8/22/09: Spearfish, SD- Leslie & Bonnie

Things were odd as I awoke Saturday morning to a very different Lori than was on display the night before. She was quietly subdued as she and Chris made breakfast and coffee while I repacked. We had some small talk as I ate their delicious potato & egg concoction, and soon I was waving goodbye and heading for a shower. I told them I'd stop back that night if I was still there, and was prepared to accept their offer of a ride to Rapid City if I hadn't left by Sunday.

A member of KOA's Golf Kart Militia noticed my pack, and gave me a brief, sKornful inkwisition about where I had slept, thinking I had hijacked a tent sight. Nothing came of it, but it did set the tone for the remainder of my stay. It was time to leave, and I had a distinct feeling that things were about to change.

I spent a few hours relaxing outside the Trading Post before learning that there was a restaurant a half mile up the road; one I had failed noticing when Harry dropped me off. That was all that was needed to push me down the road. I had no idea what exactly I was doing, I just knew it was time.

A quick 15-minutes later, I found myself at the intersection of Route 24 looking at the restaurant. I had gotten water before leaving, so I planned to sit at the corner just to see what happened. As I was crossing the road, a small SUV passed me with a pretty young woman hanging half way out the window flashing me the thumbs-up. When I returned the gesture and smiled, they unexpectedly pulled over and my new friend-in-thumb asked me if I needed a ride. A simple "Yeah!" later she had hopped out, and I was finally on my way toward Sundance.

I had to laugh. I had sat at Devils Tower for 72- hours with nothing. After 15-minutes walking, on nothing more than intuition, I was off. The pattern was still intact, but at the time, had no idea as to the extent. As I settled in, all I could see ahead was a half-hour hop back to I-90.

The thumb-flashing passenger was a Leslie. She was a short 21- year old who, even at first sight, flowed with raw energy. And, she was absolutely stunning. She has the looks that steals your breath for a moment. Leslie is the last kind of ride you expect to get, but as it turns out, there is nothing ordinary about her.

Driving the car was Bonnie. She struck me at first as the typical Santa Fe/Boulder progressive. Bonnie would hate the idea, but her general ideology was written all over her in pretty simple language. What I've called "being different-just like everyone else." I would learn later that, while accurate on a base level, it was an unfair assessment to make in a split second. She had a lot going on beyond typical, dictated agenda.

Leslie and Bonnie are from Chicago and were on their way home from an abbreviated road trip. They had intended to go all the way to Montana, but things had come up and Bonnie needed to be back by Monday. One of the first things we talked about was how we all had common spiritual views. There was an excellent, instant rapport, and as I told them more about my travels they invited me along to Spearfish as they tried to find a microbrewery they were told about. I was none too sad to be leaving Wyoming, especially like this! This ride had all the early indications of something remarkable, and I again laughed. I had cautiously felt it coming.

The conversations continued uninterrupted into South Dakota, and the energy in the truck was addicting. Bonnie was familiar with Chris McCandless, and when I mentioned I was considering going to Carthage SD to have a beer at the bar featured in Into the Wild, my original hop to Sundance, then skip to Spearfish suddenly jumped into a pilgrimage across South Dakota.

When we pulled into the Crow Peak Brewery in Spearfish, I had permagrin. My mind's eye traveled back to Devils Tower, and I could see the perfect progression of events laid out as though they were planned. Some say that the elderly sometimes say they same things when looking back over their lives. All coincidence? Ha!

Our pit stop at Crow Peak quickly became a night out. Leslie challenged a couple to a chugging contest while, at the same time talking the bartender into offering a t-shirt to the winner. Quite persuasive, this Leslie! I figured my shady past would be of some benefit here, so I signed up as a ringer to ensure Leslie got her shirt. It was the least I could do, after all! It was no contest. I won easily. Leslie: happy. Life: good.

Dean was one of the non- participating bystanders and had taken the picture of the contest for me. He and his wife were from Wisconsin, and the three of us were soon chatting politics and sociology. It was an excellent conversation, and I was beginning to realize how much I was going to enjoy these Northerners. Relatively speaking, there seemed to be an abundance of common sense borne from living life, rather than just reading about it then later simply swapping spit in a self-labeled Salon. Theme alert!

Obviously, continuing on toward Carthage Saturday night was out of the question. To add a perfect exclamation point to the day, our bartender actually offered to let us camp AT the brewery! We didn't even need to re-park.

Bonnie and I sat up for quite a while chatting about philosophy and metaphysics before going to bed. It was then that I realized that she herself was on quite a quest. Bonnie has passion for real change, but seemed at first to think it's an institutional issue rather than individual; that the solutions are "out there." (See the Dragon Parable) She seemed to be slightly hindered by ideological dogma, but also had the Splinter in the Mind that leads, inevitably, to critical/original questioning. This way, your organic ideas are accessorized by philosophy. Most people, even those who call themselves highly educated, are vice versa. Thus, recyclers of others thoughts. Parrots. Authentic, self-awareness is not an easy process, but Bonnie has begun it. She would periodically tune-in as we chatted, and when she did, she would shine.

I was exhausted by the time I climbed into the bivy. Leslie set the alarm early; all of South Dakota and Carthage lie ahead for Sunday. A least in theory...

8/19- 21: Devils Tower, WY

Devils Tower turned out to be a calm, quiet period of adjustment. Not quite the makings of marketing myself as a modern day Marco Polo!

The two days after de-busing in Gillette were harder than I had expected; failing to consider that it was almost exactly a year to the day since I had last traveled solo. Then, it quickly became obvious that despite the high traffic volume, it was going to be a hard sell hitching the 30-miles back to I-90 in Sundance. The vast majority were vacationing families and retired RVers who often see my backpack as sure indication that I am a thief. Or worse. Despite all this, the people were friendly. Devils Tower loomed overhead offering a constant, peaceful reminder of why I was there and the silent but steady reassurance that I was on the right track.

Devils Tower is about 80-miles northwest of Sturgis, South Dakota. I had missed the rally, but gotten the bikes. I've always liked and respected these people. Bikers, and backpackers/hitchers often share an unspoken sense of familiarity that stems from a thirst for freedom and authenticity. Had my pack fit on a Harley, I would have been on my way almost immediately! But it wouldn't. And I certainly wasn't.

A few hours after arriving on Wednesday, the weather turned from cool but sunny to cold, windy, & wet. The hot topic everywhere was always the odd weather in the region; how wet it had been and wondering if summer had missed its left turn in Albuquerque. As the sun set behind the Tower, it felt more like November than August, and I had yet to scout out a suitable place to camp. In the end, I succumbed to fatigue and paid the KOA's ridiculous tent fee, figuring I could at least get a good night's sleep and a shower in the morning.

Thursday was bright, sunny, and warm. It was spent sitting and sunning. I had a nice perch propped against a log by the road, and proceeded to just be, making mental adjustments. There were several trips into the Devils Tower Trading Post for coffee and water, and I slowly became a familiar face to the staff. I finally started updating the blog, but when I went to upload it via Pocketmail, the number Chris and I had been using was out of service! Out of frustration, I concluded that Friday would be a better day to figure that out.

With Friday and the weekend traffic came the feeling that I was back to myself. I settled in to my situation and made a conscious effort to stay present and remember patterns. Whenever I had been "stuck" somewhere for an extended period, the results were memorable and dramatic, such as meeting Ken after two days in McCammon, Idaho. This had much the same feel; a time to "Sit Down & Shut Up" so I wasn't trying very hard to leave. As I told various people, there are worse places to be "stuck" than Devils Tower!

Around noon, I found another Pocketmail number that worked so spent most of the afternoon writing. It seemed to me that this helped me to tap into Brian's "flow" and from then on, coincidentally, interesting things began to happen... and haven't stopped since.

At dusk, I snuck into KOA intending to follow a game trail along the Belle Fourche river into secluded grassland frequented only by deer and antelope. While filling my water bag, a middle aged woman hollered at me asking if I wanted a beer. Indeed I did. Before I had even sat down, Lori had offered a spot to camp at their site.

Lori and her big sister, Chris, were from a small town north of Rapid City, and spending the weekend celebrating Lori's 50th birthday. Lori had been "celebrating" quite hard; she was already drunk. And she was slightly upset. Her boyfriend was a truck driver and had been stranded in Denver, missing this potentially depressing birthday. It then became crystal clear as to the reason she had invited me over: I had been drafted into the Boyfriend Substitution Program. Within 10-minutes, she had begun rubbing my arm and trying to hold my hand, much to my polite, yet obvious, objections. It wasn't long before she was asking for a kiss and offering to let me sleep in her tent! "You can't sleep in THAT little thing!" While flattered, I obviously wanted no part of that and repeatedly told her I'd be sleeping, all alone, in my little bivy.

I needed to handle this delicately because, while amusing, I had also lost the chance to get to my field with the sunset! Chris thankfully came to my rescue by putting Lori (alone) to bed, but then things suddenly went Jerry Springer. Lori's affections turned to the wrath of a drunken redneck scorned! She began to resemble an incorrigible 10-year old, sneaking out of her tent and screaming at Chris every time she reeled her back in. Dozens of times, "Get the fuck away from me!" was heard by everyone at the family friendly KOA! The last I heard from Lori this Friday night was "I'm not staying out there with that guy here!" as she climbed into her truck to pass out. I was amused at how quickly I had gone from "adorable" to "that guy!" Jer-ry! Jer-ry!

Chris and I sat chatting for another half hour before I climbed into the bivy (alone) looking forward to Saturday. The feel of things had changed dramatically, and I thought to myself that it felt like things had finally gotten started.

Did they ever. Strap in.

8/19/09: Devils Tower & Jimmy

When people ask, "Todd, why do you do this?" I often answer that it's funny how the people you meet under odd circumstances can significantly affect you.

In March 2008, just a few months after my divorce from radio, I took a job as a carnie with an outfit in west Texas. That may be the furthest from the expected vocational path you would expect me to walk, unless you know me well! At that point, it made perfect sense. As I saw it, I had worked with legalized, dishonest criminal-minded scum for twelve years. Why not authentic criminals living on the fringe? I never intended to do it for long; a month or two as I tried to raise money for 2008.

Many of the assumptions about carnival life are accurate. My first destination was Odessa, TX. In my two days there, I believe I saw every drug man has produced to date, and listened to a knife fight outside my bunkhouse. (I was just pissed that they had woken me up at 5am!) And yes, the arrest warrant to employee ratio is quite high!

My final straw in Odessa was walking by a kiddie ride just prior to opening and finding a pouch of cocaine on the ground. Not so bad at 2am, but the carnival was about to open...and cocaine looks like sugar to a child. With that, I had had enough. I wasn't alone. One of those joining me on the bus to New Orleans for a change in assignment (and scenery) was Jimmy. He was Chickasha Indian, lived in Oklahoma when he had a home, and I had gotten to know him a bit over the short time we were both in Odessa.

I was primed for tangible, external ideas after spending the winter transitioning away from radio and buried in abstraction. As we rode across the expansiveness of the Texas Republic, we chatted about the similarity between my blossoming beliefs and that of the Chickasha Tribe. He was passionately proud of who he was, particularly his heritage. However, like Dennis, he was also tormented, although not to the same extreme. In Jimmy's case, he was cut off from who he felt he was: a Chickasha. It was as though he were transplanted to live with an African tribe; society had nothing for him. He was rotting from within so, like Dennis, he drank. Alot. This is something I can easily relate to and unfortunately Jimmy's story is not uncommon around the southwest.

Once in New Orleans, we were assigned to carnival group that was in a holding pattern thru Easter weekend. While drugs weren't tolerated, they created their own special brand of drama. This organization was known as a "gay friendly" carnie group, and I learned later that what I took as standoffishness when I arrived actually stemmed from some of the boys laying dibs on the "fresh fish." Me!

They were quite disappointed, and one individual was particularly spiteful, when they learned that I like girls. A great deal. This, along with nothing better to do with their idle time created a thick, palpable negativity. The kind you can feel.

Enter Trisha. She was a rare breed indeed. An intelligent, attractive 22-year old from little Rock, traveling with the  carnival, and with all her teeth intact. She took to me in much the same way as Inga did on the bus last month. I was one of the few heteros who would actually leave her alone while at the same time act as a flaming torch to the pack of red rocket dogs eagerly sniffing at her hindquarters. Along with Jimmy, the three of us quickly bonded.

Easter Sunday 2008 is, in part, why I'm sitting in the shadow of Devils Tower today. Jimmy invited us to his morning Chickasha ritual; what he described as "communing with his dead ancestors". Seeing it as an opportunity to leave the "hens" behind, Trisha and I happily went along.

Winter Quarters was directly across a small road from the Mississippi River. There happened to be a circle imprinted into the grass, and Jimmy arranged us inside then began chanting while Trisha and I sat respectfully quietly wondering what he was doing! This went on for some time. When he stopped, Jimmy said he had communed with The Ancestors (apparently that's not always successful), and that they had given us Indian names. Mine was Runs with the Wind. Thus, the name of the first blog.

Now, I agree with you cynics. You can find a performance similar to this at any number of the touristy "Indian Trading Posts" littering the west. What struck me was the gradual, then all-encompassing feeling of peace overcoming me while sitting beside the river. It was incredible. Something I had neither felt before nor felt since. With it came a sense of clarity that, for my indecisive ass, is invaluable.

I had the sense that I was indeed on the right path and that this "voice" was indeed what I thought it was. The three of us sat by the Mississippi all day. Just being. Trisha felt it too and that we were able to find calm in the Sea of Negativity was lost on neither of us, particularly when we left.

As soon as we crossed the road returning to camp, Trisha and I both said, at the same time, "Did you feel that change?" It was something akin to strolling thru a garden then stumbling out into an open landfill. It was that stark. I suspect it was what Steve describes as going from "awake to asleep" in Eastern terminology. I don't know what happened that day. But in a quiet, subtle, yet powerful way, it changed me. I wish I could give that experience away.

As I was sitting in New Mexico a week ago pondering Dennis, I thought of Jimmy. The similarities would not leave me alone and, as I thought of that day by the river, I again began to think about Devils Tower. I had the notion in July, but dismissed it in my pre-Dennis fog. I did some quick research and while I already knew it was sacred to natives, I had no idea why. Devils Tower was seen as a place of rebirth and rejuvenation. Several tribal leaders are still buried nearby and where young men used to come on their vision quests, the US Government now charges $10 for a "prime view."

Considering all that's transpired over the last 2 1/2 months, and looking back to that Sunday on the Mississippi, this place of "rebirth" struck me as the place to start again. No, I'm not hoping aliens take me away. Nor, I should point out, am I on my own vision quest. I don't know specifically why I am here other than it "seems" right, to borrow Chris' phraseology! If the patterns hold, I suspect that will become clear enough soon enough.

To close Jimmy's story, I spent another week with them. The night I left the group, in Baton Rouge, he was drunk and making no sense other than I "shouldn't leave." In retrospect, now, this echoes with a haunting familiarity. But, as with Dennis, I knew better.

I found out a week after returning home that Jimmy had been beaten up, and had left too. I have no idea what became of him.

8/19/09: Devils Tower, WY

The weather gods were cooperative. Shortly after I made my way from the bus station to the adjacent gas station the rain stopped. It felt bizarre stepping out into Gillette. Wyoming had been a challenge in 2008, and I was a bit unsure of my prospects for a ride. The woman at the bus station had told me hitching was illegal in Wyoming as she pointed me in the direction of I-90, so with no frontage or state road, I needed to find a truck stop. Just like Rawlins.

The sun finally came out as I made the quick walk to the Flying J next to the interstate, and once there I fell into routine: plop down and wait. Soon after I settled in, I was briefly joined by another hitcher who was (proudly) of the opinion that minorities were the ones responsible for the evaporating jobs. He was nice enough, obviously because I was white, and thankfully he quickly decided to head to the on-ramp after a cup of coffee.

I had held faint hopes that since I was getting started so early I would be able to make Moorcroft, and perhaps even Devils Tower on this Wednesday. It took less than an hour to get on the road to both.

Harry and Dustin were from Washington and on their way to Jacksonville in a small, loaded down pickup. As Harry and I performed the inconvenient process of rearranging the truck to accommodate me, he quietly pointed out that any "treats" would be appreciated. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I prayed he was not obliquely asking for sexual favors in exchange for this 20-mile ride to Moorcroft! If so, he was in for a huge disappointment. But as it turned out, to my relief, he just wanted pot. Of course, I had none so I agreed to give him a little money instead. That seemed worth it to get closer to the state line!

The conversation to Moorcroft was interesting. Harry had a self-published book on Amazon, and correctly guessed that I was writing when I told him I lived in Santa Fe. I'm not sure what bothered me more; the "progressive, liberal, artist" cliche about moving to Santa Fe for "inspiration," or the fact that on the surface it appeared I was perpetuating it! I took no small amount of joy in pointing out that I drew my "inspiration" by LEAVING Santa Fe, for places like Gillette no less! Draw whatever you like from that.

As we continued toward Moorcroft, I learned that Harry & Dustin were actually moving to Florida with nothing but $500 and motivation. They were planning to camp and look for work once there. The thought that he may be working me for cash entered my mind, but I was inclined to believe him and figured that if true, I could help them out a bit in exchange for a lift the rest of the way to Devils Tower. If he was working me, hell, at least he was good! After a quick negotiation, we were through Moorcroft and on the small road that leads to the National Monument chatting about religion and politics. I believe he liked my "to hell with all of them" political insights.

Thirty miles later, we pulled into the Devils Tower Trading Post in the shadow of this place that 400-years ago was the most sacred of grounds to various area Indian tribes. Now? It's recognized as "that place from Close Encounters." It did not disappoint at first sight, and you can see how in the age before high-rise buildings this place would be awe-inspiring.

Devils Tower has been on my list for a long time, but not due to Stephen Spielberg and Richard Dreyfus. A bit more back-story may be in order...