Day 9 - Buffalo, WY

While packing the gear this morning, an 81 year old man was packing up his Mini Cooper next to me. Earnest eyes, a hearing aid protruding from his right ear, and large, worn hands, he inquired about our trip. He and his wife had driven from Virginia to Alaska - 12,000 miles, through Canada - and were on their return home. They would be on the road for over 2 months after all was said and done. The man grew up in northern Minnesota, as an outdoor and fishing guide in his youth, and later came to teaching at a community college. He reflected aloud on the joys of teaching, which, having two parents who are educators, I understand well. "Can't put a dollar value on that," he remarked, in regards to touching the lives of students. He talked a lot, relishing in his own memories as he recited them. "I'm 81, and I'm shooting for 100! No meds or anything right now." "Go for it," I told him with earnest. "I'm sure the traveling helps... keeps you healthy." "Oh, you betcha."

We stopped for an hour and a half or so in Rapid City, an hour from Wall, at a Honda dealership, and took a bit to drool over bikes and grab a bite while Snake's rear tire was changed. Soon enough, we were back on the road. As I watched the wind enigmatically emerge and disappear through swirls in grass and corn (much less corn than before... just sporadic patches now), self-awareness kicked in. I was observing the two of us living what we had fantasized about just weeks ago. It was akin to an out-of-body experience; the simple but elegant consciousness of doing what we were doing.

We headed down 16 to pay a visit to Mt. Rushmore, less than an hour from Rapid City. I met the monument with ambivalence. The sheer act of sculpting four faces into a mountainside is something that must be witnessed to be believed. It is amazing what a vision can achieve with a few sticks of dynamite. But each presidential figure, and his particular legacy, carry murky complications that were glazed over or outright ignored in the history we were taught in schools. Admittedly, I have a hypersensitivity to such expressions of uber-patriotism knowing, and feeling the weight of, the dark past that too often remains unspoken regarding our country. I have a polarized relationship with my national identity: one the one hand, feeling tremendous gratitude for being born into the time and place I have, and having the ability and liberty to choose my own path (for the most part); and on the other, a total disgust for the profane exploitation and manipulation of the tenants of the Constitution from so many, and the millions of Americans who succumb to laziness, lethargy, and comfortable ignorance as a result of their Constitutional rights. We are a paradoxical country. And to snap a picture or even just catch a glimpse of Rushmore costs you $10.

We next traveled to the monument of Crazy Horse. I wasn't aware that such a thing existed until spotting the informational brochures at the motorcycle shop, and was quickly eager to visit it granted that it wasn't too far out of our way. And it wasn't. Crazy Horse's monument is a project currently underway; only the head has been constructed so far, with a torso, extended arm, and head and upper body of his horse sketched out and underway. He is a solitary face in a mountainside in contrast to the four presidents, and of all five of them, arguably the most deserving to have his face blown into a mountainside. The invitation for the project was originally extended by a tribal council representative to a sculptor in the first half of the 20th century; slowly, but surely, their vision of the largest stone monument in the entire country was being realized. The monument site at present consists of a large museum, gift shop, informational movie on the construction process, restaurant, and a view from a large window of the work-in-progress. I read Black Elk Speaks a number of years ago after questioning a family friend, who is a very knowledgeable source on Native Americans, where to start in educating myself on Native history beyond the public school books. Black Elk's story hit home, and he instantly became an inspiration. He depicts in his conversations with the author, John Neihardt, Crazy Horse as a remarkable chief and leader, and explains his side of Crazy Horse's persecution, arrest, and death. It is paradigmatic of the treachery and deceit against indigenous America by the colonists, all in the name of Progress and Glory. I have great reverence for Native Americans; they embody the purity of the freedom described by the Constitution, and their way of living in such integrated harmony with nature was unprecedented in colonial life, and never replicated. The genocide against them was all but obscured in our history books. As I gazed upon the monument-in-progress, I felt my eyes well up with tears. Seeing a photograph of Black Elk on the wall, the first tear streamed down my face. I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion - the symbolism of the Native people and their struggle to retain their sanctity threw me back into myself, and into the whole human drama at large. Yet Crazy Horse, Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, Lincoln, me, you, all of us - we all inherit the iniquities of history. Despite how warped a story can become, no one can ever truly erase the past. It has been done. None of us can alter what happened prior to our inception - our births are the culminations of all that preceded us. What we can do is understand the past, and expiate the wrongs outside of our control to shape the present for a better future. Future generations will, if all continues as planned, bear witness to a monument of someone whose story represents the horrors of the past, but also the lessons to be learned, and the flame to be rekindled.

Our sightseeing coming to a close for the day, we continued a cruise through the Black Hills. It was strongly recommended to us by fellow bikers to take this route. The Black Hills are only black from a distance; up close, they are hills of evergreen forests. Relative to the surroundings, they are a lovely change of pace; but for New Englanders, they are nothing extraordinary. However, they did invoke thoughts of home, which were welcomed.

The more scenic end of the drive came as we exited the Black Hills and neared the Wyoming border. Gulches, scarcer patches of evergreens (eventually receding away entirely), scattered mountainous terrain, and scrub shrubbery all blended into the rolling plains. It was the exemplary landscape of country-western movies, and was a joy to cruise through. And the wind was much tamer for the most part than our prairie experience. At one point, the Union Pacific ran parallel to us. Since our road was straight and well-paved, with few autos traversing it, I began to alternate between counting the train cars and watching the road; one, two, three - look at the road - four, five six - look at the road. This was made easier by the two-tone color selection of the cars - I could count until the color changed, usually by twos or threes. I went as far as 47, until we passed a patch of trees; when we emerged, the rest of the train was visible. It extended over a mile. I gave up counting. This marvelous sight of railroads with endless cargo cars against the backdrop of southwest plains came in and out as we pushed on.

We were bound for Buffalo, WY, where we had booked a room for the night. As the sun set, the inert cloudscape grew darker. Before we knew it, we were approaching charcoal skies to the left and right, with hazy streaks indicating distant downpours. 16 had merged into I-90, a 75 mph road. We were hauling ass in an effort to make it before sundown, and to avoid another potential deluge. We had been fortunate with weather the last few days, and recent forecasts predicted this coming to an end. We raced against the inevitable, and oddly enough, the road seemed to skirt both horizons of malevolence. We were back in hilly terrain, when we rounded a corner - the magenta beams bursting out from beneath the clouds covering the last bit of sun disappeared, and in front of us was nothing but looming darkness. I thought of Crazy Horse, and resolved that some force beyond our control had kept us dry and safe this long, so I would now receive what was to come with open arms. Although it seemed hopeless, the storm never hit us. It was dark when we reached Buffalo; the streets were wet from the rain's passing, but we were dry.

Upon arriving at the motel, we tuned internet and television into weather information for the days to come. According to the present predictions, we will soon be trapped by an approaching rainstorm, to last several days. It already hailed and poured in Arizona. And snowed in Nevada. There is no route we can take that will totally avoid a chance of passing rain or thunderstorms for the next several days. Unfortunately, to traverse into, or even across, Yellowstone under these conditions is out of the question. We take for granted in New England that if foul weather hits, we can always pull off the nearest exit for gas, food, or lodging. In this part of the country, it is otherwise. The last gas station before Buffalo was 60 miles away. The contours of Yellowstone nearly guarantee an intensification of whatever foul weather is to come, and once inside the park, there is nowhere to shelter from the passing thunderstorms on the forecast for the next two days. Following the thunderstorm prediction is a mix of rain and snow. Even if we made it through the park, there is nowhere to lodge for over a hundred miles, meaning after 6 hours of riding in potentially horrible conditions, we would have to continue on almost another two before we were in a town large enough for a motel to be present. We have to circumvent Yellowstone. It is unfortunate, but not as unfortunate as the potential consequences of risk we would enter into alternatively. We have to take each cruise by the day. "One day at a time" now has a whole other layer of meaning.