BC or bust: October 17-21

We left Vancouver this afternoon after a 5-night stay with Andre’s friend, Danda.  She insisted on treating us to sushi on the night of our arrival, which wasn’t too difficult given that we hadn’t eaten sushi since long before we left LA. The following morning, we went to explore the mountains just north of the city.  The ground, covered in a thick blanket of moss and duff, was moist from the recent rain.  My feet sank deep into the forest floor, rarely actually touching the earth, as I went from one tree to the next looking on dead logs for the oysters I hoped to find.  Although our foraging efforts were unsuccessful, we did enjoy a lovely picnic protected from the rain under the shelter of a huge tree.  What a luxury it is to have forests of this magnitude and age.  Those who support the mass removal of our giant trees from public forests in the name of jobs and money don’t seem to fully understand their value.  Trees are the lungs of our planet.  Small ones do not replace large ones in their capacity to sequester carbon. Beyond that, trees are part of the hydrologic cycle—transpiration, like evaporation, makes rain.  Seattle went 82 days without rain until just over a week ago.  Vancouver had the driest summer in 150 years.  We need rain.  These giant trees house animals and fungus and those little ones simply cannot compete with their elders.  They help to ensure biodiversity, which if you don’t know why you should care about biodiversity, just remind yourself that bees = food.  But, beyond what our forests do to help maintain life as we know it, only those who are fortunate enough to stand amongst the giants can fully understand the satisfaction and comfort their canopy provides.  Happily snacking on the cheese we traded for back in Leavenworth, I was filled with gratitude.  What a gift it is to be cared for by the trees.

Chilled from the rain and cool weather, we returned to Danda’s where I threw together a big pot of vegetable soup and baked a loaf of seeded bread.  Yanis was coming for dinner and I couldn’t wait to meet him! 

Yanis is a picker—not like Troy, the urban picker we met in LA who makes his living selling things others toss in the garbage, but a wild mushroom picker who sells his finds to buyers, middle men if you will.  He spends most of the summer months camped out in the Yukon Territory of northern Canada.  The wild north.  He told stories of people becoming sick from mosquito bites, their faces swelling from the thirsty little blood suckers, and the strategies people developed in hopes of keeping them away.  He swore by olive oil, which makes one or two stick to the skin, buzzing like mad as if to warn others from latching on.  I was skeptical, but I imagine I’d try anything under similar circumstances.  Yanis works hard, like I imagine most pickers do.  He scours the forests for mushrooms, some days harvesting only a few pounds, while having to carry hundreds of pounds for miles on other days.  Since buyers don’t pay much, the big patches are what they’re hoping for.  It’s easy to romanticize the life of a picker.  Working hard for only a few months, traveling on the money earned during rest of the year.  Eating gourmet mushrooms every day.  Camping under the stars in remote places.  But it’s hard work, picking mushrooms.  I know, I’ve been doing it… and my forage voyage is luxury living compared to the conditions in the Yukon… luxury living compared to most any conditions for that matter.

Most of our time in the city was spent doing city things.  The highlights – seeing David Byrne from Talking Heads in concert followed by dancing at the Work Less Party party.  The real highlight, though, was a hike on our last full day in Canada.  Feeling the call of the forest, Andre and I slipped away to hike in the rain.  I wasn’t very hopeful that we’d find mushrooms, but made a wish that the forest would give me a cauliflower mushroom.  I’ve been wanting one of those beauties for a while, but have been making a lot of wishes lately so I knew I was pressing my luck.  First, the oysters, then lion’s mane, lobsters, matsutake, and, most recently, the icicle.  All wished for and delivered—usually that same day.  No joke.  Illusory correlations… or (and) the world is just getting weird.  So after Andre spotted something white at the base of a living tree about an hour into our hike, I knew I better not make any more wishes for a while.  Lucky again.  The forest just keeps on giving… deliciousness.

Apfelstrudel with Daniel: October 16

Daniel has at least three apple trees that are littering his yard with large red balls of sweetness. Today, I learned how to make apfelstrudel, or as we American’s call it, apple strudel.  Translated: swirl.  We made two stuffed to capacity with apples, nuts, and dried fruit (1 hazelnut and cranberry and the other sliced almonds and raisins – I preferred the former).  We topped hot slices with freshly whipped cream and nearly finished both during lunch in the sun.  Thankfully, Andre made three tarts later that afternoon, two with apples and hazelnuts and one with fresh plums and almonds.  We nearly finished one of them as a snack before dinner. Good thing we’re leaving tomorrow or I’d have to be carried out the door.  Too full to walk.

Lazy Days in Kirkland, WA: October 14

Sunday was a lazy day, mostly spent catching up on work and chores.  Back in LA, I take the internet and phone reception for granted.  I don’t always have the best signal, but at least I know which corner of my living room will get me through the calls I need to make.  So, when we have a home base, like these past couple of days, Andre and I take full advantage of both services by making calls to family and friends, responding to emails, reading the news—all parts of life that don’t involve foraging and processing food.  Here on the road, I take nothing for granted. It’s a luxury to have lazy days.

We have fruit on the verge of rotting in our bus.  Plums, elderberries, apples, and even a few pears that we picked back in Wisconsin.  Even on lazy days, I can’t escape processing.  Ordinarily, I enjoy finding food much more than dealing with it, but not today.  We spent part of the day learning how to turn our overabundance of elderberries into booze, port to be exact.  It’s pretty simple, quite a bit like making the herbal beers I’ve been bottling for the past year or so.  Most recipes I found called for much more sugar than I would prefer to use, which is usually the case when I preserve foods like jams and fruit spreads.  With alcohol, though, the right balance is important because yeast feeds off the sugar.  If you give your brew too little, it’ll stop fermenting before the alcohol content gets too high and you could end up with kombucha instead of beer.  I haven’t tasted my port yet, since it’s still bubbling like mad—those little yeasties are having a feast—but I’ll let you know how it turns out.  If you live in LA, you might even get to sample it.

We’ve been eating mushrooms every day since we arrived, a joy given that the lobster mushrooms cooked up back in Wisconsin were our last find until we arrived here!  Steamed matsutake, chanterelle pasta, hericium frittata, chanterelle and kale sauté, hericium chili.  I’m definitely getting my fill while they’re fresh and abundant.  Dinners at Daniel’s house have been a real treat.  He is quite the character, generous with his time and space, and incredibly interesting to talk with, regardless of the topic.  He’s also hilariously funny, worthy of using two verbs that convey the same meaning twice in a row – hilariously funny.  This guy is sitcom material, seriously, and his daughter does a pretty job keeping up with her papa.  A German Buddhist who takes people on mushroom hunting (“Mushroaming”) tours to Tibet, Daniel has a passion for experiencing the world and mushroom hunting.  He was brave enough to try and make those two passions fit into a career.  Between giving lectures around the world, offering classes in his community, and taking people on mushroom adventures, I’d say he seems pretty happy… then again, maybe it’s the meditation.

Puget Sound Mushroom Fair: October 13

We spent much of our first morning in the Seattle area piddling around at Daniel’s house and the rest of the day at the Mushroom Fair.  Curt was there, selling his mushroom chachkies—socks decorated with neon-colored morels, porcini shaped key chains, amanita patches and stickers.  You name it, he sells it… so long as it has a mushroom on it or is at all related to mushrooms.  I adore Curt.  He is absolutely hilarious.  A retired postal service man, Curt now spends his days foraging in and around San Francisco where he lives with his wife.  He gathers mushrooms, wild fruits and berries, harvests muscles and “lobster barnacles,” and even goes diving for abalone.  His wife was on a salmon fishing trip in Alaska when I met him in Telluride at the festival, but I’m looking forward to meeting her.

Michael was also there, who we met the night before when we dropped off mushrooms for the display tables, toting a jar of the chanterelles he preserved with onions in a marinade of olive oil and vinegar.  We gave him a generous helping of fresh hericium in exchange, which he seemed excited about.  Bartering rocks.

After returning from the fair, Andre and I prepared dinner.  Daniel suggested how we cook the appetizer, matsutake steamed in soy sauce and white wine followed by angel hair pasta (rescued) topped with white chanterelles sautéed in cream and tomato for Daniel and his daughter.  As usual, the meal was delicious, especially with a round of the cheese we traded for in Levenworth.  I’ve said it before, but we eat like kings, us foragers! 

Today I learned that several of the species we supplied for the fair were edible.  I love learning about mushrooms almost as much as I love eating them.  During my evening meditation, I felt thankful for having such wonderful friends with whom to share my love.

Washington Mushrooms: October 11

It’s been bone dry in Washington, an unusual summer and fall without a drop of rain.  The forecast looked promising for the upcoming weekend, rain was its the way, but the Puget Sound Mycological Society (PSMS) was hosting their annual fair and needed mushrooms for their display and ID tables.  We were on a mission to help them out and feed ourselves when we drove towards the Wenatchee National Forest. 

Our morning hike was a bit disappointing, the earth cracked beneath my feet as I tromped over fallen leaves and broken branches.  I decided to quit early and opted instead for doing yoga and headstands against a tree… the yogis say it is important to do inversions daily.   Andre persevered, but came back with only a few conks and some dried out unidentifiables.  On the next stop, however, we hit the jackpot! Andre spotted a mushroom while driving, car hunting as we call it, and found a pullout about a ¼ mile down the road.  We walked along the shoulder of the narrow highway, trucks sent vibrations through my body as they zoomed past, and saw a perfectly shaped white mushroom with pink gills sitting atop a tree stump as if placed there by an exterior decorator.  It wasn’t an agaricus, but rather, a species unknown to us.  We photographed it, carefully picked it, and crossed the street to poke around the creek for its brothers and sisters. There were lots of interesting mushrooms including some pretty polypores, toothed fungi, and giant conks.  Most exciting of all, I stumbled upon a giant and very fresh hericium, commonly known as the icicle or bear’s tooth.  This mushroom feels as wonderful to touch as it looks, with its delicate white hairs and coral-like stems.  All in all, I’d say we found an impressive variety for the club meeting, maybe 15 species.

Daniel suggested we stop in Leavenworth, a cute Bavarian inspired town.  Andre was excited to have a sausage and sauerkraut, and I was looking forward to a local beer.  Being back on the warm coast felt amazing.  First, we strolled around town a bit, laughing at the other tourists and ogling pastries in the bakery, then we found a beer garden where they served up huge sausages, apple cider sauerkraut, 15 different kinds of homemade mustard, and a great selection of Washington brews.  We started talking to a local, Anthony, about our trip and he gave us the scoop on a productive mushroom spot in a campground near the lake we were planning to scout out.  Being from out of town is sometimes very helpful; pickers don’t have to worry that we’ll raid their secret spots… at least not more than once.  We finished our sausages and thanked him before heading back to Butter.  On the walk back, we passed a cheese monger and decided to take a look.  Chatting with the clerk, as we always do, we got to talking about mushrooms.  Usually, Andre does the bartering but today I got over my shyness and asked if she was interested in trading cheese for dried porcini.  She was, and gave us two delicious and hefty chunks of local $30/lb cheese for just over an ounce of dried mushrooms.  What a score!  Well fed, thirst quenched, cheese in hand, we went to find those white chanterelles!

The drive to the lake was bouncy, but Anthony was right about this place.  After hiking for just over an hour, we ended up with more hericium and a few chanties. The forest was primary growth, ancient trees towered over our heads reminding me of how short my life is relative to theirs.  How insignificant I really am.  The evening was spent canning several jars of elderberry pancake syrup and fresh plum sauce that we’d use for breakfasts.  I like foraging much more than I do processing the food we find, but given that winter is coming it seemed like a good idea to plan ahead. 

In the morning, a rather long hike resulted in several overfilled bags of mushrooms, nearly 50 species for the fair, including 4 pounds of white chanterelles, nearly the same amount of icicles, and my very first matsutake, matsutake, matsutake!  Yes, I was excited!  Had I known what it was before the helpful PSMS volunteers identified it for me, I probably would have found others, but alas…  In any event, they did let me keep it even though I didn’t particularly like the pungent fragrance.  Now that I think about it, I’m sure I found this same mushroom in Colorado once when hiking with my friend Cat, but didn’t take it because of its smell.

The PSMS fair volunteers fed us well, helped us identify some of the unfamiliar mushrooms we brought in, and thanked us for bringing in so much variety.  Other hunters weren’t so lucky.  I hope our good fortune continues!

Table Mountain HIE: October 10

We slept in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn Express.  The forest we’d planned to visit was closed due to the Table Mountain (aka Porcini Mountain) fire.  All access routes were blocked, the air quality was poor, and it was nearing dark.  Without many options, we found a fairly dark and quiet spot in the back of the parking lot to set up camp.  It wasn’t the most exciting place to park for the night, but we made the best of it… cooking a nice dinner and getting a few extra z’s.  I was particularly excited about the breakfast we would forage in the morning (definitely walking the line), especially after a full day of fasting.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the cold weather brought on some cold emotions.  We weren’t foraging as much as we had been in the past few months, and I was feeling ready to get back to California where the sun was shining, our friends were playing, and my surfboard was being neglected.  I decided a day of fasting would be good to get all the nasties out… to cleanse and offer myself some clarity and focus.  If you haven’t tried a fast, I highly recommend it.  It might even be good for your heart, although this correlation could be due to any number of other factors.  In any event, it’s amazing how vigilant I become when my body is on high alert, how clear and sensitive my senses are—touch, sound, sight, all brighter and more focused than usual—and how good my body feels afterwards when I offer it the nutrients it needs to thrive.  The fast worked to clear it all out… and the breakfast the next morning was delicious.  After a lovely conversation with the local firefighters, who were staying at the hotel to work the nearby fire, we headed northwest, where the land of mushrooms was waiting for us… hopefully.  At this point, it had been 80 days since the last rain, but Andre and I keep claiming to be lucky, so we were prepared to test it.

Sandpoint, elderberries, plums, and RAG's: October 9

Oh, the joys of owning a 30-year old classic car… Butter had her manifold redone back in Springfield, which cost me a pretty penny.  This morning, after climbing trees to reach the gianormous clusters of black elderberries that dangled from the wiry limbs on our route through Montana and into Idaho, we started her up.  She sounded like a Harley, again.  Apparently, there were just 2 bolts holding on her manifold, keeping the guts of her exhaust system from falling into the road.  So, we spent a large part of the afternoon trying to find someone who would work on her in the tiny little town of Sandpoint.  Together, Andre and I must have made 20 calls, including one to the mechanic in Springfield who clearly didn’t tighten the bolts properly.  I was in tears after that conversation and ready to have her towed to Spokane, the closest actual city.  A shop there would be able to look at her in a few days, the best response we’d gotten by that point.  Finally, Andre found a shop, well, sort of a shop—Rag’s (repairs and general service, owned by Jim Ragland and his father).

Rag’s was an interesting place, extremely well kept, clean, and decorated with classic car parts and memorabilia.  It was situated next to Jim’s father’s house, and was kind of a do-it-yourself type of place.  Andre and Jim worked side-by-side, tidying up little issues (welding a piece onto the tailpipe to divert the diesel smoke, etc.) after the manifold was properly bolted and tightened.  I could write an entire book about this guy and his life, but for now I’ll just say that we regular humans can only dream of living such a full and exciting life—from his travels around the world to some of the most remote places, to his inventions, to his connections with people in nearly every small town and major city… we even learned that we a mutual friend, Spoon (Spooner, as Jim called him).  Jim’s shop used to be above Kona brewery in Hawaii, and he would sometimes go down to have a beer with his dad and Spoon after the shop closed.  Now, Venice Alehouse is one of my favorite places to go, and Spoon is one of my favorite Venetians.  This small world just keeps getting smaller! The best part about this mechanic is his ability to entertain you with story after story, but the second best thing are his prices.  He claims that he only needs to make $100 per day to make having the shop worth his time.  We were lucky that day because the woman before us paid $50, so our bill after nearly 2 hours of work (maybe half of that was chatting and laughing) came to only $50.  I couldn’t in good conscience pay that small fee, so I gave him $80 and two generously filled sacks of dried porcini and hawks wings.  I hope that was a fair deal.

After Butter was all better, Jim invited us back to his house to forage plums from the trees in his backyard, and we ended up with nearly 15 pounds after it was all said and done, which we later preserved along with elderberry pancake syrup… right in the bus.  He said the plums would be going to waste otherwise because of his impending move.  We stayed another hour, talking, learning, and listening to stories about his adventures and his life.  I could have stayed forever, but we had adventures of our own to enjoy.  If you ever break down in Sandpoint, or anywhere near Sandpoint, stop in at Rag’s.  Heck, even if you’re just passing through, it’s definitely worth the stop!  You might just decide to stay!

Back to Bozeman: October 5-7

We finally landed in Bozeman after a lovely drive along the Beartooth Highway that forms the northern border of Yellowstone National Park. As we were promised, the diversity of wildlife and colorful bubbling hillsides were impressive, and definitely slowed our journey to the farm we were so excited to return to.  We were visiting the farmers, new family, we met earlier in the trip when it was still summer. 

Now in fall, production on the farm was winding down.  What used to be a garden full of greens was being mulched over to prepare the land for winter. Food was being harvested and put into storage for use in the cold months.  Spring would come again.

My favorite part of the weekend was playing with Lily, their adorable and curious daughter, jumping on the trampoline, tossing hoops, getting prettied up and having my portrait drawn. We cooked with Laura and Josh, amazing and beautiful souls, sipped coffee over long and leisurely morning breakfasts, and hiked around the land and the hills nearby.  Andre and I used this time to process our acorns into flour, taking advantage of their dehydrator and kitchen equipment.  

I also taught Josh how to brew herbal beer, which is always a pleasure for me. We whipped up a batch with rosemary plucked from their garden, and added a little of the lemongrass I foraged with Nick at the VA where he lives, along with a touch of dried nettle I picked on the Mookie and Roger’s goat farm in Oregon.  I’m looking forward to hearing how it turned out because it was really quite delicious when we started the primary fermentation.  Throughout the weekend, we shared heaps of love and laughs and time together.  We also swapped acorn flour and plum bombs for some greens and fresh eggs from their chickens.  Otherwise, there wasn’t a whole lot of foraging to be done.  I can hardly wait to go back in the summer!  Thanks for a beautiful weekend, and I’m sure we’ll have many more in the future!

Buffalo Jump and Cooke City: October 4

The hot springs were much hotter in the morning than they were last night, and soaking felt amazing.  I didn’t even have breakfast before going in.  Today we drove to Cody, an adorable western town with a fantastic new winery, Buffalo Jump, which we were lucky enough to stumble upon.  They offer free tastings, and the pours seemed like they nearly filled the glass.  After talking about our foraging adventure, we got the star treatment from owners, Scott and Beckie. They took us on a tour of their operation, a small warehouse and production facility where grapes are brought in, fermented on site in small batches, and the bottles are, corked up, and labeled—all of this by the hands of Beckie and Scott!  Beckie talked about her experience growing up on a ranch, where her family raised Buffalo (hence, the name of the wine).  They cared greatly about their animals, and still do, being mindful of who they sold them to, how they were transported, and how they would be processed.  It was so refreshing to see the care instilled by her family going into the wine she and Scott brewed.  Not only was it made with love, it was absolutely delicious!

After nearly 2 hours at the winery, we decided it was time to move on.  The drive to Cooke City brought the snowstorm we’d been anticipating, as well as the cold temperatures.  It was predicted to be 14 overnight, so we decided it would be best to book a hotel room, and found openings at the Alpine Lodge.  Before settling in, we cleaned out the entire bus of all potential freezables, nearly filling our spacious room with boxes, bottles, and food.  How did all that stuff come out of Butter?  Andre settled in immediately following the completion of our only chore, and turned on the television.  For the next hour or so, he was fixated on Patrick Swayze, not even noticing when I spoke.  Completely zombified.  This is why I threw out my television when I was 18.  It just sucks you in, and the only point of commercials is to tell you that you suck if you don’t buy the latest and greatest new thing.  Who needs that?  It was the best thing I ever did for myself, and certainly accounts for why I spend so much time outdoors.  After a while, I was able to capture his attention with a bottle of our new wine and  some yummy Bozeman cheese. 

In the morning, I woke up from a dream about the bakery up the street and offered to treat Andre to breakfast.  We walked there, in the cold, watching our breath fill the air with moisture. Me in my slippers, my clown feet as Andre says.  When we arrived, we learned that they were closed for the season.  Next door was the only other hotel in town, the Super 8, and I joking suggested we go in to forage free breakfast.  Andre went straight in and asked if we could have a coffee. The friendly clerks kindly said yes, and we ended up talking politics, farming, and homesteading with a native Alaskan for nearly an hour.  Connecting, so much of this trip has been about beautiful people.

Butter didn’t want to start when we got back to our hotel.  It took more than 20 minutes, what felt like 100 turns of the engine, but finally she got going.   Phew… on the road again.

Thermopolis: October 3

Our quest for warmth brought us to Thermopolis, again.  It was the first time we’ve gone back to the same place twice.  A symbol of being homeward bound.  Immediately, we retreated to the hot springs, were we warmed up and strategized about how we’d get through the cold night.  After a failed attempt to stay warm on the short walk back to Butter, we started her up and drove into “town” for margaritas and dinner at Las Fuentes Mexican restaurant, an adorable little spot – and one of less than a handful of restaurants - that offered local beef as their specialty.  The menu informed us that they killed each cow one at a time, by hand.  They also had an array of organic vegetables, handmade tortillas, and boasted the hottest wings in the world.  If you could finish all 8, you’d get a photo on the “Wall of Flame” and a $25 gift card.  Their secret ingredient, ghost peppers.  We thought of trying them, but the waitress talked us out of it.  Instead, we just enjoyed our dinner and wonderful margaritas that we hoped would keep us warm at least until we fell asleep.  On the way out, we grabbed an organic lollipop… two each, actually.  I loved this place.

Tensleep: October 1-2

Dashing out of the lakeside campground just after dawn, we stopped in Moorcroft at a little hotel where Andre asked if we could cook breakfast. We took advantage of the free wifi and had a lovely meal of fresh fruit and oats, our usual, topped with a splash of maca, pine pollen, and roasted dandelion root for that extra umph.  On our drive out of town, we stopped at a local market.  I took this opportunity to peruse the isles, oggling the eclectic selection of food and food-like products they offered.  I was most impressed by sardines canned in pure maple syrup, an odd combination, sold as a breakfast treat, as well as the wide selection of local products they carried. But, alas, we’re foraging, so we moved on towards the Bighorn National Forest. 

Tucked into a nice spot in West Tensleep campground, elevation 9100 ft, we parked Butter for the next 3 days.  There, we spent our days doing leisure activities—processing the acorns we gathered back in Wisconsin, shelling and soaking them in a nearby mountain stream, baking bread on the fire and cooking, fishing, chatting up the forest ranger, reading, being creative, and hiking around the beautiful lake and hillsides.  The days were fairly warm but the nights were very cold, freezing as a matter of fact, and on our last morning it began to snow just as I pulled a fresh loaf of bread off our breakfast fire.  Butter had a little trouble starting up, but nothing serious.  We stopped for a short hike, knowing we’d be car-bound for the next several hours. Gorgeous 6-pointed snowflakes fell on the ground around us.  They landed on our shoulders and atop my hat, making me feel happy enough not to notice my cold fingers.  We hiked along the creek, taking pictures, enamored with the snowflakes and the quiet that winter brings to the forest, and to my mind.  A quiet mind can hear the trees whisper to each other.  The imminent storm filled me with excitement and, I’ll admit, a bit of fear.  Butter doesn’t do so well in the cold.  She’s a California girl… We needed to find some heat.

Devil's Tower: September 30

Today was Roger’s day, a best friend, a trusted elder.  We headed to Devil’s Tower, WY, the first National Monument. I was never all that interested to seeing the Tower, but it was on Roger's bucket list and it sounded like something fun to do together.  It felt like we still did. 

On the drive there I was wishing that I'd taken Erika, his daughter, up on her offer to send the feather that their family decided was meant for me to my dad’s house so I’d have it for this experience.  It was a beautiful feather adorned with colorful beads that Roger used on me twice to do a feathering ceremony, cleansing me of all worries and negative thought.  It was one of the most beautiful gifts he’d ever given me, a cherished memory.  Since I'd been talked out of having it mailed, I went featherless.

When we arrived, we walked around to the backside away from other visitors.  It was nearing sunset so there wasn’t much time to hang out.  We hiked up to the base, watched some climbers descent the vertical wall, and found ourselves a nice spot to sit and take in the last rays of warm sun. I sat, attempting to conjure up memories of Roger, his powerful words of wisdom, the sound of his voice, thoughts of our time together.  Nothing came.  I sat longer.  Still, nothing.  Then, coming down from the sky I saw a feather floating in the wind.  I watched it sail in the air, back and forth, slowly, like feathers do. It landed right beneath a ponderosa tree (sugar cookie tree, as Rich and I say) a few feet in front of me.  I walked over and picked it up.  The feather was perfectly white, small and beautiful.  I looked up.  There wasn't a bird in the sky.  Afterwards, memories came, his voice and love flowed through my mind and body.  I put the feather in my bag and we started to walk out, now nearing dark.  I heard a dove cooing in a sandstone cubby and stopped to listen for a minute.  I couldn't see it, but I have a feeling it was white.

Hocus pocus woo woo shit. Yeah, I know.  But it makes for a beautiful memory.  This stop was for you, Roger, con amor y gusto.

We drove to Keyhole State Park and slept on the lake that night in a quiet little campground that we had all to ourselves.

Bison in the Badlands: September 29

This morning we woke up to 100 bison grunting and growling and grazing around Butter.  We were in the Badlands of South Dakota, and were told explicitly not to get closer than 100 feet.  Apparently, they weren’t told the rules.  We watched them from the upstairs bedroom, dipping our heads down, stretching, to see them from the backseat window.  I crawled down, groggy but excited, and snapped some photos, wondering if they’d mind, if they’d come at us like they did the poor chap yesterday in the Land Rover.  They didn’t even bother to look up.

We drove to find a nice sunny spot with good views to make breakfast, and afterwards prepared for our long drive to WY.  On the way, Butter got another flat tire.  Her 4^th (Andre thinks her 5^th) on this trip.  A tribute to all those backcountry roads.  We pulled over to change it, and met Don, a 78-year old farmer who works 1200 acres by himself.  He grows oats, wheat, and millet, the latter of which goes mostly for bird feed but he sprinkles it in his oatmeal every morning.  Don talked about the pipe that transports water 6 miles to his house, his 3 sons, 2 of whom are cowboys, and his experiences working the land.  He lives in the same house he was born in, the house his parents built in 1908.  He’s been farming since before he could even form memories.  He also told us about the miles and miles of sunflowers growing along the road on which we were parked.  The seeds were harvested to make oil, which made sense after tasting them—they were tiny and not all that flavorful.  I was tempted to take a few, but thought better.  Why eat bad food when we’ve been living like kings?  Despite our political and philosophical differences, Don and I had so much in common, reminding me that the “us versus them” dialect is one of war, and should just be considered silly by now.  We’re all in this together.

The tire was changed, we said goodbye to Don, and headed to Mt. Rushmore to play tourist.  Too thrifty to pay for parking, and went for a pull-out about a mile or two away.  A steep trail led right up to the walkway meant for the tourists who paid the fat parking fee.  We took in the views, made lunch in the bus, and moved on.  We were on a mission.