Lovebus

by John Mernick Sr.

Books Places & Travel

Season 1

Chapter 9: Breakfast on the Mississippi

Chapter 9: Breakfast on the Mississippi I woke up a few minutes after sunrise. Little Josh had gotten up nice and early, making sure that his mother paid heavily for her night out drinking. She held her head as if it were a drippy eggshell. “Wake up mom, we’re crossing the Mississippi River!” Mother Michelle tried to rise from her bed to see the water, but the yolk was dripping off the shell. She lowered her broken head with care; she was down for the count. Thanks to British Sue’s premature evacuation from the Blues club, our eggs were intact. I looked down the length of my body when someone touched my foot. English Tessa had one leg hanging off the bunk and she slipped down onto the back platform out of sight. I watched British Sue lying there breathing softly, cuddled up with her head on my shoulder and her hand against my cheek. She opened her eyes and caught me looking. I brushed her hair from her brow with two fingers and kissed her softly on the forehead. She closed her eyes to go back to sleep and I left her with a sigh. I felt surprisingly well-rested, so I went up to sit on the buddy seat next to Driver Brian. We had traveled across the entire state of Wisconsin in the middle of the night. Claiming to be “Experienced in ‘matters of the bladder,’” the big blond driver pulled off I-90, near La Crescent Minnesota. “Hangovers prefer porcelain,” he taught me. Many of the passengers were suffering from the Chicago Blues, and the Minnesota Welcome Center had running water and flushable toilets. It was encouraging the way he was always trying to help me learn how to be a good Green Tortoise Driver, even though I knew the chances of that happening were slim to none. Deutsche Mark and I met up in the men’s room in front of the mirror while brushing our teeth. He addressed me with a good-natured wink and a foamy smile. He stopped brushing to say, “I’m so psyched. Chris just told me that we’re going to Wounded Knee.” He continued brushing. “What’s Wounded Knee?” I asked after I spit. The Dutchman stopped brushing abruptly and stared at me in the glass. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Wounded Knee,” he marveled. “I thought everyone knew about Wounded Knee.” He had an incredulous look on his face. “It’s where the US troops massacred the Indians.” He went on with a tone, trying to spark my memory. “One-hundred-fifty women and children were murdered with Gatling guns and cannon fire. They were torn to shreds with fifty caliber bullets.” “I remember now,” I said in astonishment. “That’s in the Badlands, right?” “Right!” he confirmed. “That’s how Crazy Horse got famous,” I postulated. “So, you do know about it,” he rejoiced. He took a swig of water, gargled and spit. “Chris gave me this cool book to read.” “Black Elk Speaks,” I broke in, finishing his thought. “Yes!” he confirmed. “You know it?” “Not really,” I confessed. “Chris was telling me about it the other day.” Deutsche Mark spoke with enthusiasm. “It tells the story of the fall of the Red Man from the eyes of one of the holy people. Pretty cool stuff. You should read it, man.” “I’ll take it after you,” I suggested. “Absolutely,” he enthused. My interest was piqued. “My cousin wrote a children’s book about Crazy Horse,” I told him. “It’s the story of the sculptor, the guy who is carving the mountain into the giant sculpture of Crazy Horse. The sculpture won’t be finished in our lifetimes, or our children’s lifetimes. It’s already the largest sculpture in human history.” “Dude! We’re going there on this trip. I’m so psyched we get to see it.”

Chapter 10: Party Across the Great Plains

Chapter 10: Party Across the Great Plains When I woke up, we were in the parking lot of a liquor store somewhere in the middle of the Great Plains. Other than the grocery store across the street, there really wasn’t anything else around for miles. Driver Chris stood up, holding the safety bar by the door with one knee on the buddy seat. “Listen up guys. We are in Albert Lea, Minnesota. We’re stopping here for one hour to stock up on supplies. There’s a grocery store across the street where we’ll be doing a little food shopping. They have a snack bar, but don’t eat too much because we’ll be stopping for dinner in a couple hours at a gorgeous lake.” He waited for some chatter to subside. “The lake is super beautiful. So, you’ll have a chance to swim there. After dinner we’ll be driving through the night to Badlands National Park in South Dakota. Tomorrow night we will be camping on an Indian reservation. Alcohol is hard to find in Indian country. The Indians do not allow liquor stores on the reservation, so we will be buying supplies for the party here. This will be our last chance to stock up on alcohol for the next few days, so everybody might want to contribute. Chicken Jim will be collecting money and taking orders, although you are welcome to do your own shopping if you prefer.” There was more chatter before he continued. “The eastbound Green Tortoise cross country bus will be meeting us in the Badlands tomorrow night for a camp-out party. It’s a Tortoise tradition to compete to see which bus has the most fun. Ever since I first teamed up with Brian our bus has won every time, so I’d like to keep our winning streak alive.” “What do we win?” Little Josh cried out. Driver Chris contemplated this over the din. “You get to have a wonderful time,” he answered. “I know you guys won’t let me down, but I want to encourage you to be as wild and crazy as you can possibly be, so we’re guaranteed to win. So, get psyched and get whatever you need to show the other bus what it means to have a good time.” The passengers cheered with a bunch of yips and yahoos. Berndt Toast made an Indian war whoop by patting his mouth repeatedly. Judging from how many of the Green Tortoise passengers made the same sound, people all over the world must have made Native American war whoops as children. We were simply excited to be heading into Native American country that’s all. Our white-man war whoops were performed in ignorance for sure, but not with any intentional disrespect or malice toward Native Americans. The popularization of this patting of the mouth phenomenon is a product of television, historical fear mongering and the inability of most white people to make ululating mouth sounds. It should come as no surprise that Native American warriors never made such sounds in battle. Rather, this was our failed attempt at mimicking the ululating sound rare Native American women make in celebration when warriors return from battle. Our excitement for Native American culture would culminate in a celebration on sacred land in the days to come. A small rectangle of bright green manicured grass graced the otherwise featureless parking lot just outside the bus door. This seemed completely out of place amidst the fallow fields of Minnesota. The sprinklers at the liquor store had recently run, leaving the long blades of grass ashimmer with dew. The Irish girls ran out first, followed closely by Fräulein Vera. Their squeals of joy made obvious the pleasurable feeling of hot bare feet on wet grass. All the passengers piled off the bus in similar fashion. There was a strip mall across the street with a supermarket. Several people were craving meat, so they planned to find food together. Peruvian Ursula asked Driver Chris, “Is there any where around here to buy a bathing suit?”

Chapter 11: Badlands National Park

Chapter 11: Badlands National Park In the darkness before dawn, the Green Tortoise Adventure Bus crawled to a halt along the curb of a dark empty parking lot in Badlands National Park. With the last breath of the engine came a profound silence. I arose from the back platform where British Sue and I had been sleeping. I gingerly tiptoed over the people on the front platform. Driver Brian was asleep with his arms resting on the steering wheel. Jewels had fallen asleep on the Buddy Seat leaning against his shoulder. He stirred briefly as I cranked the noisy swing-arm to open the door. I embraced the cool night. The atmosphere of this strange new world stood perfectly still. Neither cricket chirps nor cicada songs desecrated this altar of silence. It was an alien environment entirely devoid of sound, like the ticking hands of time had paused mid stroke. I felt like I had fallen into the space between the notes on the sheet music of natural history, listening instead to a symphony of silence in the vast amphitheater of vapid space. No light of human populations polluted the perfect pitch. No headlights haunted the horizon, no streetlights lit the landscape, no bulbs burned on buildings, no towns twinkled in tungsten, there was no synthetic light anywhere. I felt alone in the universe, like I was bearing witness to the primordial Earth at the dawn of time before the first random event started evolution. The stars lit up the sky like the glow of a celestial city that stretched from horizon to horizon. With wide-eyed wonder, I followed the path of the Milky Way across the moonless night. The brilliant starlight illuminated a menagerie of giant white formations, peaking a hundred feet above me against a silhouette of stars. A short walk away at the edge of the parking lot, a metal handrail blocked the edge of a huge canyon of similar formations, stretching out below like a kingdom of white sandcastles. There was so much light from the stars, that I easily found my way to a clump of desert bushes. My imagination explored the parapets one castle at a time. The mountain shaped fortresses in this strange old world appeared soft at the edges as if formed by a child’s playful finger. I happily imagined myself on a foreign planet and that the Green Tortoise bus was my moon buggy. I returned to the comfort of my sleeping bag and snuggled up next to British Sue. In my dreams I ascended towers of sand in an alien world. A vision softly-creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping. On a lonely hilltop I stood face to face with my child-self. I had been trying desperately to recapture my youth and here I was face to face with a vision of my younger self. A combination of abuse and growing up too quickly had left me feeling empty inside. I felt disconnected from who I knew myself to be when I was young. In the yawning hours of my gentle child’s dream, everything seemed clear in the light of this astral vision. As the sun began to rise, I lingered in bed, relaxing. I felt young and not at fault. I knew my eyes would open with a new world for me to explore. I thought, the sun will rise tomorrow, but I might not. I got up slowly as not to wake British Sue. I walked outside into the dawn and let the landscape flow through me. The long angles of sunlight I witnessed that morning had the power to change my life and inspire me forever. The vast array of delicately colored layers that had built up over the eons, layer upon layer, color on top of color, were waking up from their slumber of shadowy night. The rays of sunlight illuminated the pinkish reds, purples, browns, yellows, oranges, tans, and grays like the layers of a geological layer cake. I was waking up too. I imagined myself returning to this place throughout my life. How could I not.

Chapter 12: Scenic, South Dakota; Population:12

Chapter 12: Scenic, South Dakota; Population:12 The passengers on the front platform were sitting with their heads close to the open windows trying to get some relief from the heat. Guitar Johnny strummed and sang softly, putting in the least amount of effort possible. After a while he started taking requests and reluctantly increased both his volume and effort. He had to wipe the beads of sweat off his nose to keep his guitar dry. British Sue reached her arm out the window and rested it against the dark green skin of the Tortoise. “Ouch!” she winced. “The bloody thing’s as hot as a tea keddy!” Her English friend took her by the hand and inspected the red mark on her forearm. “Let’s get some cream for that,” she recommended. I took a seat next to Mountain Girl at the dinette. She was playing rummy with Big Dave using the big man’s deck of naked lady playing cards. Mountain Girl took a break from the game to recoat her lips with her bright red lipstick. She looked simply delightful in the afternoon light. She certainly did not need makeup. She must have known I was looking because out of nowhere she said, “Everyone’s been complaining about dry lips, but mine are perfect, eh.” She asked me, “Are your lips chapped?” “Yes,” I told her nodding. “It’s awful. I’ve been using Chapstick, but it’s not getting any better.” She jokingly offered me her lipstick and said, “This stuff works wonders, eh.” I declined with a smile and a wave of my hand. Across from her Little Josh hung his head out the window panting like a dog with his tongue out. Mountain Girl warned him, “That hot wind just gonna make your lips worse. Then you’ll be miserable, eh. Now, get your head in here, please.” Josh yelled into the wind. “It’s fun!” “Trust me, eh. If you keep your head out there long enough, you’ll wish you hadn’t,” advised the Canadian. Having realized it was useless, under her breath she said, “Don’t blame me, eh.” To rub her nose in it and make things worse, the boy knelt on the seat so he could get his shoulders through the window and stuck half his body out. Little Josh was often disrespectful to his mother and he frequently disregarded her advice, so many of the passengers tried to help her reel him in. After she tried once, it was understandable that Mountain Girl could not be bothered to keep trying. She turned in her seat so that her legs were in the aisle and whistled a tune. Ten minutes later, Little Josh removed his head from the window and sat back in his seat looking distraught. I nudged Mountain Girl and motioned toward the boy so she would look. “Is something wrong?” she asked the boy with concern. He was holding his hands over his face, “Nothing’s wrong.” He removed his hands and winced in pain as he touched his lips with his fingers. His lips looked seriously chapped and his cheeks were bright red. “How are your lips, eh?” the Canadian asked. “My lips hurt,” he said quietly. “How could they get chapped so fast?” “It appears that you-know-who was right,” I commented. He sneered and touched his lips again and squeaked in pain. Like the evil Nurse Ratched in the Cuckoo’s Nest, Mountain Girl offered help to the wounded boy. “I have something that will help you moisturize your lips, eh. If you want to try it, eh?” “Yes please.” “Here, let me put it on for you. I’ll be gentle, eh.” “Sure,” he said. When I saw her pull the red lipstick out of her pocket I gasped, breathing in quickly through my nose. I closed my eyes and held my breath for a second.

Chapter 13: Cuny Cafe

Chapter 13: Cuny Cafe Part of the magic and intensity of the Green Tortoise adventure travel experience in the Badlands involves eating dinner prepared by a pair of gregarious Lakota Sioux women at a place called Cuny Cafe. The cafe building doubles as their home on land that bears their family name. Cuny Table is located near Buffalo Gap on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. After eating dinner, the Green Tortoise is permitted to camp on this gorgeous piece of private land under special agreement with the Cuny family. The Green Tortoise has enjoyed a decades-long friendship with the Cuny family fostered by the owner of the Green Tortoise, Gardner Kent since 1972. From Scenic we drove south and then west toward Buffalo Gap into the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. On the vast treeless wilderness south of Badlands National Park, a small group of farm buildings sits at the end of a long dirt driveway. The word “CAFE” was painted in big white letters on the side of a simple square house, painted red with white trim. Two picnic tables sat under a shingled awning jutting out from the building, providing shelter from the sun. A doublewide trailer was attached to one end of the building. A stockade fence corralled the area between the house and a matching red barn. A pair of junk cars and some dilapidated farm equipment sat baking in the sun. Two wooden outhouses, one red and one blue, stood off to the side of the driveway some fifty feet from the house. Two Indian children were running around in the dirt parking lot. Driver Chris slowed the bus down to a crawl as he pulled over to park on the side of the driveway. The white screen door on the side of the house opened with a bang. A grandmother Indian emerged, wearing a checkered apron, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. The two Indian children ran to her sides as she walked happily toward the bus. Driver Chris pushed the air brake button and opened the door to greet her. “Hello, Mrs. Cuny,” he said smiling. She was clearly a dignified lady. “Hello Chris,” she said as she grabbed the handrail and pulled herself up the first step of the bus into the stairwell. “You don’t need to be calling me Mrs. Cuny young man. Just because you haven’t been around for a while doesn’t mean you’re not part of the family.” She struggled up another step and waved to everyone inside. Where she lacked in fine motor skill, she more than made up for in spirit and determination. “Where have you been?” she questioned. “It’s been months since you came through.” “This is my first trip north this season.” He nodded. “I see you’re still as sharp as ever Nellie. How’ve you been?” “I’m trying to take it all in stride,” she said. “How’s this old bus holding up?” she asked gregariously. “Four million miles and going strong,” Driver Chris spoke the legend. “That’s how I feel myself some days,” she said with a smile. “Thanks for letting us know it’s a smaller group than normal. I just need a count of vegetarians.” “Only six vegetarians,” he told her. “Only six,” she questioned. “It’s such a small group,” she remarked. “I’ve got some sad news,” he told her to the side. “My brother is in the hospital with a severe head injury.” “My heart goes out to you,” she told him. “I’m sure Freida will say the same.” “I’ll tell you more later inside. I would like to use your phone to make a collect call home if you would be so kind,” he requested. “You’re welcome to it,” she told him. “Some of your friends passed through last week, but they didn’t stop for dinner,” she informed him. “Kevin and David, if I remember right.” “Quick and Palmore,” he confirmed the other driver’s identities. “They probably forgot to call.” “No worries,” she said. “We weren’t put out none. We just do not want to lose your business. We depend on it.”

Chapter 14: Sheep Mountain Table

Chapter 14: Sheep Mountain Table The moment I arrived at Sheep Mountain Table I was overcome by a profound sense of awe. Dozens of passengers from both buses staggered with me to the edge of the cliff overlooking the entirety of Badlands National Park. The light-colored sandstone reflected the sunlight, making it a very bright place even at twilight. Off to the east a group of surrealistically shaped sandstone pinnacles and peaks were glowing in the orange-tinted light of the summer evening. With the sun close to the horizon, all the colors were morphing, and the shadows were growing. The sky was a dome of deep blue that did not fade until the edges of the world, making the visibility seem endless. A creeping miasma of haze floated above the canyon floor where herds of Buffalo mottled fields of green grass. Beyond the fields a vast patchwork of jagged sawtooth sandstone formations stretched out to the north east for over thirty miles. I turned around to get a better sense of our position on top of the grassy plateau. The fields of forever blanketed the earth as far as the eye could see in a landscape barren of trees. Over the edge of the cliff lay our own private canyon, featuring a menagerie of bright gray and sand-colored formations. The vertical walls were etched like otherworldly sculptures while the milder slopes were as smooth as sandcastles. Deutsche Mark and Guitar Johnny stood by my side taking-in the majestic view in solemn reverence. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Jewels skipping toward us in a flowing sundress that caught the light. She greeted the three of us with a joyous smile. “A vision of l... l... loveliness,” remarked Guitar Johnny. Jewels put her arm around him. “This place is so wonderful, Johnny. Don’t you feel it? I feel so connected to the earth, this land and everything around us.” “W... w... w... well, I’m feeling something, but I don’t know fuck all about that.” Yülia came running up behind us and startled Guitar Johnny with her hand on his back. “Wunderbar! Wunderbar!” She put her arm around him on the opposite side of Jewels next to Deutsche Mark. “I’m a bit n... n... nervous about falling off the edge of this b... b... bloody cliff.” We all laughed a little as we looked over the edge into the canyon. It was quite a drop. I gave Guitar Johnny a knowing look. “I feel so connected here,” Jewels continued. “My spirit feels so free.” “This one view is worth the whole trip,” Deutsche Mark commented. “Wunderbar! Wunderbar!” exclaimed Yülia. Guitar Johnny rolled a cigarette in the pouch of tobacco in his waist-pack. Before he finished Deutsche Mark said, “The Indians smoke tobacco in ceremonies. It seems appropriate here.” He watched the Englishman lick the paper and motioned with his head. Guitar Johnny passed him the cigarette without hesitation and started rolling another. “I’ll take one too, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Bloody hell! Anyone else?” he asked snidely. The girls both declined. “Thanks, man,” I said. It was too windy to light cigarettes even with a cupped hand, so Guitar Johnny showed us a trick where he put his head inside his shirt to light the first one and we jump started the others. While we stood there unceremoniously smoking our cigarettes, Jewels told Yülia, “I’m going to smoke weed later if you want to try it.” “I’d love to try it,” the German girl answered cutely. “I smoked hash once before when I was young,” she revealed, “but I never tried smoking the flowers.” We all laughed. “Is that what you call it in Germany?” I asked with a smile. “No,” she said innocently. “We call it grass, but grass is the flowers, right?”

Chapter 15: American Prayer

Chapter 15: American Prayer [Whistle of wind, faint drums and Indians chanting.] Nature called me awake in the darkness before dawn on Sheep Mountain Table in the Badlands of South Dakota. I wiggled my way out of my sleeping bag and rose to my feet. I stretched my spine and took a deep breath. The cool moist air startled me. I turned and surveyed the hillside. A veil of fog was moving over the land, billowing down from above my head, covering the downslope of the plateau. I breathed again with a rush of appreciation for the forces of nature. I walked barefooted past the prone bodies of my friends, around the smoldering embers of the campfire, through the gap between the two Tortoise buses, to the edge of the highest cliff in the Badlands. Carried by a steady wind curling up the lip of the wide plateau, a fog bank rolled up out of the canyon like a vertical wave until it broke far above my head in the prevailing wind. As if falling into a dream, I had stepped into a pocket of clear-air below a twenty-foot-high wall of windborne fog. The tumultuous force of moisture flowing up out of the canyon churned as it crashed in the upper reaches, spreading out above Sheep Mountain Table like frothy water cast upon a beach. The fog settled to the ground ten yards from the edge of the cliff where it thinned out down the slope of the hill like water sinking into sand as it retreated into the sea. I strode effortlessly alongside the mystical wall of fog in rapt amazement, following the lip of the cliff toward the East. As I walked in the pocket of clear air, I felt like a surfer riding in the tube of a wave. I peeled off a dozen yards away and stood to make water with my back to the wall of fog. I felt a presence in my chest. Then I looked up, I got the unsettling feeling that I was not alone. I peered into the fog. Someone or something was out there. I could feel it. I was inexplicably drawn forward without fear to the edge of the clear air where the fog started falling back to the ground. I recognized the shape of a Buffalo partially obscured in the broiling mist. It was standing perfectly still on the hillside facing the cliff farther down along the edge of the canyon. The lone Buffalo stood on the slightly downward slope of Cuny Table with hooves planted in the ancestral earth. I felt compelled to step closer through the zephyr of mist. The fog thinned as I drew near, revealing the broad head and silhouette of a female Buffalo, identical and no less formidable than a full-sized male. She faced into the wind breathing billowing clouds of breath from her nostrils. Her eyes were open, but she did not so much as blink. The Buffalo appeared to be sleeping with her eyes open. It was still dark in the distance, but I had crossed the veil into a brighter world where celestial light penetrated the atmosphere, as if a new sunrise had breached the horizon of the stratosphere. The other eye had gone partially out of view with the proximity to the Buffalo’s massive head, still some twenty feet off. “Oh my God!” I spoke out-loud, doubting my own sight. “No way!” Beyond the Buffalo at the center of my vision, another Buffalo stood shrouded in the veil of mist. I fell forward a few more steps, letting my eyes adjust in the distance. The deeper into the fog I walked, the more shapes I could see obscured in the light haze on the hillside below. Spaced at twenty-foot intervals, a pattern of massive Buffalo stood facing North into the wind, spread out across the entire plateau down the slope of Sheep Mountain Table. Visibility was better along the ground farther downhill, partially obscuring Buffalo a hundred strong. All remained motionless, except for the billowing plumes of visible breath wafting in the wind. Somehow, I understood there to be a great herd standing out there in the fog beyond the boundary of my perception.

Chapter 16: Champagne for Breakfast

Chapter 16: Champagne for Breakfast A whiff of campfire smoke awakened me from my astral slumber high atop Sheep Mountain Table, in the Badlands of South Dakota. I lay awake for several minutes, alone on the communal mattresses encircling the smoldering bonfire. The morning air was cool and refreshing. The sun had already risen above the horizon, so I got out of my sleeping bag to avoid overheating. I lay there for a while watching and listening to the sounds of Green Tortoise camp. Passengers were moving about in all directions, busy with breakfast tasks, packing gear, seeking privacy with shovels, loading mattresses on the bus, sipping Cowboy Coffee, collecting trash, and conversing happily. The orange juice looked especially appealing. I heard Little Josh yell, “I got it!” He was playing Frisbee along the cliff with a couple of passengers from the other bus. The other players were playing keep away from him because he sucked at throwing. He kept running from side to side trying to catch the Frisbee, shouting, and pushing the other players as they snatched it away from him. I stood up, stretched my arms over my head, and took a deep breath. Only a few passengers remained on the massive circle of mattresses surrounding the smoldering bonfire. Juliano was still in bed but he was not sleeping. To my dismay, he was making love with one of the girls from the other bus in plain sight of more than fifty people. The South American stud was really going at it, grunting, and huffing like a snorting bull pawing the earth. One of the other girls Juliano had been entertaining the night before lay beside them less than three feet away, resting on a bent elbow, watching them intently. I looked around to see who else might be watching. The Irish girls, Fräulein Vera, and Flip-flop were staring right at them, casually sipping tea while they enjoyed the show. Judging from the telltale strings dangling over the rims of their mugs, they were drinking Ireland’s finest. Their relaxed postures and jovial conversation made it clear that the shock had already worn off on them. Apparently, Juliano and present company had been going at it for quite some time. An errant throw floated the Frisbee into the camp kitchen where it skipped across the food table on which people were cutting fruit salad with sharp knives. There was a burst of laughter, but no one seemed to mind. Little Josh tore into the crowded kitchen area at top speed, bumping into people and creating a stir. Driver Chris picked up the Frisbee and gave Little Josh an unspoken look. He threw the Frisbee so far that the game moved away. He was aware of the South American’s fireside free show, and he had been watching the boy to make sure he remained unaware of the double backed beast. The girls drinking tea giggled as Mountain Girl walked straight up to them. She picked up a sleeping bag and draped it over them, and shouted, “Get a room!” Juliano lifted his head with his back arched in surprise. The girl beneath him looked horrified. She glanced at Mountain Girl, then her voyeuristic friend, then she pulled Juliano back down on top of her and hid beneath the blanket. The teetotalers held their bellies laughing and Driver Chris guffawed. I stepped off the mattress onto the cool dusty ground close to the still-smoldering embers in the fire pit. I was conscious of the Earth beneath me, as if my bare feet penetrated the soil, rooting me into the land. The fine dust between my toes was like a conduit of heightened awareness. I could sense my place on the earth like I was looking at myself from space. I was standing on the same land where the hooves of Buffalo and the feet of Indians had certainly passed. It was then I recalled my vision. I had seen myself out of the eyes of a Buffalo.

Chapter 17: Mud for Dessert

Chapter 17: Mud for Dessert In a remote corner of Badlands National Park, there is a little swimming hole hidden behind a clump of trees across the street from the White River Visitor Center. The bus passed through a small gate, down a dirt road, and parked in a field beneath two massive oaks. Past the trees, through a row of thick bushes to the left, we could see a shallow and slow-moving river about twenty feet wide. Behind the row of thick bushes to the right, a muddy creek joined with the little river, creating a delta full of grey mud. The mud had collected in the creek bed, covering an area about ten feet wide by forty feet long. It was hot and everyone was excited to swim. When we got to the edge of the mud, no one really knew what to do. As he started to undress, Chicken Jim informed us, “This is the best mud in the whole country, right there. It’s mostly volcanic ash and sediment that erodes out of the Badlands when it rains.” Berndt Toast took a seat on the rock and started removing his prosthetic limb. Little Josh, Mother Michelle, Australian Sheila, and Chicken Jim all wore bathing suits, but everyone else got naked. We all stood sheepishly by the edge of the mud for several minutes and no one had the guts to go in. Our drivers knew just how to break the ice. They both came running through the bushes naked, yelling and yahooing, and they jumped right into the mud, feet first, landing like bombs, throwing handfuls of mud as our group scattered. After testing the depth of the mud in several places, the two drivers found spots they liked and began wiping mud all over their bodies. Driver Brian made ape sounds and painted lines on his face like war paint. Driver Chris dropped into a seated position making a loud squishy sound with his ass. It looked fun. Soon passengers began jumping in, and I followed suit. Out of the bushes we heard another thundering roar. “MOOOO!” To my amazement it was Buffalo Dave. He came thundering like a mad bull out of the bushes bent over at the waist with fingers pointing in the air like horns. “I’m a Buffalo!” he shouted. “MOOOO!” “Look! It’s Buffalo Dave!” I yelled. Passengers darted out of the way to clear a path as he arrived. As the massive man’s body came to a halt at the edge of the mudhole, his feet slipped in the mud sending him careening down the bank of the creek like a Buffalo on water skis. He stayed upright all the way off the lip of the foot-high embankment. His feet kicked out from beneath him as he launched off the wall. Time seemed to suspend itself as we stood there naked watching his giant form land like a hairy bomb in the wettest part of the mud hole. His ass explosively threw mud in every direction for twenty feet. Mud splattered the bystanders like shrapnel, freckling naked forms with flecks of grey. There was a universal cringe and a groan of communal pain. Considering the force of the explosion, the massive man’s ass must have been jam-packed with mud. Silence befell both tribes as we held our collective breath like a parent after hearing a disturbing thud at the bottom of the stairs. Hardly anyone knew about his spinal injury, but it was obvious he was feeble and limited in his ability to walk. A moment later, Maid Marian rushed to his side and urgently asked, “Are you alright?” Driver Chris asked too. “Are you okay, big guy?” The Old-Growth-Hippie checked himself. He wiggled his toes. He straightened his back. “I seem fine,” he intoned. There was a big cheer. “Woohoo!” “Hey Chicken Jim,” Little Josh called out. “We have a new bus name over here. He’s Buffalo Dave!” “Well, that name’s gonna stick,” Buffalo Dave bellowed with laughter. “Ya!” Shouted Fräulein Vera. “You will call him Buffalo Dave.” “Get him!” shouted Yülia. “Get him!” shouted Jewels.

Chapter 18: Wounded Knee

Chapter 18: Wounded Knee

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