This was a week spent in majestic places scarred by
human strife: Restful as the American West can be, it’s
alive and kicking and does not rest in peace. Fortunately
for me, I ended up in God’s Country with good
company.
From Cody, I followed Alt. 14 past the Heart Mountain
Relocation Camp, where 11,000 innocent Japanese-American
citizens were interned for three years during World
War II. The only sign of the camp today is a chimney
and some plaques. How, I’ve always wondered, could
such a travesty have taken place in my country? Fairly
easily, it seems: Hysteria reigned, and too many well-intentioned
men valued safety above civil liberties. California
Attorney General and future Supreme Court Chief Justice
Earl Warren said, “The most menacing proof of
a real plan is the fact that we have had no sabotage
yet. . . . We have been lulled into a false sense of
security.” Assistant Secretary of War John J.
McCloy said, “if it is a question of the safety
of the country [and] the Constitution. . . . Why, the
Constitution is just a scrap of paper to me.”
George Santayana said that those who cannot remember
the past are condemned to repeat it. I prayed that America
wouldn’t have to re-learn the lessons of Heart
Mountain.
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Into the Bighorns
Alt. 14—formerly known as the Dayton-Kane Road
or the Salt Road—quickly became a favorite. As
it rose into the Bighorn Mountains, the turns got tighter
and the grades got steeper; the views of the Bighorn
Basin were spectacular. It was easy to understand why
the road wasn’t officially finished until 1983:
The geology was challenging, to say the least, and snow
often kept the road closed through June. No wonder the
two-lane driver’s dream took 71 years to complete
and was hailed as an engineering and construction masterpiece.
Between Medicine Mountain and Bald Mountain, I turned
off in search of the Bighorn National Forest’s
Porcupine Campground. One very bumpy mile later, I found
a spacious, bare-bones campground populated only by
the camp hosts and one other party; I set up at a site
that was partially shaded by pines but also offered
an open view of the stunning night sky. If it hadn’t
been so cold I might have stayed up all night marveling
at the endless expanse of glittering stars; but it was
freezing, so I finally went to bed. The coyotes’
mournful song lulled me to sleep.
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The Feds Vs. the Spirits
Late the next afternoon I visited the Medicine Wheel,
a prehistoric sacred site that Native Americans still
use. Eighty feet in diameter, the wheel’s central
cairn and radiating spokes led to other cairns that
might have had astronomical and/or religious significance;
no one was completely sure. (Or if they were, they weren’t
telling the white folks.) A National Historic Landmark
since 1970, the wheel is revered by tribes such as the
Crow, Northern Arapaho, Eastern Shoshone, and Northern
Cheyenne.
For years, the Forest Service treated the site with
something other than reverence, however, and conflict
erupted when the feds proposed building a visitors’
complex and observation tower. Native Americans protested
such commercialization and charged that crowds and endless
streams of vehicles would disturb the spirits living
there and profane the holy place. In 1996, after much
rancor and mistrust, the seven interested parties—local
groups and state and federal government agencies—completed
a historic preservation plan that seems to be working.
Development plans were scrapped, and visitors must park
below the peak and walk one and one-half miles to reach
it; the Forest Service closes the site to visitors when
Native Americans wish to use it for religious purposes.
The afternoon I visited, clouds were gathering and
the relentless wind howled and moaned. There were never
more than five of us at the wheel at one time, and everyone
maintained a respectful silence. It’s a powerful
place; I had no trouble believing that spirits and visions
held sway there. Modern Native American tribes have
been worshiping at the wheel for centuries and I thought
it only right that they should have first use of it,
but I was thankful that they did not have exclusive
rights to it. Any person who believed in and prayed
to the Creator would feel His hand at work in that place.
Only a fool goes to God’s house and is surprised
to encounter God.
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Mine, Yours, Or Ours
The question of who should have access to such holy
places, though, is hotly debated at sites throughout
the country (and, needless to say, the world). At Bear
Butte in South Dakota, the state and Native Americans
are wrangling over access; Oglala Lakota elder Oliver
Red Cloud, for one, has been quoted as saying that whites
should be prohibited from using the butte altogether.
It’s uncompromising stances like that that scare
a white woman I talked to in the Bighorns. She and her
husband were born at the foot of the mountains and have
spent their lives there; they remember visiting the
wheel before it was fenced off to protect it from souvenir-hunting
numbskulls. She feared that someday the tables might
be turned: “I hope that it never comes to the
point that they actually get our area, ‘cause
it’s our area, too,” she said. “It’s
absolutely our area too. And they can’t take that
away from us, whether they think it’s theirs or
not. . . . We have to live in peace with those people.”
At the Devil’s Tower, a towering volcanic plug
that remained standing when the volcano itself eroded
away, the tension is acute. The fluted sides of this
massive formation are an irresistible challenge to serious
rock climbers, and climbing teams always seem to be
crawling all over it; many Native Americans consider
that a sacrilegious wounding of the mountain. I stopped
briefly at the visitors’ center at the tower’s
base, but was satisfied only when I found that an unmarked
side road led to a lovely little trail with superb views
of the tower. Native offerings could be seen here and
there, and the wind whispered in the grasses. I felt
like I belonged.
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Hospitality, Black Hills Style
Then I came to the Black Hills, which the Sioux revered
as their spiritual center and I looked to for the strength
to face the endless flatland of the Great Plains. I
was headed for that rarest of all rarities: uncontested
territory in holy hills. Although Julie
and Dave Snyder were strangers to me, they were
making me welcome at the suggestion of a mutual friend
whose recommendation was good enough for all of us.
I knew I would like them and their isolated 200-acre
ranch; the Henry David Thoreau quote on one fieldstone
gate pillar just confirmed it.
I hadn’t realized, though, exactly how generous
their invitation was until I arrived and saw the construction.
They were in the midst of a home-expansion project that
was driving Julie crazy and a longtime friend was already
visiting, so I was one more wrinkle in the fabric of
their lives; they still seemed glad to see me. The ranch
was beautifully situated in the spruce/pine/aspen-clad
hills and six llamas roamed the rich, green pasture;
Dave joked that they didn’t do much other than
serve as pasture furniture.
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Santa
On a Bicycle
Russ Viermann, Julie and Dave’s
81-year-old friend from St. Louis, had come to deconstruct
and relocate the gorgeous brick fireplace he built a
few years ago; you know a guy’s good-natured if
he’ll not only build you a fireplace but will
build you that fireplace twice. Russ had been a stone
mason and bricklayer for over 50 years and did meticulous,
elegant work. Graced with a full head of pure white
hair, long white whiskers and moustache, and twinkling
eye, he would have made a wonderful Santa (given plenty
of padding). He’d traveled the world and was worth
a chapter in his own right; I hoped to visit him sometime
in St. Louis, to see the fabulous stone fairyland he’d
created—I suspected that the word “house”
didn’t do it justice—and hear more about
his life and times. He was a first-class storyteller.
Julie, Dave, and Russ were bicycling enthusiasts, and
Russ had come to do more than rebuild the fireplace:
It would be the sixth year that the three of them did
the annual three-day ride of the 110-mile George S.
Mickelson Trail. Dave had been deeply involved in the
struggle to convert the abandoned Deadwood-to-Edgemont
Burlington Northern rail line to a bike trail, and the
three of them had ridden together every year since the
trail opened. It was a tradition, as was Russ’
“oldest rider” honor.
(Last year, the 9/11 attacks that preceded the ride
by days had left them in doubt as to whether or not
the show should go on; in the end, Dave wrote a concise,
moving statement dedicating the ride to healing and
contemplation. The grounded Russ went through a comic
series of adventures to get to the Black Hills in time
for the ride. Against all odds, he not only made it,
but was waiting for them at the first day’s lunch
stop; Dave teased him about having to make up that section
of trail this year.
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It’s
All Downhill
I had warned them that I wasn’t even close to
being in their league, but Dave practically begged me
to try out the trail; he promised that (1) the scenery
on the Dumont-to-Mystic stretch was dazzling and (2)
it was all downhill, so I happily acquiesced. He was,
of course, right on both counts, and I coasted for much
of those 18 miles and had a ball. Friends Mike and Eric
joined us, and we were a happy little band.
Other friend Dick picked us up at the Mystic trailhead
and took us to the Moonshine Gulch Saloon in Rochford,
where I met proprietor Betsy Harn. Betsy
and I hit it off and talked about a bit of everything.
She told me that tourists manage to find her tiny settlement:
“The people from Europe come here and say. . .
. We have the commercialism at home. We find the smallest
dot on the map and go there to see the real America.”
We also found that we shared a fondness for chickens
and a distaste for mucking out chickenhouses. “I
don’t care if I live to be 129 years old, I will
never forget [that] smell,” she said. “They
all smell the same.”
Betsy asked me, “Do you ever feel like a minority
of one?” “All the time,” I laughed.
A minority of one, and a part of Walt Whitman’s
body electric; in true Pisces fashion, I am two fish
perpetually swimming in opposite directions. Soon I
will be one small speck on the prairie.
Stay tuned for next week’s installment. . .
.
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