Smart Happy Bear

Canadian Rockies
July '72

Protected by nothing but our nylon tent, we hoped the bear would find
his gourmet meal totally satisfying. Inside our tent we heard him
slamming around pots and pans. After what seemed way too long, the
bear finally climbed out of the truck and walked right between the
truck and our tent. We sat motionless and quiet. After a few minutes,
I got brave and stuck my head out of the tent to see if the bear was
still around. Apparently he had taken a rest break because I watched
him approach the truck one more time. This time he was too full to
jump. Instead, he unlatched the tailgate and hopped back in the truck
for his second course. Using our backpacks for a seat, he proceeded to
finish his meal. Finally, when he lumbered down from the truck, he
stopped and took a long drink of water from the soaking bean pan. When
he walked away from our campsite, he was one happy fellow.

I was still a bit apprehensive, but I wasn't going to wait for him to
come back for thirds. I crawled out of the tent and over to the cab of
the truck. I quickly opened the door and climbed inside. The bear was
nowhere to be seen. I started up the truck, and drove it down the
road. If the bear came back this time, at least he wouldn't disturb
our sleep again.

In the morning we surveyed the damage. It was considerable. The bear
broke the latch on the tailgate. There was garbage (that's what's left
after dinner, right?) all over the bed of the truck. The remnants of
bear smell were putrefying. And, to add insult to injury, the bear had
left his saliva all over our backpacks. It was not a pretty sight. It
took the whole morning to clean up.

On the bright side, it was another nice day. The highway to Jasper was
constructed through a natural north/south pass cutting through the Canadian
Rockies. Both sides of the highway featured spectacular views of the
11,000 to 12,000-foot mountains. This was one of the most beautiful
highways I had ever traveled, but it would have been even nicer if I were
riding my bicycle (no offense Old Smoke).

In Jasper (more a city; less a tourist town than Banff) we restocked
groceries and then went to a park for a picnic. The next day we were
off to Prince George, the "gateway to the real north." As soon as we
left Jasper, the mountains shrunk to large foothills.

In Prince George, after getting a campsite and taking a shower,
we immediately went for pizza and beer. Not only was our meal
great, but the guitar player who was there to serenade us, was
great too. The next day we extended our R&R by taking in a movie.
The benefit concert, Bangladesh, was playing in the theaters;
so, once inside, we got to see up on the screen, George, Bob, Eric
and a whole bunch of other great musicians. Nice!

Plane Of Six Glaciers

Columbian Icefield Just North Of Lake Louis



Most Beautiful Place In The World Probably
July 25, `72

Lake Louis was as beautiful as people had told us it would be. The
lake was nestled at the foot of glacier-filled mountains. We walked
along the lake's asphalt path, up to the teahouse where we sat sipping
tea. The teahouse was set on what is called the Plane of Six Glaciers.
The view from the teahouse was the kind of scene that took your breath
away. It looked out on the large glaciers across the lake from us. It
was an incredible sight.

The day of beautiful surprises was not over yet. North of Lake Louis,
we actually got to climb on a glacier. The Columbian Icefield was a
massive glacier almost touching the highway. It was so large that you
couldn't see where it began since it stretched over the back of one of
the mountains. On top of the glacier, Mike and I walked into its huge,
deep blue cracks and crevices and marveled at its decaying face
(glaciers were receding). It was a hot, sunny day, and we had a great
time sliding down the glacier's snowy white curves. We spent most of
the day just playing on the glacier.

When we finally headed out, we couldn't find a place to camp. It was
getting dark, and we didn't want to risk getting caught and fined by a
Ranger, so we pulled into a campground. It was full. We went to the
next campground. It was full also. It was 11 p.m. when we decided to
risk camping off the highway. We weren't far from the campground that
was full, so we figured if we got caught we'd plead helplessness. What
else could we do, follow the rules and drive all night?

I put up the tent in the dark. Mike started the fire and, after an
enjoyable dinner of hot beans, sardines, biscuits, spinach, and beer,
neither one of us felt like cleaning up. We threw everything in the
back of the truck and climbed into our tent. By then it was 1 a.m. We
had no sooner got in our sleeping bags than we heard a noise outside.
Sure as shit, it was a black bear. He had wandered into our camp, or
was pulled in by the cooking smells. He immediately started taking
advantage of our sloppy housekeeping. Not only did he chow down on our
table scraps, he helped himself to the groceries that were supposed to
get us to the coast. They were stupidly stored in the back of the pick-up.

Egypt Lake Rainfire Camping

Egypt Lake


Backpacking Healy Pass
July '72

It rained on us by the time we got down to Egypt Lake. It didn't
dampen our spirits though. It did, however, affect our decision to
continue hiking. For the most part we stayed close to the fire. We did
manage to do some fishing. We only caught three (I caught one), but
they were dearly appreciated. After two wet nights of camping, we
hiked out of Egypt Lake the same way we hiked in. Once again, we were
awed by the wildflower meadows on top of Healy Pass. When we reached
the truck, we got a great big reality check.

At the trailhead, where we had parked the truck, the cars that were
there when we arrived were gone, and with them so were our bikes. We
were flabbergasted. In that fantastically beautiful place, a gift of
God for all to appreciate, we were sick to our stomachs. We drove back
to Banff and reported the theft, but we knew we would never see our
bikes again (after riding thousands of miles on a bike you got pretty
attached).

Back in Banff, we were still getting used to the fact that our bikes
had been stolen when we ran into Dain. We were stocking up on
groceries when we bumped into him in the store. Our reunions were
becoming phenomenal. Each time our paths crossed, we naturally had to
have a beer and this time was no different. In the nearest pub, he
listened as we cried in our beers over our lost bikes, poor us. When
he told us he had found some public hot springs, we cheered up some.
We spent the evening swimming in the naturally warm springs, but we
had to pay to get in. There were so many people swimming (it was
really a commercial swimming pool), it didn't take long for the
novelty to wear off.

As I write, I'm sitting in the sun somewhere about half way between
Lake Louise and Banff. Mike and I didn't spend last night in the
hostel (it was probably full anyway), so after our swim we drove off
looking for a spot to camp. We camped off the highway, and in the
morning when we were getting ready to leave, a Ranger pulled up. He
was not happy about our camping outside the campgrounds. There wasn't
much he could do though. Our campsite was clean. We left no sign that
we had camped.

It's off to Jasper and beyond now. I feel a bit naked without my bike.
Our hopes of getting to the coast are riding on Old Smoke, the oil
guzzling '51 ford pickup. Thank God it's a warm sunny day. I was
beginning to wonder if summer was ever going to come. Although it was
really sad to get my bike stolen, maybe that quirk of fate has helped
me make up my mind about school. I'll probably return in the fall.
Finding a job in Canada wasn't very doable. Maybe when I get back in
the States I will stumble on a job at a university. I'm not holding my
breath, though.

Speechless And Awestruck

Healy Pass
July 23, `72

Back at the hostel, Mike and I were feeling claustrophobic. They had
to turn kids away because the place was getting to full. We were glad
for the roof and the showers though. (In Montana I never showered.)
The weather continued to be shitty. It was always cold. We were
waiting for a break in the weather, but after our second night at the
hostel, we decided to take off for the backcountry anyway, rain or shine.

After ten-miles, we turned on to a dirt road. At the trailhead we
covered our bikes as best we could. We left them chained to one
another in the back of the truck, and started hiking up into the
mountains. We decided to hike into Egypt Lake. It was approximately 13
miles in, and once there, there were other trails if we wanted to keep
going. The sun was out, but it didn't stay that way. Even though it
rained we didn't notice it a whole lot because the scenery was so
beautiful.

After hiking eight miles (mostly uphill), we had climbed above the
rain. On top of Healy Pass the sun was shining, and the horizons (all
but the east) were covered with the peaks of the Canadian Rockies. The
panoramic view was spectacular, not so much because we were up near
the peaks, but because we were standing in a meadow (about 5 or l0
football fields of rolling hills) that was full of blooming
wildflowers. Mike was overwhelmed. He said, "I half expect Heidi, from
the nursery rhyme, to be grazing her sheep up here." Before us,
reaching out to the sun (through the snow in some cases) were
thousands of yellow, blue, and violet wildflowers. Needless to say, we
were speechless when we walked through the field of wildflowers.

The Medium--Universe, Life, Language--Is The Message

Conversation Continued
Banff Bar

"Oh, really," said Mike. "So tell me, what exactly are animals capable
of?"

"Animals communicate. There's was nothing new there," Dain responded,
"that is what sensation brings to experience. But the human animal
apprehends sensation through cognitive possesses. Sensation gets
translated through signifier/signified relationships, or the
`identifiers' that relate `stuff to stuff.' That is the structural
context of language. The signifier/signified relationship structures
language. Images, signs, symbols, and concepts get piggybacked on
sensation and communicated through language. Dogs, and especially
higher primates, act out some behaviors based on the recognition of
these images, signs, and in some cases, symbols, but they can't
comprehend the concepts behind them."

"You make it sound so simple," replied Mike, "like when God was
supposed to have given Adam and Eve dominion over the Earth. I guess
He gave them language too. Are we really that privileged?"

"I don't want to get into that," Dain replied. `Lets just say that
language opens up a whole new range of possibilities that are closed
off to other animals."
"I'm wondering," said Mike, "if maybe you've got it backwards. Surely,
language distorts as much as it reveals."

"I don't know what you mean," Dain said.

"Language, like clothes," replied Mike, "keeps us from getting in
touch with our `real selves.' It conceals as much as it adorns, it
limits as much as it permits, it constrains as much as it liberates.
Wasn't it Freud who told us that the ongoing conflict between Superego
and Id limited our freedom, and, in the process, made puppets out of
us. The way I see it, the mighty puppeteers of this world, the ones
who used propaganda and marketing to tell us `who we are,' and `what
we can become,' are the real purveyors of language. If it weren't for
`their language,' we would be a `blank slate;' we wouldn't know how to
belong to the world we live in. Do you think our Muslim friends
sitting across from us chose their Islamic faith? Do you think all
these bar patrons chose to be Christians? Culture dictates who we are
and who we will become. Disagreement here is tantamount to erasure."

"Maybe," said Dain, "I'd have to think about it."

"Your dog has more freedom than you or I," Mike continued, "at least
he takes his cues straight from Mother Nature; the same mother who
looks after his health, happiness, and contentment. We, on the other
hand, can only find happiness in secondary sources, like this beer for
instance. But I'm not complaining. Life is good. Barmaid, another
round, please. One for the road."

Believe-A Win Win Situation

Banff Barroom Philosophy

Under cloudy skies the next day we were walking in Banff's downtown area
of when we heard a ratty- tat -tat on a windowpane. When we turned to see
what it was, we saw Dain's smiling face in the window. Upon entering
the place, Mike and I grabbed a couple beers from the bar and walked
over to where he was sitting.

"These are the guys who helped me find my dog," Dain said. "Guys,
these are my Egyptian friends who are, presently, trying to convert
me. Sit down and join us." As we slide into the booth, moving Dain
farther into the corner, the Egyptian guy across the table said,
"Before we get off the subject, I just want you to think about what I
said. Okay?"

"I will," Dain responded. "I guess everybody has to believe in something."

"Think about what," I interrupted.

"We were just talking about the wager, Pascal's wager," replied Dain.
"Pascal said that a prudent person should believe in the hereafter. If
you believed in the hereafter, and it turned out to be true, you won
eternity. But, you faced damnation and possibly an eternity of torment
if the hereafter existed, and you refused to believe. And, if the
other side of the coin was true; that is, if you believed in an
after-life, and at the end there turned out to be only annihilation
and death, then, while you were alive, you at least lived a life that
mattered. Either way, you won, and that was why Pascal believed there
was only one alternative when it came to believing in the hereafter.
It was a win-win situation, as long as you believed."

"Oh, yea, I know that one," I said, "I don't have a problem with it
either. It's just that I could never get around to figuring out which
after-life to believe in. With my luck, I would probably believe in
St. Peter, and, as my reward, end up being reborn as a dog. Speaking
of mutts, how's Old Whitey doing?"

"Just fine," said Dain, "She's a great dog."

"I'm glad it worked out," I replied, "Who knows, maybe Mike and I were
supposed to hook you up with her. Maybe she wasn't abandoned. Maybe
she was your long lost lover, and she's back to pick up where you guys
left off. Even if she is a dog, it's still a romantic thought, don't
you think? Stranger things have happened, I'm sure."

"You're sure are you," Mike spoke up. "You're sure that people die and
come back as dogs in order to find their lost love interests? Maybe
you should have another beer and drink yourself sober. That makes more
sense."

"No, it's true," came a small voice from across the table, "In India,
reincarnation is a common belief. They call it `transmigration of souls.'"

"Please don't take offense," Mike said to the small dark skinned girl,
"But I don't care what it's called. To me it's a bunch of crap! Even
if I heard it straight from the dog's mouth, I still wouldn't believe it."

"No chance of that," said Dain, "reincarnation will take place before
a dog can talk."

"I beg your pardon," I said, "just because you haven't heard of a
talking dog that doesn't mean they don't exist. And, even if they
can't speak English, that doesn't keep them from communicating in dog
language. Right?"

"I'm not saying dogs can't communicate," Dain responded. "I'm saying
they don't use language to communicate. When it comes to using
language, dogs just don't have the physical or mental capacity to get
the job done."

"So what makes you so smart," I said, "Maybe you're not sophisticated
enough to understand dog language? When we speak, dogs understand us.
Maybe we're just not smart enough to understand them. Maybe, if the
truth were really known, dogs would be smarter than you and I put
together."

"If you say so," replied Dain, "but I have never learned anything in
school that said dogs were smarter than people. Language, human
language, goes beyond the stuff other animals are capable of."

Saving The Samoyed

Roadside Campsite
Alberta, Canada
July, '72

We had heard how nice Banff was, so we planned on spending time there.
In retrospect, however, Waterton Lakes National Park (just above
Glacier) was beautiful. I wish we had stayed there for a while too.
Just after we passed the historical marker commemorating the town that
in seventy seconds had been demolished by a rockslide (the rocks were
all that remained), we pulled into a free roadside campground. It
looked like Canada was going to be great.

There was still a lot of sun left when we set up camp. We had six cold
beers that we brought with us; so we sat on the picnic table and
enjoyed the rest of the afternoon. While we drank the beers, we
watched a large dog meticulously scout out every vacant campsite for
scraps of food. It was a large, white, longhaired dog, probably a
Samoyed. "I bet somebody dropped her off," Mike said, and I agreed.
When she came over to us, she got a free meal. Not surprisingly, she
stuck around after that. It was hard to believe she was unwanted. When
we broke camp in the morning, it was really hard to leave her behind.

In Radium Hot Springs we took the truck to a gas station to get the
burning smell from the rear wheels checked out. The mechanic replaced
wheel bearings in both wheels. While the truck was in the garage we
biked around town and met two chicks. They in turn, introduced us to
Dain, a University of Vancouver graduate student. The five of us were
having a beer in a local pub, when I mentioned the dog we had left
back at the campground. Dain was curious about the dog. After
finishing the beers on the table, we hopped into Dain's Carryall and
headed back to the campground (30 miles). "Yep," as soon as we pulled
in, we spotted her mooching food from the campers. The dog was happy
to see us, and so was Dain when she jumped into the back of the
Carryall just like she owned it. Back at Radium Hot Springs, Mike and
I bid Dain and his new dog good-bye and headed off to Banff.

The Canadian Rockies were gorgeous. The mountains were larger than the
mountains in the States. We found the town of Banff exquisitely tucked
into the side of Mt. Rundle, a large, sloping mountain. The road to
Banff wound itself up against the east side of the beautiful mountain.
The town of Banff had that Swiss Alpine look, and it supported a large
Youth Hostel. Mike and I checked into the Hostel for the night.

Unanticipated Surprise

There's a place in the sun
And before my life is done;
I gotta find me a place in the sun.
(Ya know, when times are bad, and you're feelin' sad,
I want cha to always remember that)
There's a place, it's up in the sun, yeah
And ya know there's hope, hope for every one;
Where my poor restless heart, it's gotta run.



'51 Ford Pick-Up Truck
July `72


My original plan had been to ride my bike north, turn west high up in
the Canadian Rockies, go to Prince Rupert, take a boat, and end up
down on Vancouver Island. That would have been about a 900-mile
bicycle ride. But it didn't happen that way because while working at
Chief Mountain Service, I wrote a letter to Mike (in South Dakota)
telling him my approximate time of departure. When I returned from
camping, I found his return letter waiting to be opened. In it, he
said he was coming to meet me. He pulled up in a `51 Ford pick-up
truck that he bought from a South Dakota' farmer the day after I got
back form Chief Mountain.

It was good to see him. Back in South Dakota,Mike had worked for
five weeks in the Homestake Goldmine. He'd driven a miniature
train 5000 feet underground, and delivered miners to their
job sites. He told me my letter was a Godsend. "Over and over," he
said, "I met miners who were going to quit, but the mine never lets
go." I put my bike in the back of the truck (along with Mike's), and
the two of us headed north. Seventeen miles later, we crossed into Canada.

Mike was proud of his truck; it was in really good shape body-wise.
The farmer had told him to add a quart of oil every five hundred
miles, "Do that," he'd said, "and this truck will take you all the way
to Alaska." In the truck, after two hours, we had covered more ground
than it would have taken a whole day of bicycling to cover; it was
amazing, and well worth the quart of oil that we had to add. "It's no
big deal," Mike said, "I've got a half a case left in the back." 1

So Long It’s Been Good To Know Ya

So Long, Chief Mountain Territory
I Can't Believe Your Song Is Gone So Soon
I Barely Learned The Tune
So Soon
So Soon



Chief Mountain Service
July 19

I got back late. I put my gear in the bunkhouse and then went over to
Mike's café and ate a hamburger and fries. That was a tasty treat
after spending a week in the mountains. Mike, the longhaired, six-gun
toting gunslinger from Chicago, invited me up to his living quarters
above the café for a cold beer. I sat down with him and his wife and
had a farewell chat. I never knew until then how paranoid my next-door
neighbors were. Actually, I was probably better off not knowing. It
wasn't hard to say good-bye.

Saying good-bye to the Power's family wasn't so easy. "Rugged" was
the best word I could come up with to describe Tom. Before Montana, he
had lived in Sheridan, Wyoming, a city on the edge of the Big Horn
Mountains. He said, "The place just got too civilized for me, I had to
leave." Why he left Sheridan wasn't surprising to me. But what he was
about to say, over the breakfast table, was.

We were having our last meal together, so basically that was the time
for our "good-byes." Tom was in a pretty good mood when he asked me if
I had enjoyed my stay in the mountains. I actually stayed longer than
he expected me to. I told him "Yes, I was glad to be back, though."
Then he asked me if I got lonely up there. "Not really," I replied,
"After I got used to being alone, I enjoyed it." Then Tom said,
"Before I bought this place, I owned a cattle ranch and herded the
cattle up under Chief Mountain. "Sometimes I would stay up there for a
week at a time. It almost killed me. I couldn't take the loneliness.
It got so bad; I had to sell the ranch. That's when I bought this place."

I didn't know what to say. Nobody contradicted Tom. Fortunately, I
didn't have to respond. Everybody just kept eating breakfast as Tom
stared at Chief Mountain out the window. After I had almost finished
my eggs, he looked over at me and said, "But you know, when I die I
want to be buried right up along side that mountain. I would like
nothing better than that. She's one hell of a mountain." Iva handed me
the eggs. I took a second helping. I guess what's inside a man is
mystery, sometimes even to the man himself.

Transience Teaches Patience

Glacier National Park
Mountain Camp
July 16

When I got packed and ready to leave the mountain for the second time
in as many days, I felt like I was leaving home. I was glad that I had
come to Glacier. I was glad that I had come to this exact spot. It was
impossible to remain dormant in the mountains; they're to unforgiving
for that. You either learned what was taught, or you moved on. I had
learned a lot, and for that I was grateful. The lakes and streams had
taught me unity. The mountains had taught me transitory, regal
majesty. Here, emphasis was on the transitory. The mountain was
splitting apart and falling down (effects of weathering). I learned
from the rain and wind that Nature always wears a Janus face. She was
truly two-faced. As with everything else, the bad makes the good
better, and good makes the bad worse. Probably the most important
lesson I'd learned, however, was "patience."

Cold, hungry, wet, miserable, or content, it was all self-explanatory
up here. It was just "me" under any and all conditions. The trees,
birds, fish, insects, mountains, clouds, snow…all were passive in
their independence, and in harmony as a group. Everything that was,
just was. When I left this place "It," the Being of the place, would
go on. My being would go on too, except, down the mountain, it would
go on as part of civilization. It would go on as part of the illusion,
a being of a different color perhaps, but just as real. A long time
ago I had learned that deliberate and effective change was part of the
illusion. Those who thought they could change the world risked
becoming fools. In fact, I memorized a passage from the Upanishads
(books of commentaries on Hindu sacred writings) that referred to this
very thing. It went something like this: "Fools dwelling in darkness,
wise in their own conceit, puffed up with vain knowledge, staggering
to and fro, going round and round, like blind men lead by the blind."

It's all very quiet now.

Wind As Teacher

Mountain Camp
July `72

The wind has been disturbingly difficult to deal with. The rain and
cold I am used to, if that is possible, but the high mountain wind
never stops. On occasion, it even snaps and buckles my nylon tent,
protected as it is by a large rock in front and pine trees behind; it
is a wonder that my tent is still standing. There is no stronger
"exclamation point" to this mountain solitude (mountain loneliness)
than the constant whir and whip of this wind. In the beginning
it was just irritating, then it became maddening, but now I have even
made my peace with the wind. I can't explain it. I just live with it.
Maybe it is a mountain initiation thing. Initiations are always alarming,
but sooner or later the fears give way to a sense of belonging.
Maybe now I belonged to this mountain. I don't know; it's just a thought.

I could have left as soon as I packed up, but I put it off. Now that
the weather had broken and the sun was shining, I decided I owed it to
myself to stay another day. I have also given up on fishing. I was never
much of a fisherman anyhow. But, before I stopped fishing, and while I
was down at the lake waiting for the bite that never came, an ancient
memory (I was five or six years old at the time)popped into my head.
The memory was such a pleasant one, I decided to go back to camp and write
it down, so here it is: My mother used to take me shopping with her when
we lived in Detroit. Because we lived in the suburbs, it took a lot of bus
rides to get all the way to Detroit's downtown. But, once we arrived, we
would not only get to go shopping, we would also visit my favorite aunt.

I remembered those trips quite well. There were the bus rides to the
inner city, and then the streetcar rides (those were the most fun)
when we reached downtown. Just before a bus stopped to pick us up,
there was the overpowering smell of exhaust. It was a good smell back
then. It meant I was going to visit my aunt. I was too small to go by
myself. But, I knew that when my mother was ready to take me, the
buses would also be ready. They connected my favorite aunt to me.
Sitting on the porch, I wanted to go see her, but my mother wasn't
going to take me. "If I were only big enough I would take the bus
myself," I thought. "They were just down the street from my house."

When I had that thought, I mentally connected the highway to the
buses that would take me to my aunt. The bus took me across town, but
it did so on the highway that already was stretched out in front of
me. There were no gaps in the highway. It was here and it was there at
the same time. For me, that thought was comforting. I couldn't go to
see my aunt, but, in a sense, the road directly connected me to her. I
was so moved by that idea that when there were no cars driving down my
street, I went out to the road and put my hand on the warm pavement. I
immediately felt connected to my aunt. She was in my presence. I
couldn't see her, but, by touching the road, I could feel her, and
then I felt warm all over.

That memory came to mind when my fishing line had snagged a branch
out in the lake. In order to get it back, I had to put my hand in the
cold water, and when I did that I was overcome with a feeling of being
connected to all the lakes, streams, rivers, and oceans of the Earth.
Pulling in the waterlogged branch, I was sinking into the soft
lake shore mud. When I reached down to unhook my line from the log, I
grabbed a handful of mud instead. With one hand in the lake and the
other sunk in the mud, I not only put myself in touch with the Earth's
water supply, I plugged myself into the Earth's entire life force. I
didn't stop there, either. With deep breaths I became connected with
all of space, and beyond—God perhaps? Who knows? I just knew that for
those few seconds, trance-like, I was appreciating "being alive" more
than I had ever done before.

Love--The Reconciler Of Opposites

More On Narcissus And Goldmund
Rainfire Sitting Mountain Camp

Actually, Hesse's story went something like this. A teenage Goldmund
went off to live in a monastery because his father wanted him to. The
boy became absorbed in his studies and deeply attracted to his
teacher, Narcissus, who was also young at the time. Eventually,
Goldmund felt the conflict between his passionate, emotional nature,
and the more scholarly pursuits of the monks. Narcissus, his confidant
and friend, knew that Goldmund would suffocate and die if he remained
obedient to the rules of the cloistered life. He persuaded Goldmund to
follow his own nature, even if that meant leaving the monastery.

Hesse described Goldmund's relationships with women, artistic growth,
and his involvement with physical adversities, all of which were
carried on outside of the monastery. Toward the end of the book,
Goldmund went back to the monastery to visit Narcissus. It was there,
at that later time, where Hesse tried to reconcile the split between
the uncertain but passionate wanderer, who never ceased searching and
questioning as he went, and the monk's self-affirming life of mind and
spirit. If Hesse succeeded, he did so by adding love to the mix.

Goldmund knew that he loved Narcissus almost right from the start, but
it took the entire novel for Narcissus to admit he loved his student
and friend. Throughout the novel, Goldmund grew in maturity, and that
growth set him free. In the end, he was able to accept death without
fear. Narcissus was not so lucky. He had found love, but he still had
a ways to go before he could face death without fear or regret, at
least that was the way I read it. At any rate, for Hesse, love became
the reconciler of opposites; it became the universal healer and teacher.

I saw myself in Goldmund and Narcissus. I was the wanderer (yep, here
I am) and the monk (yep, if only I could get my university custodian
job). Hesse gave voice, in his novel, to the two poles of human
nature—reason and sensuality. That was probably what the bookseller
was referring to when he told me that the book reminded him of Plato's
soul. In Plato's analogy the two voices became the dynamic voice of
the "one moving chariot." For me, coming to terms with those two
independent but conjoined voices, had not been easy. Not only did I
have to come to terms with the voices of sensuality/reason, I also had
to confront my own demon, the voice of MV.

By the end of the novel, Hesse had, so to speak, cut up his pie into
complimentary pieces. I, on the other hand, am not that lucky. How am
I to understand MV in terms of a complimentary whole? (If you're
listening MV stay away. I don't want you here.) I am not talking about
the bond that may or may not exist between sensuality and reason; I am
talking about the completely disjunctive experience of two separate
voices in one head. MV's voice is hardly a threat anymore. I wish it
would go away, but it hasn't. When he speaks, I listen. I've put up
with this for three years, and if I have to I will continue to do so.
He is my affliction, my amputated leg, so to speak. I do not like it,
but I am still here. I don't even worry about him anymore. And now,
thanks to "Dr. Hesse," I feel extremely confident. After reading his
exploration and manipulation of "conflicted voices" (reason and
passion's universal voice of conflict), I feel better. Wouldn't it be
something if MV turned out to be a complimentary voice in my own
situation? Not a chance! Maybe I have learned to tolerate MV, but I
will never learn to love him.

The Conflicting Voices Of Passion And Reason

Remembering Plato
July 14, `72

It didn't rain today. No sun either, and the wind, although it didn't
blow hard, was relentless. That was all bad; even so, the day was
still good. I sat by the fire and read my book. Except for hanging out
with Hesse's "fictional characters," I was totally alone. There were
no surprises. When I bought the book, the guy who sold it to me back
in Missoula told me I would enjoy it. He was right.

"It's about a marriage," he said, "the unfriendly marriage between
passion and reason." He suggested that Hesse was using the book's
characters to bring to life Plato's description of the soul. After
reading the book, I think the bookseller was at least half right.
Anyway, he got me anticipating a good read and I was not disappointed.

In the book Hesse contrasted the life of the dreamer, poet, and lover
with the more ordered and controlled life of the monk; because of
this, I found the novel rewarding and timely.

But it seemed to me, at the end of the novel at least, Hesse left the
voices of his characters whole, as complements to one another. Plato's
description of the soul was different. As I remembered it he used an
out-of-control chariot to represent an unruly soul. When the driver of
the chariot (reason) brought his skills to bear (spirit) on the reins
of the unruly horses (passions), the out-of-control chariot was
brought back in line with the driver's wishes. In other words,
according to Plato, when reason and spirit were free to rein in the
bodily appetites, a healthy, happy, soul emerged triumphant. For
Hesse, on the other hand, there was no reining in the passions by
reason; rather there was (or should be) a kind of Mexican standoff
between both, in order for a full recognition and appreciation of both
to be achieved, thus permitting the best of both Narcissus and
Goldmund's worlds to go forth and multiply. Well, anyway, that's the
way I read the book and that's what I would have told the bookseller
if he were sitting across the fire from me now.

A Carlos Castaneda Moment

End Of Day Chief Mountain Campsite

Being alone in the wilderness made me feel like the last man alive.
Except for Harvey and his family, I hadn't seen a soul. The last thing
I expected was to see someone enter my camp at dusk, in the rain. But,
that is what happened. Well, that is almost what happened. I was
sitting by the fire, trying to decide when would be a good time to go
inside my tent for the night, when in strolled four men on horseback.
All were wearing raincoats and their horses were loaded down with
packs. The lead rider steered his horse over to wear I was sitting and
said, "Have you been up to the mountain?" I was still tripping. I
didn't know if these guys were real or if I was hallucinating them. I
had never hallucinated something that was totally not there before,
but there was always a first time for everything.

Stuttering, I responded, "Yes, I hiked up there today. I just got
back." "Have you been camped up here long?" came the reply. "For a few
days." I said. I was in shock. I didn't know how to respond to this
guy. Thoughts of Carlos Castaneda flashed into my head. Could this guy
be a Don Juan type character come to teach me, terrify me, or worse? I
didn't know. I was not ready to play host, though, and I think he
figured that out because after an uncomfortable silence, he looked
straight at me and said, "We're heading up the mountain too," and then
he giddied up his horse. The three other horsemen followed him into
the forest and down the rain drenched trail leading to the falls.

I was completely dumbfounded. How could four horses climb Chief
Mountain? They certainly weren't going to climb the mountain that I
just came down from. My mind raced forward, trying to make sense out
of what had just happened, and then it crashed. It just shut down. I
crawled into my tent and went to bed.

Surprise Hallucinogenic Ending

When My Thoughts Turned To God

The rains came before I had made it very far down the mountain, only a
few drops at first, but they quickly turned into a steady, wet rain.
It didn't really bother me. Up on the mountain I felt eerily at one
with nature. Up there, the drama of it all passed over me. I felt like
a rock must feel; I was just there. And then, as I was making my way
further down the mountain, I started to feel different, very
different. I was extremely sure-footed. I knew exactly which way to
go, even though I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I didn't fight
the feeling. I let it flow over and through me. I was overwhelmed by
it. I followed my instincts into this whole new world. The ferns,
trees, and spongy grass under my feet erupted into an "immediacy" I
had never known before. It was as if everything around me had all of a
sudden sprung to life. But not just to life, to a life that was just
as alive as I was. This was a wonderful and a frightening experience.
There was no time for fear, though. It didn't matter in which
direction I went. Everywhere a path opened to me.

I was in a very intense and delicious state of consciousness when a
Grouse startled me. It flushed right in front of me. Perched on a limb
ten feet from me, in silence, we both looked at each another. She
didn't move, nor did I. The rain rolled down my face. We were just
there, penetrated by the moment, and transfixed by one anothers gaze.
The Grouse flinched first. She seemed to lose interest, and then
immediately after that, I flinched, but mine was not physical, it was
mental. In that fractured moment, I thought, "Why? —Why this beauty?
—Why this life?" And then I remembered the acid, and, just as
suddenly, my thoughts turned toward God. The vibrancy of my
surroundings faded simultaneous with the God-thought. The "immediacy"
of the moment rushed out of my experience. I had experienced a world
of astounding sensitivity in my altered state of consciousness, but I
could not "think it." I could not conceptualize it. I could only feel
it. And then, when I struggled to move forward, I tripped and fell to
the ground. When the God-thought hit me, in that instant, I fell back
into the frailty and indecisiveness of the person I was before I
dropped the acid, before I climbed the mountain. As I picked myself up
and brushed new mud from my pants, my reintroduction into feelings of
uncertainty and doubt was strangely reassuring.

When I reached the waterfall I was thinking about what had just
happened to me. I was completely drenched by then. I was admiring the
falls, enjoying purely human thoughts, when I remembered the words of
an old Russian mystic (I believe it was Gurjieef). He said, "For those
who wear shoe leather, the whole Earth was covered with shoe leather."
Somehow, those words meant more to me now. When I said good-bye to the
pretty (but far from spectacular) waterfall, I hiked back along the
lake trail until I reached camp. I started a fire as soon as I
arrived. I was getting pretty good at building those "rain fires."
Thank God I had a good book. I spent the rest of the day reading,
eating the morning's burnt biscuits, smoking cigarettes, and turning
from side to side. In the rain, I could only keep selected areas of my
body dry.

Carton Of Worms Snowbank Preserved

Mountain Camp
July 11, `72

Yesterday, it was cold, windy, and occasionally wet. I kept the fire
hot, and it kept me warm. I spent the day sitting around the campfire,
reading Hesse's, Narcissus And Goldmund. Last night was an all night
rain. When it cleared in the morning, I tried the fishing. I fished
the stream and lakes (Big Slide and Little Slide Lake), but the
fishing was lousy. I only got a couple bites. At least the sun was
shining. Even in the sun it's not hot, it's sweater weather all the
time. I kept my worms cooling in the snow bank just off to the side of
my tent. The tent was set up over frozen ground. That made it hard to
keep the chill off, not to mention sleeping on uncomfortable ground. I
would pick up on the fishing later, after my backpacking food runs
out. (I think there's a couple three days of food left.)

July 13

I spent yesterday in the rain, all day and night. When I got up in
morning, the sun was shining. The clouds were gone. That was the break
I had been waiting for. After a breakfast of biscuits and scrambled
(powdered) eggs, I climbed back up on the mountain. When I got above
the timberline, I decided to drop some acid. I had brought it with me
just in case the spirit moved me. Dropping the acid, however, was not
an easy decision for me to make.

All "good hippies" have entertained the thought of dropping acid on
top of a mountain. Ever since I started doing hallucinogens, I had
been intrigued by the idea. But now that I had the opportunity, I knew
that there would be no earth shattering results, no mind-bending
revelations, regardless of where I was standing when I ingested acid.
It was a drug, that's all. It would take you up, maybe even into the
realm of the unspeakable, but it would drop you flat also. You were
the trip; the acid was simply the catalyst. There were no ladders to
heaven, no utopias to be discovered. I knew that already. It was
pointless to drop the acid, but I swallowed it anyway. In the warm
sunshine, high on the mountain, I just couldn't resist the temptation.
I climbed higher after dropping the acid, and with the higher
elevations came the stronger winds.

To escape the strong winds, I sought refuge in a rocky crevice wedged
into the side of the mountain. In my altered state of consciousness, I
stared at the symmetries in the rocks as they danced to life. I did
not notice the approach of the mountain goat with its two baby yews
until they were right on top of me. The sun was shining, making their
white coats sparkle against the rocky terrain. It was a beautiful
sight to behold. I had never seen mountain goats in the wild before. I
just sat quietly and stared. I began to feel light, as though I was
floating on a cloud. I also felt blessed. Then, above and beyond the
goats I saw it, the dark cloudbank coming in from the west. I knew if
I hung around much longer, I would find myself swimming, as opposed to
floating, in those clouds. I started my hike down the mountain. There
was lots of daylight left, so I headed off to where the waterfall
emptied into the lake at the far end.

Nine Days Of Mountain Rain

Tent Bound
July '72

I followed a creek down to Slide Lake. (Because Todd was heading back
to Chief Mountain Service, he took a different route down the
mountain.) It was not an easy hike for me. The mountain was steep and
everything was wet and muddy. Down by the lake, and after I got my
tent set up, I decided to hike back for the mosquito dope. I needed
something to do anyway since there was no way I could enjoy myself in
the bad weather. I figured I would get wet, but I would at least keep
warm by walking.

Once I made it out of the park, and across the Reservation dirt
trails, I was tired and my feet were very sore (hiking in wet shoes
was a bad idea). As it turned out, I had walked the entire distance,
twenty miles. Back in the bunkhouse, I rubbed my wrinkled, swollen,
feet and decided to stay there for the night. I soaked my feet in
Epsom salts. There was a lot lying around.

In the morning I got a ride up to where the dirt trail met the
pavement, and then began hiking back to my camp. Walking was painful.
When I reached camp, there was a constant 5 to 15 mph wind blowing in
my face. I sought out the most wind protected spot I could find and
then reset my tent. Under the cover of large boulders and pine trees,
I was out of the wind except for when it came rushing down from the
mountain and out onto the lake. I spent the rest of the day lying in
my tent listening to the wind's constant howl and resting my sore feet.

The wind persisted on the following day. It was a little better,
though. The sun broke through the clouds a couple times. I met some
backpackers who had hiked in from the Glacier side of the mountain.
Harvey, his wife Pat, and their son, Matthew, wanted to try fishing
Slide Lake. They were surprised to find me camping there. The weather
was bad, and Slide Lake, on the very edge of Glacier, was off the main
trails. I was surprised to see them also. As it turned out, I was very
happy they showed up. At dinner, Harvey shared his catch of trout with
me, and as we were sitting around the campfire, I helped him empty his
bottle of Blueberry Brandy. These people, for me, became the bright
light in the otherwise very dark day in Glacier National Park. After
breakfast the next morning, they hiked back into the main part of the
park.

From day one in Glacier, and every day since (nine days and counting)
it has rained on me. Last night it rained, and today (as I write) a
storm is brewing. I hope my tent holds. Glacier is beautiful, but I am
so tired of the rain. It is impossible to enjoy this place in this
weather. The thing that is bothering me even more than the rain,
though, is the wind's constant howl; it is driving me mad.

Inside The Storm On Chief Mountain

Mountain Camping
July 8, `72


Every evening Todd and I joined the Powers family for dinner and I
always sat at one end of the table while Tom, the patriarch, sat at
the head. The table was placed in front of a picture window that
opened to a beautiful view of Chief Mountain. Chief Mountain was a
majestic mountain to behold. It wasn't the highest mountain in the
area (a little over 9000-foot), but, it's rear ascended gradually,
culminating in a flat plateau peak, which from the front, dropped
thousands of feet straight down, (the Indian Headdress effect). The
mountain was also unique in that it stood out as an elbow of the
Rockies. The north-south direction of the Rockies changed to a
northwest-northeast direction at Chief Mountain. On many occasions,
while eating dinner, Todd and I were treated to stories about ancient
buffalo skeletons and an old Indian burial ground that were all
supposed to be located on the top of Chief Mountain. Tom made it sound
like you could walk right up the backside of the mountain and reach
the top. So that was exactly what Todd and I planned to do.

Work ran out on the 5th of July. On the 6th of July, Todd and I set
out to climb Chief Mountain. It was going to be a weekend thing for
Todd. He had to get back to work, but I was going to stay on. I was on
vacation. Afterwords, I would head out for British Columbia on my
bike. Todd was a good companion, he was seventeen- years -old, but he
was a lot older in spirit. As bunkhouse mates, we became pretty good
friends. We both were on pins and needles waiting for this big
adventure to begin.

We got in Tom's truck early the next morning and rode on dirt trails,
across Indian Reservation Territory, to the Eastern edge of Glacier
Park (the front of the mountain was on the Reservation). We took our
gear from the back of the truck and started to hike into Glacier.
Immediately, mosquitoes attacked us. (Todd forgot the mosquito dope.)
We hiked long and hard just to get to where the actual climb started.
By the time we reached the part of the mountain that we could see from
Tom's window (eight thousand feet up and twenty miles away), we were
exhausted, hungry, and perplexed. It was true the incline was gradual,
but it was also a narrow band of loose and broken rocks, stretching a
thousand feet or more up to the plateau peak. Climbing up the two foot
wide ridge with nothing to hold onto, and with a drop of a thousand
feet on both sides, was not my idea of an easy climb (forget about
what Tom had said about horse drawn wagons reaching the plateau). It
was 5:00 p.m., and Todd wanted to continue. He wanted to climb to the
top and camp.

Spurred on by Todd, I started to climb but then stopped. It was just
too dangerous, and besides, from that elevation not only could I see
the fantastically beautiful sight of the whole range of Rocky Mountain
Peaks turn towards Western Canada, I could also see the very dark rain
clouds coming in from the west. I told Todd it would be stupid to
continue. He was not happy as we went back down to where "a fall,"
meant only to trip over one's foot. It's a good thing we did too. We
no sooner got down off the ridge, than the wind started in.

We were still very high on the mountain, and finding a place to put up
the tent was not easy (I bought the tent on a shopping trip to Cut
Bank). We were still on an incline, and the ground wouldn't accept the
tent stakes. Just as the storm hit, I got the tent set up and the two
of us crawled in. It was amazing how fast the sky grew dark and the
storm hit. I've never seen anything like it. Inside the tent we
hunkered down. Thunder crashed and lightning frequently lit up the
inside of the tent (for seconds at a time). We were inside the storm.
In the morning, the tent was lying on top of us. We were wet, cold,
and still hungry but glad to be alive.

Me And My Mantra All Alone And Feelin' Free

Montana Bunkhouse
June 26

Bev stopped over to see how I was doing and I was glad to see her
again. I felt pretty good. We decided to go to Many Glacier and do
some hiking. I also got my bike back on the same day. The first thing
I did was check to see if the acid was still in my radio. When I told
Bev why getting my bike back had made me so anxious, she said, "Why
don't we put some of that acid to use and go hiking." That sounded
good to me, so by the time we were hiking the trail, we were also
flying pretty high. (That Windowpane acid never ceased to amaze me. It
was always good.) We didn't run into anyone else hiking the trails.
The rain probably kept everybody away. For us, the rain and the beauty
of the place just made the trip all that much more unique. Besides, I
had a roof and dry clothes to go home to, and that's always made being
out in the rain far more enjoyable. I let Bev wear my rain gear, so
she managed to stay relatively dry. All in all, it was a great day.

June 28

Today I rode my bike up to Many Glacier. This time I was strong
enough to climb up to the caves. On the way up, I looked for fossils
but had no luck. My luck wasn't any better when I reached the shallow
graffiti filled caves. I hung out in one of the caves while it rained,
but not for long. I preferred to be rained on as opposed to sitting
around broken bottles and trashy cigarette butts. In the mountains,
it's always raining. You just have to deal with it.

Wherever I go, people ask me if I like traveling alone (a real bring
down to most). If I say, "Yes," they look at me as if I'm nuts or
something. Before I get bummed out (and I can tell when I'm on my
way), I retreat into my mantra, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. No matter where
I am, or what I'm doing, I am no more, or no less, than Nam Myoho
Renge Kyo. With my mantra going, under a blue sky, or gray, I've got
the whole world with me.

June 29

When I told Tom I was going to continue my bicycle trip, he said,
"That's great," and then he asked me to stay and help him finish
painting. The bathhouse was about done, but there were a couple
outbuildings to be painted. When I hesitated, he said, "When you're
finished, take a week off and go camping in the mountains. Take a
vacation. You won't get another chance like this." Tom was right. I
probably would have helped him even without his encouragement, but the
thought of spending a week in the wilderness was, for me, the icing on
the cake. I decided to stay and work as long as I was needed.

Falling Off The Mountain Almost

On The Mend
June 21 `72

I suppose I had myself to blame for some of what ailed me. Yesterday,
I got a ride up to Many Glacier. I was in no condition to be there,
but I figured I could walk (hobble) around on the trails anyhow. I
took the easy one through the pines. Its ascent was gradual. Actually,
the incline was never very steep. It's just that when I got up around
the timberline, I encountered trail-blocking snowdrifts. The first one
was small. I just walked across it. But the second one covered the
trail on a steep incline, and it was big. It stretched all the way
down the incline to where the mountain came to an abrupt halt. The
drift was long, but it was also narrow. I could see the path start up
again on the other side. I figured if I was careful, I could make it
across.

I stuck my stick in the snow and began to cross the snow bank. I
tried to dig my foot into the snow with each step. Halfway across, my
foot hit ice, and I lost my balance. I went sliding down the mountain.
As I was nearing the bottom where the snow fell off the 500-foot drop
off, I was desperately digging my hands into the snow. Right at the
end of the snow bank, I came to a solid lip where I was able to gain a
footing. If it weren't for hitting that small rock outcropping, I
would have become fertilizer for wildflowers. On the way down the
snowbank, I pulled the muscles under both of my arms.
Even now, I am in so much pain that if it weren't for writing in my
journal I probably would be crying.

June 23

My burns are still sore and my leg is still hurt and my hand is still
swollen and my arms still don't move, but I'm getting better.

People Who Get In My Way Get Killed

Bunkhouse, Montana

When the Indians dropped me off, I limped into the gas station where I
was greeted by Todd and Mike. When Tom came out to the bunkhouse to
see me, and after I had told him what happened, he just smiled. I
think he wanted to laugh. I'm glad he held it in. Sitting on my bed in
that cold room, with no bicycle or radio to keep me company (my radio
was on my bike), and with every joint and muscle in my body reeking
with pain, I was not in the best of moods. I could have been in a lot
worse shape, though. After Mead ran over me, Bev screamed at him to
stop the truck. At the time nobody knew how bad I was hurt. His
response was, "People who get in my way get killed. If he's not dead,
he should be."

I was not surprised by Mead's cavalier attitude towards death. Now,
nursing my own pain, I had a deeper appreciation of what until then
were only entertaining stories. This part of Montana was rough. Babb
had a reputation for "taking no prisoners." Sitting in the bar, you
could amuse yourself (if that's the right word) by counting the bullet
holes in the walls and ceiling. Sonny, the Indian I worked with, had
his own story about that bar. One night he got drunk and ended up in
an argument with the bartender. After Sonny threatened him with his
knife, the bartender pulled a gun from behind the bar and shot Sonny
in the head. To this day Sonny carries an ugly scare that cuts through
his mouth, nose, and cheek. It's no wonder Bruce walks around with a
six-gun strapped to his side when he pumps gas. (Bruce was one half of
the husband and wife team from Chicago that ran the café/gas station
next to where I worked.) I had never seen Bruce without his six-gun
strapped to his side. I guess he wasn't just showing-off.

June 21

The cops came through. They found my bicycle, and they're going to
drop it off soon. They also found Mead and wanted to know if I was
going to press charges. I wanted to press charges, but, in the middle
of Indian Territory with no cavalry, I thought better of it. Everybody
I talked with agreed that it wasn't a good idea to press charges. I
was just glad to get my bike back. And, speaking about my bike, I was
a little anxious. My seven hits of acid (what was left of them) were
hidden in the radio attached to my handlebars. I hoped the batteries
in my radio held steady. I didn't want some nice cop to giving me new
batteries.

I'd been in sorry shape the last couple of days. My hand had gotten
infected. It was now three times normal size. I was soaking it in
Epson salts continually. I hoped I could ride out of here when I got
my bike back. Tom hadn't said anything to me about my hanging around
yet. He was a pretty straightforward guy though. I knew he didn't like
giving out unsolicited charity. This morning he paid me $92. It came
out to $2. per hour, instead of the $1.65 we had agreed upon. He must
have liked my work. I asked him if I could stay another night. After a
pause, he said, "I want you to stay until you can travel and by the
looks of things, that won't be for a while yet." I guess I made a
pretty sight, with all my cuts and bruises showing, not to mention my
hand, which I hoped wouldn't get sawed off.

"It's Meat," He Said. "That's How We Eat Around Here"

Many Glacier Stream

Many Glacier


Montana Bunkhouse

Reservation cops responded to my call, and when they arrived they took
me to the hospital. The doctor, after he washed and dressed my wounds,
told me I was lucky. The truck must have rolled over my leg just
right. I lost a couple layers of skin along my hand, wrist, and one
arm. After I was bandaged, the police took me to the station where I
began answering questions for their report when Bev walked in.
Apparently, after Mead ran me over with the truck, he took Bev out in
the woods to rape her. When he stopped the truck, she jumped out and
ran. She ran faster than he did and made it into town where she called
the police. She was glad that I was okay, and I felt the same about
her. We were told by one of the officers that somebody would give us a
ride over to Bev's place. We sat in the station for more than an hour
before that happened, though.

Bev was not a beauty queen, but she was not unattractive either. She
was a strong woman. She knew who she was and what she wanted. She
worked with the Indians in Arizona and Montana and she wanted to
continue to work with Indians when she got her degree. She was very
inquisitive, and knew more about Indian culture and history than
anyone I had ever talked with. We immediately went to bed when we got
dropped off at her trailer. I really wanted to sleep, but two new
bodies lying in the same bed together got the better of both of us.
Bev did the work; I just laid there (in pain).

Stiff with pain, I sat in Bev's trailer the next day until 3 p.m. and
then tried hitching back to Babb, thirty miles down the highway. When
I limped out to the street and headed in the right direction, four
young male Indians picked me up. They were joyriding on a Sunday
afternoon and, after hearing my story, volunteered to drive me back to
Babb. They shared with me their beer and venison. On our way we passed
a herd of deer grazing in a field, and one of the Indians made the
driver stop while he went around to the trunk and pulled out a rifle.
He sighted in on the big deer, the one that stood out from the others
in the heard, but before he could shoot, the deer ran. "It's meat," he
said. "That's how we eat around here."

One of the Indians asked me if I had seen Many Glacier yet. I said,
"No." So when we came to the turn off, we turned left and drove the
five miles up to Many Glacier. The scenery was super; the road wove up
the mountain until we came to a large open canyon area. At the end of
the highway sat the large Many Glacier Hotel. On the way up we passed
a large rockslide and above it were two caves. I immediately wanted to
explore the place, but given my situation that was impossible. I was
in so much pain; I even had a hard time enjoying the scenery.

The Truck Left Me Down And Bleeding

East Glacier

East Glacier


Montana Bunkhouse
June `72

When I got friendly with one of the girls in the bar, Mead also found
a girl, a large, jolly, old Indian lady. After drinking only one beer,
he suggested we go to a different bar. The girl I was with, a student
from the University of Indiana who worked with Indian Affairs in
Browning, Montana, was okay with that, so we piled into the front of
Mead's truck. The large Indian lady sat on my lap. When the lights
went out, the Indian lady who was twice my size got roving hands. She
took total control of the "situation" or maybe it would be more
accurate to say that she had the "situation" well in hand. Either way,
I'll never forget being brutally kissed by an old, drunk, fat Indian lady.

At the next bar, Mead ditched his girlfriend, and wanted to call it a
night. He said he would be glad to drop Bev off in Browning on the way
back to Babb. The three of us climbed back in the truck and took off
on what I hoped was our last ride. Fortunately, Browning was northwest
of East Glacier, so I was kind of heading home. Everybody was quiet
during the twenty-minute ride to Browning. I tried to talk to Mead,
but he was either too drunk to listen, or he refused to talk. That
made me uptight. In Browning, Mead pulled down a gravel road. When I
asked him where he was going, he said, "Home. I need to stop at my
trailer." When we pulled up to an old trailer, he handed me a key and
told me to see if it would unlock the door. Whatever was going down, I
knew it was bad. I told him "No. Why don't you do it?" He insisted
that I go unlock the door. When I got out of the truck, he stepped on
the gas. I ran after him and grabbed the door handle of the truck. As
I ran alongside, trying to open the door and pull Bev out, he swerved
in my direction. I fell under the truck and the rear tire ran over my
leg, dragging me across the gravel. As I lay in the dirt motionless
and bleeding, Mead kept going. When I forced myself to get up (I
thought I had broken my leg), I found that I could walk, barely.

Under a streetlight, when I looked down at my leg, I could see the
truck's tire tread marks imprinted across my blue jeans at the calf. I
managed to hobble over to a trailer where a light was on in a window.
When I knocked at the door, an Indian lady answered. She immediately
started pushing me in the chest with her finger. I couldn't understand
what she was saying until, finally, I heard the words, "You're not
Tommy. Where is Tommy?" She was becoming unfriendlier by the second.
If I could have moved, I would have beaten a path from her doorstep.
But, as it was, I just let her push me around. She backed off when a
large dude came to the door with an unlit cigarette dangling from his
mouth. When I looked up at him (he must have stood almost seven-foot
tall), he asked me for a light. I said, "Sorry, I don't have a match.
I'm hurt. I need help. Do you have a phone?" He pointed to the house
across the street and said, "They have a phone; we don't," and then he
shut the door in my face. I limped across the street and knocked on
the door of that house. I could barely move; my leg had stiffened. My
reception there was less physical, but no more friendly. When I asked
to use the phone the man who came to the door pointed down the road
and yelled through the glass window of the door, "Payphone, four
blocks." It was painful, but when I made it to the phone, I called
the police.

Chief Mountain Territory-The Agony and Ecstasy

Under The Gaze Of Chief Mountain
June 18

I've been working hard. There's plenty to do. Tom's been working on
the plumbing. I've been painting the bathhouses. Todd works at the gas
station. Sunny, another hired hand, does the backhoe work, and
everybody is friendly. The entire Power's family, Tom, his wife Iva,
Mike and Kian, (the teenagers) and Joe, the youngest, with his dog,
Sam, are just about as nice as they come. Todd, a teenager himself,
was spending the summer working for the Power's family. He and his
parents made friends with the Power's family last summer when they
were out here vacationing, and Tom invited him back and offered him a
job too. So far, both Todd and I seemed to be considered part of the
family. At the dinning table we took our places with the rest of the
family. Meat was served with every meal (beef or pork served at
breakfast). Today, Sunday, was a bit different though. In fact, I'm
afraid things are changing as I speak, and it would be a bit foolish
to think otherwise.

After almost a week of work, I needed a break, so yesterday I took a
half-day off. I used the time to clean my bike and wash my clothes.
After an early dinner, I decided to go to the bar in the little town
of Babb. For the most part, the land around here was Blackfoot Indian
Reservation, and, according to the Power's family, you needed to tread
lightly in order to stay out of trouble. They warned me about going to
the bar, but I went anyway.

Babb had a population of about sixty people. Basically, Babb was
a bar, grocery store, post office, two gas stations and a café, and
the town's houses were built on the hill west of Main Street. Saturday
afternoon when I walked into the bar it was actually hot outside.
Approximately ten patrons were inside when I sat down at the bar. The
Indian, sitting two seats from me, started up a conversation. After a
few beers, we got pretty chummy. I was the biker from back east, and
he was the cowboy (the role of the cowboy had been taken over by the
Indians). The sun was going down when Mead, my Indian friend, asked me
if I wanted to see what the mountains looked like from inside Indian
Territory. Mead was pretty drunk, so I didn't know what to say. When
he said, "We'd be back before dark," I said, "Okay." I put my bike in
the back of his truck and we were off, but not in the anticipated
direction. Mead headed straight for East Glacier, more than thirty
miles south. When Mead pulled into our first bar his real intentions
became obvious. Glacier National Park hired college kids for summer
work from all over the country and many of them, especially the girls,
fraternized East Glacier bars. Mead was using me to get him a white girl.

Over The Top-- Logan Pass

Up Along The Logan Pass Road


Bicycling Glacier
June 12 (late afternoon)

The rain turned to wet snow in the afternoon. By the time I reached
Logan Pass it was snowing hard. In fact, the park service wouldn't let
cars go over the mountain. They closed down the highway. When I was in
line with the rest of the cars, waiting to finish biking the
Going-To-The-Sun-Highway, I had to make a decision, "Do I sit in the
snow, or do I try the to bicycle over the pass?" Nobody said anything
about stopping bicycles from climbing the 6600-foot pass, so I ducked
under the chain and started peddling. At first I felt really proud.
The scenery was beautiful and I had the road to myself. After an hour
though, the snow made bicycling impossible. I got off my bike and
pushed it through the snow and up the mountain. I knew I had made the
wrong decision when in order to keep the snow and sleet from burning
my skin, I had to keep my face pointed towards the ground. I couldn't
go back down. I hated to backtrack. When it got so bad I found myself
with one hand on my bicycle and the other clutching at rocks to keep
from being blown off the mountain, I began to wonder if I would live
to tell my story.

As I was getting close to the top, I saw a pickup truck parked in an
emergency pull off. If I could make it to the truck I would be safe.
The driver, an Indian, welcomed me with a smile (or was it a smirk,
I'm not sure). He worked for the park service, and it was his job to
radio in the weather conditions from the top of the pass. Together we
waited out the storm, and then he drove me over the pass and dropped
me on the other side a mile down the highway. I was still walking my
bike through four inches of snow when a van pulled up and offered me a
ride. The van had been in the front of the line when they let some of
the cars cross over the mountain. I got a ride all the way to where
Going-To-The-Sun-Highway met Highway 17, another twenty miles down the
road. I found out later the pass was only open for thirty minutes
before they had to close it again. I was lucky to get a ride.

On Highway 17 I biked north, and then under a heavy rain pulled into
a small gas station. I took shelter under an overhang at the rear of
the station. The owner of the station seemed to want to help me, so
after we talked a little, he offered me a job. He was putting in a
trailer park and needed some painting done. The way I felt, I wasn't
about to say no.

I was in a two-bed bunkhouse sitting on the bed. Todd, the inhabitant
of the other bed, was outside pumping gas. The rain had pretty much
stopped, but it was still very cold and windy outside. There was no
heat or water in the bunkhouse, but it still felt like heaven. When I
left I would have to go back into the park where it was still raining
and snowing. That thought was so depressing.

Tom, the owner of the gas station, offered me a day's work. Maybe I
could turn it into a few more, or at least make it last until this
damn weather breaks.

Ten Sleep Canyon (Big Horn Mountains) Connection

Big Horn Mountains

Ten Sleep Canyon


MV Conversation Continues
Glacier National Park Bicycle Trip

"Like it or not, we are soul brothers," replied MV, "Lighten up! I
can be useful, if you let me."

"Ok, enlighten me. What do I need to know?"

"You need to know," said MV, "that people in motor homes are further
along on their path than you are on yours. While worshiping at the
altar of certainty and success, disappointment is, for a fortunate
few, an infrequent and fleeting experience."

"How can that be?" I said.

"Well, for starters, money buys pleasure," replied MV, "and nature
gives pleasure. If you can enjoy nature while living in luxury then
you are one of the lucky ones. The person sitting behind the wheel of
the motor home you know, wouldn't be caught dead sitting on that piece
of crap you call a bicycle seat."

"So tell me something I don't know," I said.

"Be patient. In due time you will understand," MV replied. "It's good
that nature is beautiful, but that's not the whole of it. Out of it
livelihoods are carved; that is, if you're lucky. Natural beauty is
only a perk; business and finance are nature's real assets. Go ask one
of those guys driving a motor home if you don't believe me! Owning a
$50,000 house on wheels, and driving down a mountain road is almost as
good as it gets; those people have it all."

"Are you saying that I can't enjoy nature unless I'm rich?"

"You tell me," responded MV. "Who's the one who is wet and miserable,
surely not the motor home guy, and, if you want proof, just ask to see
his photographs. He will be more than happy to show you if you have
the time. It's all about consumption you know."

"What's that suppose to mean?" I said.

"In today's world," MV replied, "life means didly squat unless lots
of consumption goes with it. In fact, if you don't consume, you
alienate yourself. You are not fond of looking in the mirror. Did you
ever ask yourself why? Could it be that depression, loneliness, or
something even worse looks back at you. Just accept it, Earth is
nothing more than a word for `not yet ready for consumption.'"

"I've heard that bullshit before," I said, "and the land gets raped,
the water fouled, and the air polluted, and what for--to deny
inheritance to the next generation? Instead of a future to look
forward to, our children's children get filth, defilement, and
ugliness. It's criminal! Whatever happened to conscience,
responsibility, and that almost forgotten word, conservation?"

"Why fight it? You're only going to make yourself sick," said MV. "To
live good means to consume more, and to live best means to consume the
best. Get over it!"

"But what about social responsibility and justice?" I responded.
"What about conservation and conscience, do they have any role at all
to play?"

"Get serious," MV replied, "that's all lip service! The wheels of
progress are greased with capital, and lots of it. Without it
prosperity stops."

"And the suffering," I said, "people still suffer you know. Why does
wealth have to be concentrated? Why can't it be distributed so as to
create decent living standards for all?"

"Suck it up my friend, that's just the way the system works," said
MV. "Sure, you could eliminate suffering—not all, buts lots-- if that
were the goal, but open your eyes and smell the coffee--the goal is to
eliminate your own suffering. More is always better. Come on; admit it!"

"No," I replied. "If I did, I would be saying `yes' to what is not
right. Inequalities cause suffering and reason could fix that. It is
wrong to say `yes' to biologically destructive, spiritually
desiccated, consumer society. I won't do it. It's disgusting. You're
disgusting. Why did you even come back? Do you call this helping me?"

"Maybe," said MV, "so tell me, what exactly happened to you while
coming down that mountain in the Big Horns?"

"What do you mean?" I exclaimed. "What does that have to do with
anything?"

"Have you forgotten?" said MV. "Humor me. What do you think happened
to you on your way down that mountain?"

"I don't know," I said, "It was like I stopped being me and became
something else, something wonderful and strange."

"Was it a `feeling,' or a `knowing' experience?"

"I guess it was both," I said.

"Was it worth it?" exclaimed MV.

"What do you mean was it worth it?" I replied. "Worth what? It was
something that just happened."

"If you believe that you're dumber than I thought," MV responded. "Do
you think those `feelings' and that `knowing' happens to everybody—to
the guy in the Winnebago? Get real! In that one brief moment you
tasted the ineffable, the sublime. In that moment you saw what isn't
seen, touched, tasted—or bought."

"Well, maybe so" I replied. And then it hit me. I felt tingly inside.
I needed to feel that biting wind against my face. I needed to feel
that ache in my exhausted muscles, the anxiety of not knowing where I
would sleep at night. I had to experience hardships in order to
experience communion-- the intimacy of communion that I felt while
coasting down Tensleep Canyon. And further, without those kinds of
challenges, discomforts, and struggles, a sky full of stars, the salty
ocean air, the squish of pine needles under foot, would not turn into
"shake you alive experiences," would not become "hello, I am alive
feelings." What a pity, what a terrible pity that would be. Those
feelings cannot be bought, only be appreciated. They must never go
away. Without them life would not be worth living.

The rain was falling, but I didn't mind. It was less disturbing now.
It was quiet too. Everything was okay. I just kept peddling.