Impressions of Beauty and Darkness

Welcome to my moon.


The Bad Lands in all its glory.




Bob enjoys the view from our camp site. The roof over the picnic table is a wind break.



The bluebird of happiness?


I have no idea who this guy is but man!!! could he sing!!



Volcanic ash turned to rock.


Moonscape right here on earth.


Mommy turkeys and their broods hanging out in the park.



treacherous footing for climbers.


a local stops by to say hi.


The back door view to go with our morning coffee.



The sun sets on another day, a full moon to light our evening.


Grasses and hills at dusk.


7/24/10 6 am local

As I sit here writing this I am looking out at a pink and white moonscape, listening to birds whose names I do not know singing in the trees and while flying through the air. Ronda and Julie: this place reminds me of you. I know you would both love to be here watching the birds yourself and listening to their music. Jagged peaks of rock that were formed millions of years ago by volcanoes, the ash turning to clay and finally to the flint-like substance I see before me. The dew is heavy on the grass and I imagine how thirst-quenching it must be for the rabbits and small game to gnaw on the sweet, refreshing dew while having their morning breakfast of oat and buffalo grass. The children in the next camp site are still in bed, it is too early for them to be awake and making noise. The peacefulness of this morning is incomparable to anything I have experienced thus far.
I sit here and imagine what it must have been like for those long ago people to begin their daily routine; taking sustenance from food that they worked so hard to hunt and gather while I have the luxury of turning on the propane gas and frying up our bacon and eggs. I have real coffee, toast with chokecherry jam, and a sense of thankfulness that I can enjoy both the ancientness of the landscape with the modernity of a fairly quick breakfast. It is a dichotomy of thought and feeling that has never quite hit me so forcefully in all the days we have been in Indian country.
“Back country” camping is allowed here. You must go no further than a half mile off the trail and you are not allowed to have fires due to the danger of setting the whole place ablaze. If you need to “eliminate” you are asked to do it in a hole you dig; six inches deep at least and please take the toilet paper with you when you go. I admire people who can camp so primitively, I admit I am a creature of comfort who would balk at carrying my own fecal matter in a bag until I can properly dispose of it. I get the concept; leave no trace. But I am horribly spoiled and happy that I have running water on board with which to take care of my daily ablutions. As the back-country campers do I have abandoned my flip flops in exchange for good solid shoes that cover my entire feet in order not to tempt fate. One bite of the rattle snake’s fangs and the vacation is over.
The air is chilly after so many days of heat. The temperature is about 65 degrees; I am wearing sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt. I am sure if I moved to the sunnier part of the campground I would warm quickly but I am enjoying the anonymity of sitting in the shade of the camper too much to move; for now I accept the compromise of being cold in order to keep this wonderful peaceful feeling.
As we came into the park yesterday we could see the huge plains of grass in between the breaks in the rock; it is not hard to imagine the thundering herds of buffalo and the many thousands of tipis that must have once inhabited this area. I read that the buffalo and Indians were so closely tied together that when the soldiers needed to find the Indians they just looked for the buffalo instead. How sad that now a glimpse of a buffalo is such a treat when once they were as plentiful as the stars in the sky. I will be sorry to leave this place and I hope that my friends can find a way to come here and experience what I am feeling at this moment. It is precious to me.

Bob saw a sign that showed where some scenes from “Thunder Heart were filmed.

We’re on our way to Wounded Knee. It’s hard leaving the Badlands when it’s so pretty but I can’t stay here forever. Like anything else it would become so routine I wouldn’t even see it any more I’m sure. After Wounded Knee we’ll be going to the SAC (Strategic Air Command) museum in Nebraska. Bob and his family lived on several SAC bases when he was young due to his father’s stint in the Air Force. Bob wants to see what all the fuss was about now that he’s an adult. We haven’t made any plans for anything after that. The trip is winding down, I can feel it. It seems like we’ve been gone for a lifetime and yet it seems like we’ve been gone for just a few days.

We just entered the Pine Ridge Reservation of the Oglala Lakota people. You can still see the rock formations of the Badlands to the north but to the south it’s prairie/grasslands. The road is not as well kept as the county and state roads but passable nonetheless. The main farms here seem to be hay and beef. One family has the cows running around in their front yard. I thought dodging dog shit was a pain in the ass, I hate to think what cow chips would do to a good pair of shoes. More to come when I can tell you about Wounded Knee.

2:00 pm

I will be the first to admit that I have never been one to obsess over the plight of the Indian. Yes, their story is as much a part of American history as the pioneers or the fur traders or even the Revolutionary War that began this country. When we drove through our first reservation; the Crow, I looked around and thought a little about the culture and history of the Indian nations but looking back I can’t honestly say I was totally moved, probably merely curious, much as I would be about any culture different from my own. When we went through the Cheyenne Reservation I thought about the stories I had heard of their strength and the fights they fought bravely but it still didn’t register completely with me the impact on our history all that happened out here in the West. Going through the battlefield at little big Horn I began to feel heartbroken at the waste of it all. As a woman who was raised in a minority culture, if you will, I understand the anger and the puzzlement regarding the more dominant culture. I still to this day can’t figure out why Hearing people have such a hard on against being Deaf. I began to feel the same thing on behalf of the Indian nations when we were at Little Big Horn. Little Big Horn is a place that has tons of money poured into it. The monuments are marble and expensive. The tourist/ visitor center has a movie theatre that tells all about the battle that occurred there, about the culture of the tribes that lived there, and they have a thriving tour business linked to the local college.

Compared to all that I have seen to this point Wounded Knee is the knife in my heart. There is a single building there on the hill, next to the cemetery full of the Indian dead. We actually missed it the first time and drove right past it. We had to turn around in the post office parking lot and go back. The Wounded Knee Massacre museum building is decrepit by any measurement, the inside needing the murals repainted, the outside needing new stucco and paint. There is a lone Lakota man, a young person sitting there beading his horse hair and laying the finished products on the table in front of him in the hopes that people coming to gawk will buy his wares. There is a box asking for donations to keep the museum alive for just a little longer. Across the road are shade shelters built from sticks and covered with branches, or in one case, made from steel pipes and a white tarp. Beneath the tarp is an older Lakota man, speaking in heavily accented English; telling us the history of Wounded Knee from his people’s perspective and how they look forward to the day that they can be free of the Federal Government again. The old man was dark, with a tear drop tattooed beneath his left eye, more than likely a souvenir from the penal system, a man who was soft-spoken yet carried a voice full of conviction that his people had been robbed of all the wealth they had and he was happy to teach me so. He spoke of the gold, buffalo, grain and land. There are developers moving in; wanting to build ski resorts and condos. Part of me sees the benefit of having these things; jobs and tax dollars which allow these people to get out of the abject poverty from which they obviously suffer. There was a young Lakota girl with him, her 4 month old baby girl kicking and smiling in her arms and I thought about how some asshole from a whole other planet of life experience was going to make money, tons of it, off of these people’s land while the baby girl would grow up on fry bread and Oprah, getting fat and making babies she couldn’t afford to provide for because sex is the only thing that doesn’t cost a dime in the short run.

We went to the top of the hill to the cemetery. It’s very small and still being used by the locals. The most recent date of death I saw was 2006. Bob told me to leave a cigarette as an offering as is the custom (tobacco or food is considered a sign of respect) and I felt bad because for once I had left my smokes in the car at the bottom of the hill. The graves had food, flowers, stones, and vases on them, left from previous visitors or family members. As we walked down the hill two white kids came running up, laughing and carrying on, and I found myself getting angry that they would act as if nothing happened here, as if this were just another day in the park and no one had died here. We continued on down the hill and on the wind I heard pipes playing. I paused to turn and look; somehow without my noticing it, a young Indian woman had walked into the cemetery and began playing a mournful tune on the pipe. The rowdy kids immediately quieted, and Bob and I paused to listen. It was at that moment that I felt the full and crushing grief for these people that I am trying to convey in this writing. I looked to Bob and he was standing there, watching silently with his hat in his hand, obviously as touched by this scene as I was. I will never forget this day, out of all of the days we have been on the road. This has been a most powerful day.





The BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) Highway.




The "Massacre" word was finally permitted to be put over the word "battle". How sad that permission must be sought to tell the truth. But the victors write history, don't they?


The Museum; a testament to how money goes where the egos do when it comes to politics. The government would just as soon this place go away so they don't give it a dime.


The Oglala Lakota man who watches the museum. Not much for giving out info but patient about being there. He makes bead work jewelry and leather miniature drums for the few tourists who can find the place.


The only place we've been that I felt it would be wrong to take a rock.