m well fed and I have a dry, warm place to sleep. I undressed in the tent, zipped up in my sleeping bag. I watched my fire through the little mountain tent’s door. 

While the fire slowly died, I had a million thoughts in my head. I don’t want to think about my job, the woman I’ll meet in Nantucket. Instead I think about something I recently read. About 150 miles west of here, in Montana there is a historical site, Pompy’s Pillar. In 1806 during their expedition Lewis and Clark split up, Clark traveled down the Yellowstone River while Lewis continued west on the Missouri. Sacajawea  with her son Jean Baptiste traveled with Clark. The boy was nick named Pompy by Clark. When they came upon the 150 foot high rock outcropping on the rolling prairie, Clark named it after Pompy. He carved William Clark, 1806 into the rock. The members of his expedition who could write also carved their names in the rock.

In the story I read, the author writes  an egotist named Sarvis painted his name on the Pillar next to Clark's. I know Alva Sarvis, he taught a University level Art class I took when I was in high school. On his way to his new job at San Diego State Alva decided to sign Pompy’s Pillar. 

Sarvis was an early hippie, he invited me to a couple of parties at a house he shared with other grad students. They drank wine and smoked pot, I was so sheltered at the time I believed only Mexicans smoked pop. I met an under grad girl at one of his parties, we got along nicely or like my mom would saw we got a little thick.. I had a deep sense of satisfaction when she started her semester of student teaching at my high school. She’d often wink at me when we met in the hall. One day she stroked my cheek in front of my friends. I wonder what ever happened to Cindy or Miss Larson as everyone else had to call her.

I’m too old to be on a Vision Quest, I’m too well fed to be on a Vision Quest and do I need a Vision Quest anymore?

The Native Americans all had some form of a vision quest for their young men. It worked like this, a maturing young boy, 13 years old or in that age range, would go off by himself, alone for the first time in his life, alone without water or food and wander. eventually he would have a vision of sorts, brought on by lack of food or water or by the elements. He would come back and sit with his elders and tell them about his experience, something significant that he saw, imagined he saw or he dreamed during his quest. The boy’s adult name would come from his quest, if he saw a lone Bison bull on a hill and the Bison was dark in color, he may become Black Bull, if he saw a pair of Eagles, he may become Two Eagles. I always liked that story when I was a kid, I still do. I think, after this trip my name should be “Many Horses” or “Avoids the Snake” or better, “Wisely Avoids the Snake”.

I have to pee, As I stand outside away from the trees, the sky is clear, there is no ambient light, the stars seem very close.

I gather some sage, rub it in my hands and carry it back to the little tent. I listened to the coyotes calling as I fell into a deep sleep.

It’s still dark when I wake up.

I’ve packed light, I have and orange and an apple left and a few chucks of cheese. I fix my coffee and eat the fruit, I’m packed and on my way by first light. I’ve got mileage to make this morning. My left hand is throbbing and I can see blood through the rubber glove. The split in my palm is deeper than I thought it was, oh well.

On the top of another butte I avoid a Bison Bull as he gets up from a wallow, he’s eyeing me and I give him a wide berth, he watches me, then gets bored and starts rolling around again.

A mile later I see a herd of mule deer. They are browsing alongside the river. They look fat and sassy. I can’t count the points from this distance but one buck has a tremendous rack. As I walk along, I wonder if people who never get out of their cars when they visit places like this realize what they are missing.

Not long before the trail ends, I stop and watch some more Prong Horn Antelope, eating their way along a grassy slope, long necks, white throats, white butts. They move slowly as they eat, ever alert, always looking around.

When I got back to my rental Ford, I toss my pack in the trunk. The rest room, it has running water, just cold water, but running, never the less. I wash the dust from the Achenbach Trail off my face and arms. In the mirror I look rested, clear eyed. 

My hand hurts like hell. Back at the car I re-bandage it. The cut on the fat part of my palm just down from my thumb is still open and seeping blood. I’ll stop at the emergency room in Dickinson and get it stitched. 

My hand repaired, I get a hamburger,some fries and drink a couple of beers at the Esquire, done eating it's on the road east to my Mom’s place across from Hillside Park in Bismarck. She’s making BBQ ribs for dinner. A skill she learned from an old black woman in Laurinburg Maxon, North Carolina during WWII. Damn they are the best, as my brother says, "The food that killed our father."

On the highway, I-94, at 75 miles an hour, I’m already thinking about my next Vision Quest. Maybe I’ll do a Phil Weld and simply sail out in the ocean for 12 hours, turn around and sail back.....

I'll close with this from Teddy...

"We have fallen heirs to the most glorious heritage a people ever received, and each one must do his part if we wish to show that the nation is worthy of its good fortune."