Pa-ha Sat-va (Sacred Mountains)

And When The Sun Was Dying
We Had Reached The Sacred Hills
Where We Fasted And We Listened
For The Night Would Bring Us Visions
Before You Came


See and hear this gorgeous montage of music, scenery, and Black Hills history
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzkpzXjo7BM



Bike Trip
May, '72

The rain has been a problem, but not a major one. The other day, when
I was waiting out the storm, the owner of the car museum drove me to
an abandoned mining shack. I think he wanted me off his premises. It
worked out, though, because he dropped me at a place where I could
spend the night. The next morning, after fixing a flat tire, I rode my
bike up to Mt. Rushmore. The place was amazing, but I guess I would
have to say that I found the Black Hills even more amazing. British
Columbia used to be my favorite place (maybe it still is), but now I
knew which place came in second. The hills (small mountains) were
peppered with pine trees. Bicycling through them was spellbinding and
I mean that quite literally. Pa-ha Sat-va was the Lakota Indian name
for the Black Hills and it meant sacred mountains. Not feeling the
spirit of this place, after you've been here for a while, was probably
impossible. Its been raining on me the whole time I've been here, but
even the rain has not dampened my spirits. Actually, without the light
drizzle, peddling, especially on a hot sunny day, would have been
harder. As it was, the spirits were moving in the mist that was all
around me.

I arrived in Deadwood after a long day of bicycling, even with the
twenty-mile automobile ride I accepted along the way. The rain was
coming down when this dude in a van asked me if I wanted a lift.
Deadwood is a city right out of the old west, much the same as when
Jack MaCall shot Wild Bill Hikcock in the back of the head, or so I am
told. It's a tourist town, though. I guess that's why they want to
keep it looking like an old West town.

My overburdened bicycle attracted a lot of attention and one of the
fellows that I was talking to offered me a place to stay. He lived in
an old hotel, the Syndicate hotel, run by an almost blind lady, so
there was no problem sneaking me up to his room. The hotel was run
down, but you couldn't beat the rent, $16 a week. My friend worked in
the gold mine in Lead. Deadwood was nestled in the hills at 4000 feet
while Lead was another 1000 feet higher. John wanted me to stay with
him and go to work in the mine. He said it was easy to get a job, and
if the mine hired you, you got an immediate line of credit with the
stores in town. "A slip of paper from the mine," he said, "was as good
as gold, or as good as gold until after you received your first
paycheck." It sounded too good to be true. I had to believe him,
though, because he seemed to me too simple-minded to be making that
stuff up. He was so convincing in fact, that I decided to stay in
Deadwood and try and get a job at the mine. That night we went to a
bar (a couple of bars) and at the end of the evening, I found myself
drinking alone.

John had left to go to a party. I had already had enough to drink, so
I told him I was going back to the hotel. Alone with my beer, I was
then able to reflect on what I really wanted to do. Above the bar was
a lit up Hamm's beer sign. It gave the illusion of cool sparkling
water running through a thick forest wilderness. I had been staring at
that picture since I sat down, and now it screamed back at me: "What
do you really want? Another beer? A job? A home? Or, do you want to
get on your bike and come see me?" When I walked out of the bar (after
one more beer), I had made up my mind. I was going to continue my trip
into the mountains and the wilderness beyond.