BEAVER

Woke up this a.m. in Toad River, B.C.; a few hours north of Fort Nelson - sure, I know you know exactly where that is. It was just a tiny dot on a big map until I pulled over yesterday. The dot doesn’t do justice. Saw Rock Sheep (big horns) on the road just a few miles before the camp. Leaned against a cottonwood next to my campsite in the evening, watching three beaver going about beaver business. All the cottonwoods in camp have a heavy plastic wrap from the ground up 3 or 4 feet: armor against unauthorized logging. They did tail slaps (just to impress me, I think) but the others didn’t take it serious. 

Played leap frog with a couple on a motorcycle yesterday; must have passed each other a dozen times. They tent camped right where I was watching the beaver. From Palmer, AK; they are on their way home from a tour of Washington and Montana. I fantasized the freedom of the motorcycle while he was taken with my little white truck and most of all, the teardrop camper. You know, you meet the coolest people. If I were religious, I’d say I must be blessed, but am inclined to think it has to do with Karma. 

The story on Toad River goes back to 1942, when I was just 3: they were building the Alaskan Highway and conditions were extreme. They had problems building a bridge here and everything had to be “towed” across the river. When it came time to give the place a name . . . you get the picture. The local historian was kind; didn’t want to insult anyone’s intelligence or be rude so they chalked it up to a northern sense of humor. 

The restaurant, camp office, fuel stop, and post office are as picturesque as the name. They have a baseball cap collection that started back in the 70’s. A man went to the washroom (they don’t have rest rooms here: if you want to rest, sit on a chair with a full seat.) When he came back, someone had tacked his hat to the ceiling. Now there are thousands of hats, wall to wall in every room. Everything is getting pricey; breakfast was $200 but it is what it is and you knew that coming in. (I’ve exaggerated, sorry!) I’ll get a T-shirt here, probably another $200.

Something about the physical, material trappings of the frontier: necessities are covered but spoiled, picky consumers will be alienated. They wipe tables clean and wash dishes between customers but last week’s dust is still in the game and yesterday’s finger prints are still on the salt shaker. There is probably a piece of cardboard folded up and shimmed under one of the table legs to keep it steady and it’s understood that you don’t wait for the waitress to warm your coffee: you get up and do it yourself. I’ve done black tie affairs, even been at the head table, delivered a keynote or two and graciously accepted applause: but sipping coffee in this dusty, earthy place is where my ego is satisfied.

So if I disappear with all the money, you know where not to look for me: and it’s time for me to disappear from Toad River. I’ll leave it to the beaver and the sheep I hope to see a little farther up the road. Gasoline is a little over $6 a gallon and I’m just happy it’s not $10. I left my hat in the truck so I don’t have to worry about it ending up, lost in the crowd on the ceiling however, they probably need a U of M hat to give it a fine, articulate, plain spoken balance.

SASSY YOUNG LADIES

Yesterday I had to wait around Red Deer, Alberta until 9:30 for a Credit Union to open. Dawn Scarff, a financial advisor there, helped me make contact with my Credit Unions in Michigan. Now I can use my ATM & credit cards. She was so helpful I am reminded of the differences between CU’s and banks. But that’s another story, for another day. It had just stopped raining when I went in and the clouds were still threatening. When I came out it was with money in hand and the clouds had rolled back to sunshine and a clear blue sky. 

Once on the highway, my mood dialed up  and I slid in a CD without looking to see what it was. Bob Seger was right in the middle of the chorus; “We were young and strong; we were running, against the wind.” The day was just getting better and better. A little before noon, closing in on Edmonton, it was wide open country. Unlike Interstate rest stops, you might find anything at a Canadian rest area. I wanted to fill a water bottle and stretch so I was pulling in either way. The official building was low profile and camouflaged into to the landscape I didn’t see it: rolled past it to the white, retro diner with a big, red letter sign; Fay’s Diner. 

Inside, very clean, very Spartan: no frills, no foo-foo menu. Burgers, fries and Poutine. Poutine? This is too good; I need to take pictures. So I got my camera out of the truck and began taking pictures. Inside, when the lady behind the counter saw me shooting she wanted to know what I was doing. I told her she asked the wrong question: “I’m an itinerant StoryTeller and this place is a story.” Within two sentences we were making jokes and I had to ask about the Poutine. It was like not knowing about BBQ, in Memphis. “You don’t know what Poutine is?” I had to admit to my ignorance. The Poutine is a big plate of french fries, smothered under lots of rich, dark beef gravy and covered with cheese. OMG . . . Heart Attack. 

Deanna (L) and Sharon (R) were the sassy young ladies behind the counter. Deanna’s husband Val was working too; she wanted me to get a shot of him cleaning tables but he wasn’t having any of that. I got the girls to pose in front of the grill; said I’d feature them in the blog. Deanna asked, “We’re gonna be movie stars?” I said no, that they’re already stars but I don’t do movies. Sharon wanted to know if I was sure I didn’t want a taste of the Poutine. I was sure. But I did have a scoop of the Maple Nut and another of the Cherry Ice Cream. It was hard frozen and my plastic spoon was mismatched for the task. So I ate slow, small bites: my mom would have liked that. 

We got to talking about some crooks who got caught and were on their way to jail. In the end, we decided it’s the crooks who get elected that catch and punish the crooks who didn’t. I missed out on the water bottle but got back on the road, safe and in good time. I was licking my teeth, still tasting the cherry ice cream and the CD had run full circle. Bob Seger was near the end of the song this time; “Against the wind, I’m still running against the wind. I’m older now but still running, against the wind.”

Yesterday was a good day: made it to Grande Prairie, Alberta. I’ll be at Fort Nelson, British Columbia this afternoon. Gasoline is $5.60 a gallon here and will go up significantly when I cross over into B.C. I keep telling myself, “I can afford this: just keep on rolling and smile.”

BAD TATTOOS

“Rain” is the watchword and I haven’t seen a forecast so, I’ll just keep bumping along; no particular hurry. It’s nice being back in Canada. You forget; take things for granted and then everything changes. You stray outside your comfort zone and the stretch is immediate. My cell phone won’t work again until Alaska and I trust Tim Horton’s (Canada equivalent to Mc’D) for a wi-fi connection and affordable coffee. 

There are more Native people, out and about here; at least I notice them. I knew that but then you get used to something else and it’s deja vu, all over again. The two things I remember best about our northern neighbors is their obvious sense of civility and incredibly bad tattoos. If USA is the land of free & brave, then Canada is about a razor balance between acceptance and accountability. I’ve said before that had my parents birthed me north of the border, I’d have turned out a better Canadian than I have an American.

I remember a disparaging comment on one’s appearance that goes back to my military days. It goes; “. . . looks like they were shot at and missed an’ ‘sh. .’ at and hit.“ Here I would say the tattoo is the “sh. . ‘ that wouldn’t clean up. Really, really bad.  No rhyme, no reason, just random compulsion and bad taste. I like body art and those works that look like they took root and grew there naturally; I’m an admirer. The question is, how many more ugly tat’s will I see before I get a look at the bad tattoos of Alaska, the second most bad place for bad tattoos. 

I’m in limbo for a few hours. I need to find a phone where I can call Michigan and get my Credit Union to take the hold off my credit cards. They balked yesterday, (Sunday) when I tried to get gasoline in Calgary. So I’m just south of Edmonton, low on cash and none of my credit cards will pass muster. Should have made the call on Friday but I was killing time in the rain at Little Bighorn and it slipped my mind. I have friends who think my adventures are all fun and games and I try to tell them that it’s as much anxiety & bad road as it is grins but they don’t want to hear that. I suspect I have some deep seeded neuroses. I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day, like the tattoo drones and the life I take for granted is the only one I know. Photo is a sunny day in South Dakota. There was another one at Little Bighorn but I’m back to searching for, El Sol. 

LITTLE BIGHORN

Two nights in the rain and the humidity inside of my teardrop camper is intense. This morning the wind was still blowing and the day has only turned to more rain and blow. The Little Bighorn Battlefield is a magical place, charged with history and a powerful presence, even on a cold, rainy day. I’ve been here before, several times and never been disappointed. As I weighed my options, I remembered the cafe at the Trading Post opened at 8:00 so I headed that way. Early, all I could do was text my kids and grandkids and wait for the door to open up. 

When I walked into the dining room there were two men at the first table, smiling at me. I responded with an affirmative nod but before I could finish the nod I had been invited to sit and share coffee. “People call me ‘Putt’ ’’, said the taller of the two, with a braided pig tail that looped over his shoulder and down onto his chest. “That’s John Paul,” he said, with a subtle gesture to the other man. We were all about the same age and “Good Will” chemistry was the rule of the morning. As it turns out, Putt owns the trading post & cafe: John deals in Native American jewelry; works with and sometimes for Putt. One can certainly make a case for treating customers well but I think that treating well is just part of the greater package with these guys. 

As we drank coffee and I ordered breakfast, another man came and sat down.  Ces is Italian, a Research Fellow with the Smithsonian, in Washington D.C. All talk focused on the battle and I became the “Fly on the wall.” Then Pietro , a retired postal inspector comes and sits down; another Italian who shares Ces’ passion for Native American culture. Both were drawn in by the stories and the imagery when they were boys back in Italy.  

The photograph: they have a nearly life size photograph of an Indian, posed in front of a photographers backdrop. Publishing  business as it is, once a biography is researched, it’s difficult convincing anyone that the story isn’t perfect. Legend and first research suggest that Crazy Horse was never photographed. But a photo (Tin type, cerca 1877) turned up in California, after the printing of his first biography and Putt has it now. With some restoration and enlargement you can see evidence of what appears to be a scar on his cheek; his hair is lighter than other Indians in 1870’s photos and it has some curl to it; all consistent with descriptions from that time. In the 1950‘s, still living relatives identified the photo as that of Crazy Horse but publishers and authors don’t concede easily. Ces & Pietro are looking for more documentation and other photographs taken in front of the same back drop to lend credibility and add the photo to history, the story is too fascinating to let go.

Later in the day, we all climbed in Putt’s SUV and went for a ride. Along muddy, gravel roads we traced the time line of the battle. On June 25, 1876, Colonel George A. Custer led five companies of the 7th Cavalry on a raid against the combine villages of Sioux and Cheyenne along the Little Bighorn River. The result is etched into our national conscience. Whether one sees the battle as a tragic defeat or a righteous victory, the story and its legacy can not be dismissed. We stopped: “This is probably where the first shot was fired.” Troopers had ridden up on a boy and shot him, the first casualty. After that, a chain of events unfolded and the day took on a life of its own, dragging men and horses through an afternoon of savage conflict. By the end of the day, Custer’s troops were either isolated and held at bay, unable to join the fight or killed to a man. 

Grass is still green, sage brush still dots the hillsides and the “Greasy Grass”, the Indian’s name for the Little Bighorn, still meanders its tight, horse shoe bends, south to north on its way to join the Yellowstone. Up the coulees, across ridge tops and along cut banks, remnant bones of horses and men still wait to be recovered, to be remembered. 135 years after the fact, it still bears witness to what men will do to exercise their will over those who are in the way. It reminds us of what men will do to protect their families and a way of life. The battle did nothing to slow the doctrine of Manifest Destiny but it did provide the indigenous culture a bright spot. Once upon a time, the Real People pushed back agains overwhelming odds and won the day. I’m one of those who think it was a righteous victory.

GET OUT OF HERE

So here I am sitting in a Coffee Shop again; this time it’s afternoon in Mitchell, South Dakota. I needed to get out of the truck and do something else for a little while. The coffee’s good and the bagel just so-so but it’s a nice break. I usually have some idea of how a drive should go but today has been so long coming, there wasn’t any real anticipation. I’ve done I-90 through S.D. but it’s been a long time and I was headed home, near the end. I’ve got another 8-10 days before I get to Anchorage; expect to stop half a day at Little Bighorn Nat’l Battlefield, MT and several Provincial Parks in Alberta & B.C. and find some live music in Whitehorse.

By the time I got everything hooked up and stowed this morning, it was daylight and  I buttoned up the place; took off and haven’t discovered yet, what I forgot. People are really nice, want to share their special home-state, home-town and their all wonderful I’m sure. I don’t have any expectations for S.D. and need to get back on the road so I’ll wash the last bite down and post this. Hope to be in Montana tomorrow.

WAITING FOR

What are you waiting for? I remember those words coming out of my mouth; looking up at my son, standing at the end of the diving board. People were lined up on the ladder behind him, waiting their turns. He had jumped off earlier but something wasn’t right and he danced a little anxiety dance, trying to drum up some courage. Finally he lay down, grabbed hold of the edges at the end of the board and slid over the side. There he hung, grasping the end of the board with his legs wrapped around it like a little monkey, clinging to its mother. Then he let go his legs and dangled for a while, looking down those ten feet to the water. Whether he lost his grip or let go of choice, you couldn’t tell. But the splash was less than spectacular and his swim over to the ladder lacked the bravado he had brandished climbing up the ladder.  He was 6.

What are you waiting for? Same words, different situation, many years later: I was thinking and it was a monologue. In the Midwest, seasons change on a predetermined date but it takes a while for the change to manifest itself. It’s well into Spring and the grass is green but we had ice on the glass yesterday and the breeze had a cutting edge that would not have made me notice in Dec. or Jan. Maybe there is a difference between waiting for something and just squatting in a warm place. Whatever the difference, I wasn’t excited about doing anything. 

By 8:00 a.m. I’m back from an hour in the pool and breakfast is either in progress or past tense. I didn’t feel like reading or writing or going somewhere so I trekked down to the basement and set to straightening up and putting tools away. My latest project was complete and it would be impossible to start a new venture on the cluttered work bench. There was a short piece of a door jam, too short to make something but too good to throw in the scrap box. The scrap box; full of good wood, just too small or not enough for whatever I was doing at the time. So I dug around, sanded some and sawed a little. A little glue and drill some nail holes: a couple of hours later I had a bird house. As is my custom, there were no measurements made nor taken; everything by feel and intuition. This morning the sun was warm today when I got home and the bird house was sitting on the bench. That must have been what I’ve been waiting for. A quick paint job, a bungee cord and we have a vacant wren house in the Tulip Poplar, in the back yard. Maybe I’ll make another one soon; don’t want the Bald Cypress or the Maples to go unoccupied. 

SOMETIMES

Sometimes you can’t wait to go to sleep, so you’ll wake up soon and meet a new day. Sometimes the long list of things to do is exceeded only by your enthusiasm. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling for reasons, too many to shuffle through. Then there are times when all you think about is coffee. It’s like in the water at 6:00 a..m. with a mile and a half to go: you know the last lap will be great but you don’t swim any faster. Sometimes you keep on putting one foot in front of the other just because. This is one of those times. 

Last December I visited a church in Dayton, Ohio. The building was on the edge of an open field where thousands of blackbirds scurried around, pecking here and there, looking for food, finding shelter and security in large numbers. That’s what blackbirds do in winter. Inside, the stained glass windows were aglow with sun light as we churched. Then we heard a muffled, rustling, whirring sound that had nothing to do with worship. Blackbirds had taken off in mass. They were flying in tight formation, so close we could feel their wing beats. It was a huge swarm that seemed to be going nowhere. You could see dappled shadows streaming across the opaque windows as they flew from left to right, then right to left. Up and down, around and around; the side windows darkened with only ripples and flashes of daylight at their passing. It went on and on, for a minute or more. 

I’ve seen the swarm phenomenon before but never so close or experienced it from inside a building. They flow like an airborne river, first one way, then swerve and dive, only to reverse direction and come around for another pass. The sound was too much to ignore and they were so close you could see individual shadows flash by. The congregation kept churching, right through the din of light and sound. I wanted to stand up and shout, “Hey, let's hear it for the blackbirds.” Did they think there was a hymn in the book or a prayer that could top that: I don’t think so. It made my day. 

So here I am today, feeling like a blackbird. I’m just shuffling around in good company, waiting for something to stir inside my head or my heart that will give me wings. Daylight is coming back, dawning sooner and dimming later. I’ll keep swimming early but one day soon I’ll wake up like Bill Murray, in the movie Ground Hog Day and know that it's time to fly..