Vision Quest...

Part One

Camped in a grove of Cottonwood trees twenty five yards from a tight loop of the Little Missouri River. Across the river is a ridge line, the top of  a butte. It’s summer, an early evening in June. I’ve gathered some dead fall for a small fire. I hear a horse whinny, another answers and I hear hoof beats, I look up. On the ridge line there is a small herd of wild horses. The horses start down, I count them, 18 total, of the 18, 5 are foals just a few months old. The horses make their way from the top of the ridge, they raise dust. They gather on the bank of the river, wade into the water and drink. A dark brown stallion watches the herd, two younger males, the horse equivalent of teenage boys hang back as the mares and the foals drink.

I’m cross-legged in the prairie grass, watching them, the breeze is blowing towards me, they can’t get my scent, if they could would I bother them? I hiked a couple of miles to get to this spot, it’s not close to the road, I’m not in a campground, I haven’t seen another person since I left the visitor’s center 4 hours ago, how often would this little herd ever see a human being? Very few people hike this trail, it’s 18 miles long.

The stallion organizes his herd and gets them moving back up the ridge line, he watches them and then drinks, when he finishes, he looks directly at me, shakes his head, turns and goes after his herd. He’s a big fella, handsome. Now they’re gone, in minutes the dust settles. I walk to the riverbank, there are hoof prints in the sandy mud.I stare up the trail to the top of the ridge. I’m going to follow them tomorrow.

Back in my camp, I pour some whiskey in my cup, I toast the herd. Start my campfire, I cook some chicken and noodles for dinner on my backpacking stove. It’s cooling off, I put on a light fleece, drink another whiskey and watch my little cottonwood fire.

Why am I here? . I’m almost two thousand miles from home. A few days ago I was drinking scotch at the Ritz Bar wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, I was there with a beautiful woman. She thinks I’m crazy to be here, here by myself. Vacationing by walking round in the middle of nowhere, alone. I didn’t explain it well, she didn't understand. I’m going to meet her on Nantucket in a week. I think about her and then push her from my mind when I zip up my sleeping bag. The coyotes sing me to sleep.

Awake before dawn, I pee on the ashes of my little fire. I boil water on my stove, I wash my face in clearest part of the muddy river.Coffee and oatmeal for breakfast. I pour the creamer from McDonalds in Dickinson over the oatmeal and sprinkle a half of package of Mickey D’s sugar on it. I finish breakfast with another cup of coffee and an orange. I feel good, I’m rested. Time to break camp.

At the river I take off my boots and socks, roll up my jeans and wade across. In ten minutes I’m on top of the ridge, dawn has past and the sun is up and warm on my back as I hike west across the prairie. I’m following the horses.

This is primitive land, the Indians and the French trappers called it Badlands, it hasn’t changed much. 

After an hour of hiking, I see my horse herd., they are grazing off in the distance. Seeing the horses enjoying the buffalo grass, I remember they are all runaways, their ancestors ran away from the Spaniards who brought them here, over the centuries they were joined by more rebellious horses. War horses, ranch horses, draft horses, big horses, small horse, maybe a few Shetland and Welsh ponies too. Theyl carry rebel bloodlines. Wild horses. Feral horses. Mustangs.

 I move on, the trail is faint. Few people walk it. There are no boot prints. I see a rattlesnake, we give each other space.

There are birds, meadowlarks, two note whippoorwills, Teddy Roosevelt called them poor wills. 9 different hawks live out here, doves, magpies, swallows. I like the swallows with the red badges on their wings. There are falcons, eagles, Bald and Golden, Osprey, crows, ravens, magpies and Vultures. There are a pair of hawks in the air, I watch one float on the updrafts, fold its wings and dive to snatch something from the ground.  

 There is a bird called Killdeer, its call sounds like "kill-deer". The English called it the Chattering Plover". Not far from here there is a town named Killdeer. 

The migratory birds are north of here now in the month of June, they’ll pass through again in the fall, ducks and geese of all kinds. I’ve seen them on the water on a cold, late October morning, thousands of them, so many their body heat creates fog on the cold water.. But this is summer and they are hundreds and hundreds of miles away raising their babies.

I walk better than 3 miles an hour in the city, out here, I’m slower, it’s rougher. I guess I’m covering maybe 2, maybe less, because of the stops. I settle on 2 miles an hour on average. It’s noon and I’ve been humping this pack for almost 6 hours. Time to rest, time to eat. I’ve walked 8 miles this morning, maybe more, maybe less.

When I’ve hiked with my family or friends, they accuse me of walking too fast. That’s why I like to hike alone. Bob Dylan wrote a line in “It Ain't Me Babe“, move at your own chosen speed. I’ll take Dylan’s advice anytime. It’s always good. At least for me it is.

I have a 2 and half gallon water bag, I’ve used about a third of it. The water out here is either muddy or muddy laced with alkali, either way it’s not good to drink. You can pump it through a filter or boil it, it still doesn’t taste good. I’ve had giardia once, I don’t want it again.

My lunch is hard salami, sharp cheddar cheese, crackers, a Fuji apple and Hershey Kisses. I really wish I had a cold beer.

When you’re backpacking, carrying a load on your back, you don’t want to stop for more than 15 minutes, if you do, you get stiff and you lose your motivation. My goal today is 13 miles, I'm motivated. I move out and as they used to say in the Army, I’m “moving out briskly.”

The trail leads into a break, then up to the top of another butte, at the top I look across to a broad valley. There is a large herd of buffalo, American Bison or  as the Lakota called them Pte. They once ranged in North America from Great Slave Lake in Canada down to the Mexican border and further south. They were found in the east as far north as New York state and down to Florida. We drove them to brink of extinction, a noble animal with millions of years of evolutionary history. We almost erased the Bison in less than a 100 years.  In 1830 there were 40 million buffalo roaming the US by 1900 there were 300. Why? So we could starve the plains Indians and move them onto reservations.

 I’m mesmerized by the Bison. In all the time they’ve been around the only predator that’s threatened them are people like me, like us.. The plains Indians, worshiped them,  conserved them and when they took one they used virtually every part of the Bison for food, clothing, housing, cooking utensils. The Bison was a precious resource, essential to their lives. Native Americans were good to the Bison and the Bison were good to them. Medical researchers and scientists have determined the healthiest and tallest people in North America for thousands of years were the plains Indians. Plenty of exercise obviously, a balanced diet from the land and the healthy, low fat Bison meat they ate was the reason for their good health.

Bison are tough animals, they’re extremely fast and agile, think of an NFL running back who  weighs a ton and is 3 times faster. Add to that a very bad temper. It’s not safe to get close to them and I won’t. The Park Service says more people are injured in our National Parks by Bison than by bears.

I watch the herd through my binoculars for a long time, I’m glad they’re are thriving again. I feel privileged to see them living as they always have. Living as they should live.

I head down the trail again, I’m happy, I feel good. It’s warm and breezy. I have a thermometer on the strap of my pack, it reads 81 degrees.