Post-script: Candles in the Fog

 

The enormous full, Cold Moon, rode with us home. She rose breath-takingly huge and ruddy orange ahead, as we drove east through the Poconos and descended through the Delaware Water Gap. When we turned north on the New York State Thruway, she accompanied us, riding along beside, watching over us like a comforting companion, as she climbed above the crusty trees, illuminating the familiar hills of our home territory. When we’d set out, almost two weeks earlier, the sky was also clear, and we had driven toward an upturned fingernail crescent setting in the faint sunset glow. Now, her whole face is visible. In my mind I hear Ellen’s song, Night Leaping, “The only light is the moon and I know she is smiling.”

My thoughts return, as they often have on this trip, to the many who so passionately offered whatever each was able to give. Once again, I feel tremendously moved—but this time not only uplifted by our community’s generosity and support of me and Rod in making this journey— but rather by the deep desire of so many, many people from all over the land, to help the Water Protectors. This struggle speaks deeply to people everywhere who want to reach out in solidarity in any way possible.

I remember again the lines of cars that streamed in to Oceti Sakowin from points all over the U.S., all of us like ants carrying our tiny, purposeful loads, our treasure carefully collected, borne with love, to deliver with gratitude and hope to those at the center of this vortex, those bravely leading this nascent movement. It is a movement for self-preservation, and for the preservation of all of us. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to deliver the supplies, the funds, the blessings and the offerings from our community to the community at Standing Rock. In a very tangible way, it connects us and makes us all one community. We are one.

The movement birthing at Standing Rock is about the protection of the Missouri River watershed and is about protecting all water—our Mother Earth’s blood—the life-blood of all living things. The cry “Mni Wiconi,” “Water is Life,” is literal truth. This movement is also about stopping our use of polluting fossil fuels and halting the heating of the planet before it becomes uninhabitable for most species, including our own.

The resistance at Standing Rock is essential to the life of the Missouri River and to all those who depend on her, and that resistance is also critically important symbolically. There are thousands of other pipelines contaminating the water and land of many millions around our country, and around the world (the Amazon, for instance is being poisoned every day by continuous leaks), yet it is the resistance to this one river crossing, in a harsh and sparsely settled land, that has captivated national consciousness and inspired action all over.

We—people everywhere—are desperate; the horror of the recent election farce and impending (present) fascist corporatocracy, the specter of irreversible climate disaster, the destruction of the earth and each other due to the unending, insatiable greed of the few for ever more power and money, has created a collective urgency for real change. We know there is no time left.

The budding movement at Standing Rock has tapped into this deep need of people everywhere to make positive change, to act against the overwhelming and terrifying threats facing humanity and the earth. We must channel that into action in our own communities, as well as on the national and global levels. We must think and act, locally and globally.

And it is a movement modeling peaceful direct action. Now that the U.S. government openly and blatantly sides with the life-destroying corporations, now that even the façade of democracy has been pulled aside to reveal corporate collusion, the only choice we have is to put our bodies on the line. The action at Standing Rock not only demonstrates a way to resist and stand up to the entrenched power structure using just the power of moral courage to defeat this one pipeline, it is showing the path of nonviolent resistance for all of us. Standing Rock is demonstrating a way forward, it is the beginning of the essential paradigm shift that must occur if we are to survive. That is why this resistance has catalyzed so many to act. We must each act in our own lives; stand up against the wrongs we encounter all around us, in whatever ways we are able.

Like the great non-violent teachers and movements of previous eras, we must respond to hostility and brute force with peaceful resistance; we must keep showing up and showing up. We must expose the violence and greed for the hideous monster it is, a monster that threatens to destroy humanity and our planet, unless it is stopped now. We have no time to delay. In the words of Martin Luther King Jr., “In this unfolding conundrum of life and history, there is such a thing as being too late. This is no time for apathy or complacency. This is a time for vigorous and positive action.” This is the critical moment. We must change the paradigm completely. Now.

We are in a deep, dark fog. We are in danger of becoming lost in the swirling clouds of hopelessness and despair. Nothing familiar is visible—we can even become invisible to ourselves—everything is confusing, the way forward is obscured. But there are candles that light the path ahead. The Standing Rock resistance is one such light. We must follow the candles in the fog, one by one.

We must be the candles in the fog.

a tiny piece of the fire

 

We are now one day away from home. The return trip has been slower; a time of reflection, a time of integration of this brief but intense experience. The lessons seem to seep in, maybe as we drive through the ever-changing landscapes of this vast land, perhaps even as we sleep.

People ask us for information about Oceti Sakowin, but we just have our one snapshot in time to offer, and the situation is constantly evolving, so our news is outdated just as the information we received from others had changed by the time we’d arrived. We learn that more people are leaving the camps. We hear about the ACOE’s plan to close the Lake Oahe dam to raise the water level, ostensibly to prevent DAPL from continuing to drill, but which would also effectively flood the Oceti Sakowin camp, so maybe their intentions are not noble. Why don’t the police just arrest the pipeline workers if they violate the Obama administration’s order? In a TYT video we see Chase Iron Eyes talk about the elders extinguishing the Sacred Fire (it’s unclear why) and a new wave of Protectors following instruction from the elders to kindle a new Sacred Fire according to tradition. He says the name of the camp has been changed to Oceti Oyate, “the People’s Camp.” People are still needed to maintain the camp, but only people who are thoroughly knowledgeable, skilled and prepared to manage the deadly conditions. We consider changing our minds and turning back, but know that we have made the right decision–for now.

All along the journey, especially our return, I am keenly aware of being White and of American culture’s co-opting Native symbols and images. Everywhere we go, we notice places whose names are taken from Native words or peoples. In truck stops we see dream-catchers and artwork depicting Native people, the sides of U-Haul trucks, Chippewa Boots, on and on. It is a weird phenomenon: commit genocide, appropriate the land, then romanticize the culture that has been wiped out. As if that’s not sufficient, let’s run a toxic pipeline through what’s left and destroy their water supply. It reminds me of the deliberate slaughter of the buffalo, or the “gifts” of smallpox infested blankets to peoples forced onto “reservations” (what remains of unconquered, sovereign land). Despite having taken courses in Native American Studies and reading on my own, I realize that my day to day life rests in the comfort of unawareness; now everywhere we go I notice our white privilege. I can hardly imagine what it’s like to be a person of Native descent–either on or off the Rez–witnessing this hypocrisy.

We decide to head South. We are tired of the brutal, dangerous cold. Now that we’re no longer loaded to the roof with supplies, we have room to camp in the back of the Durango, but even though 12 degrees, then 20, feels balmy in comparison to the frigid conditions at Standing Rock, we end each day of driving worn out and ready for a tub, internet, and a real bed (though we do eat our camping food all the way back). We say a final, reluctant, goodbye to the West, crossing the river at St. Louis, and then spend an afternoon at the Cahokia Mounds where the largest urban area existed (pop. 20,000 circa 1,000 AD) until Philadelphia’s population surpassed it in the 18th century. We continue down to Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky, awed by the intricate underground veins that water has worn within the earth, hundreds of miles, through the limestone.

Then we drive Northeast, through incredible wealth of horse country North of Lexington, and back to shacks and crumbling towns of Appalachia as we near and cross the Ohio River. One last sight-seeing stop is at the great Serpent Mound of the Adena people, built either 300 BC–or 1,000 AD depending on whom you listen to. There we climb down a steep embankment to the creek far below (more caves under the twisting mound high above us) and our feet slide in–clay! (Probably this clay is what the mysterious creature that oversees this valley was made from long ago.)

I scoop up a handful, pick out the leaves, mold a ball, and am suddenly so, so happy. I am Grandmother Spider shaping my bowl in the darkness of my hands…

“Grandmother Spider reached out gently, gently and took a tiny piece of the sun and placed it in her clay bowl. Then she went back along the thread that she had spun, with the sun’s light growing and spreading before her. ‘Thank you Grandmother,’ the people said when she returned. ‘We will always honor you and we will always remember you.’ And all pottery must be dried slowly in the shade before it is put in the heat of the firing oven, just as Grandmother Spider’s bowl dried in her hands, slowly, in the darkness, as she traveled toward the land of the sun.”

 

relief and regret

 

As we leave Oceti Sakowin, we are very quiet. We are each processing this intense afternoon, the culmination of two weeks’ of preparation and travel. I feel a sense of let-down—sadness, disappointment, regret—and relief, huge waves of relief. After a couple of minutes absorbed in our own thoughts, I unbuckle, just to quickly grab something from behind the seat, and then lean forward to unzip my boots. Rod says, “Oh shit!” and I look up in time to realize we’re airborne bearing down on a huge snowdrift. I think, “This is how cars end up off the road,” and then in the next instant, somehow we’re through it without even a wobble. The snow next to us is right beside and higher than the car, but thankfully the path he drove through was only a couple of feet high. We continue on, still very quiet.

There is a long line of vehicles ahead of us and they all turn in to the Prairie Knights casino for gas. We also stop at the casino to use the bathrooms and for coffee (yes, that’s right, I had a cup of coffee). The main lobby of the casino is even more packed than earlier in the day; it has become a staging area for donated supplies, arranging car pools, and triage for folks who are stranded—many camping out on the floor. Rod notices one of the TYT guys talking on a cell phone. Soon we’re back on 1806 heading South.

We both wish we had stayed. Despite my initial impression of disarray, much of what is happening at the camps is really beautiful. People are taking care of one another, and are kind, friendly and respectful. There is an air of open-heartedness. People are there because of a shared purpose. There is a real feeling of community and camaraderie. There is also a spiritual feeling—many people in prayer, the commitment to non-violence, and the absence of alcohol and other drugs—creates an atmosphere of sacred space.

Our original goal, when we’d first learned of the government’s intent to evict the camps, was to be there to physically resist that unconstitutional edict; to literally stand with Standing Rock. We planned to camp there and had packed for a week or two, to help at in whatever ways were needed, happy to be behind the scenes doing support or grunt work, willing if necessary to go to the front line to be arrested. We expected to get to know people there, to see the way the camps work and how decisions are made, we hoped to listen and learn. It is this piece that I most regret not being able to do. (Ironically, when we’re eventually back in internet land, we come back to an email from a friend offering to connect us to one of the elders at the camp. We would have loved to have spoken with her, perhaps to help us find a way to stay, but the message comes too late. Perhaps not meant to be this time.)

Our secondary purpose had been to transport supplies that we knew “Jack’s Group” in Manchester had been collecting. This aspect of our trip quickly grew far beyond those items and took on a life of its own. Friends forwarded our email appeals to their friends, and some then even passed it on to yet another circle, adding one more degree of separation—ripples expanding outward. Many folks who were complete strangers to us donated supplies and money. The amazing outpouring of support shifted our focus, slowed our departure, and made it necessary for us to find a larger vehicle. Even with the Durango, in order to carry as many donations as possible, we ended up sacrificing our own camping gear to maximize space, figuring we would use the donated blankets to make a tent within the SUV and then contribute them to the camps at the end of our stay.

In the time it took for us to collect and organize supplies, then to actually get to North Dakota, much happened—the blizzard, the arrival of 10,000 veterans, Wes Clark Jr.’s eloquent apology, the Obama administration’s denial of the easement to DAPL, and Chairman Archambault’s request that all non-Native people leave Oceti Sakowin. We were clear always that we did not want to be a burden or a drain on resources. Though we’d felt drawn to join from the beginning, we did not want to be in the way, or go without a clear role, or way to be of use.

Now, with the dangerous wind and cold, and the potential for more snow, the main focus of the camps seems to be survival. Just maintaining a presence is full time work. If we had stayed we would probably have spent all our time and energy simply trying to stay warm. And I was concerned about not bringing illness to camp, not certain whether my rituals of tea, Echinacea and Ramen had been completely effective. Logically, it made sense to go; emotionally, however, we left regretfully, wishing to remain. After so much effort to get there, our whirlwind supply drop through the camp feels anticlimactic. We fulfilled our purpose, but still… leaving is poignant.

Thursday morning we cross the steaming Missouri river reluctantly, stopping at a cove sheltered from the brutal wind, to offer herbs, tobacco, some of Ellen’s ashes and prayers for the well-being of the water and people here.

On our way South, we drive past Kokopelli trees and trumpeter swans of ice and branches.

More hawks and Bald Eagles fly over us as we drive away, back to our lives, with renewed determination. I think that much of the importance of this journey has been in carrying the energy of all those who contributed and are supporting us emotionally and psychically. I’m sure the camps would have done fine without our little carload of stuff. Right before we start on our return trip Rod talks with a group heading up with 1,000 pounds of horse feed—ten times what we brought, which makes me question if it was even worth the gas we burned to get there. But it is all the individual carloads of stuff, and all the people pulling together —whether in person or in spirit—that is making a huge difference.

What I hope to carry forward is the energy of hope and commitment, the example that people can come together and stand up against huge corporate greed, power and destruction. The model that Standing Rock offers is courage and peaceful resistance. They are spearheading a much larger movement. We must follow the example of Standing Rock to fight the pipelines and other sources of poison—including the poisons of hatred and exploitation—in our own backyards. There is much work to be done.

_________________________________________________________________

The smell of the Sacred Fire lingers with me for days. In Iowa, where 12 degrees feels warm, I put away my wool pants; the scent of the fire wafts over me when I open my duffel, reminding me of the way the herbs and tobacco sizzled when I placed them in the fire, as the prayer for healing the earth came through me and the wind surrounded me with fragrant smoke.

Oceti Sakowin

 

The person at the entrance asks if we have any alcohol, drugs or weapons. We assure him no, that we’re just coming to deliver a load of supplies and he directs us in. We head, as best we can, in the direction he’s pointed, get to a big U-Haul truck blocking the “road,” and stop. Rod gets out and vanishes. I have no idea what tent we’re looking for. The entrance guy had said, “See that green tent over there,” and pointed vaguely. I see lots of green tents and no clear road or path. People are everywhere, unloading wood from a truck, carrying stuff, walking bent into the wind, bundled up, many wearing ski masks and goggles. Everyone seems to know what they are doing. No one asks if I need directions. It seems like utter chaos.

I decide to wait in the truck to stay warm but realize that Rod has the keys, so after a few minutes decide to leave it unlocked and search for him. I weave through the tents following the narrow path where I saw him disappear. It reminds me of meandering through the old city in San Juan, Costa Rica, or many other places I haven’t been, like slums of India or favelas of Rio, but have seen in photos or films. Here the path is just trampled down snow that has become slick from many feet and I slip and wish I’d dug out my crampons when we’d stopped. Packed around the outside of the tents, insulating them, are hundreds of plastic bags filled with summer clothes. I pick my way around them and the piles of stuff–“Water is Life” and “#NoDAPL” signs, plywood sheets, propane canisters and such–lying seemingly randomly everywhere. Luckily I find Rod quickly and he has learned where to bring the bags of clothes and blankets.

We spend several hours unloading. Now I am so glad that I took the time before we left to sort and label everything. There is a tent for just Carhartts and warm outer coats for folks on the crew working in the cold. There is another tent for “civilians,” down jackets and such. We deliver boxes of propane canisters, hand-warmers, headlamps, batteries, flashlights, a solar charger, etc. to the Hardware tent, and ice chests filled with frozen organic carrots, and frozen meat (pork, lamb, a turkey), a large tub of butternut squash, many pounds of garlic, boxes of chicken broth and almond milk, rice, corn meal, quinoa, two cubic-foot cast iron propane cook stoves, and two beautiful, industrial size stainless-steel cooking pots to the food trailer and main kitchen. We bring snack stuff to the Mess Tent where a young woman is describing all the menu choices (including vegan options) and serving from big pots and trays cafeteria style. We stop for a few moments to devour some squash soup which is the best squash soup ever, despite the little hard chunks of something I can’t identify and keep picking out.

Each tent is surprisingly warm, many have either wood stoves or propane heaters. We have to crouch down, “igloo style” Rod says, to enter through the flaps that are covered with blankets or tarps, and then take a moment to adjust to the dim light inside. My glasses fog up entering each tent, then the lenses immediately freeze outside, so I decide to leave them in the truck and make due without. In the sunshine I can see pretty well; inside the tents not so much. Each time we ask for directions, to the Medical Tent or the horses, for instance, people are friendly and their directions extremely confusing. After hearing several times to cross, or follow, or turn at “Flag Road,” I eventually realize that the flying flags line a main thoroughfare and start to orient myself. I also realize that the sheds we’ve been walking past, where people are sitting behind a plywood wind break, and announcements are being made, is actually the Sacred Fire. Somehow I hadn’t imagined the Sacred Fire to be so small or right in the hustle and bustle of the camp, but then I notice that people are sitting near it, praying quietly. I pull my long skirt out of my bag and slip it on over my snow pants, as requested on the Oceti Sakowin website as a sign of respect. I’d brought it a bit reluctantly, resistant (as I’ve been my whole life) to being instructed to dress according to a code. But wearing it is transformative. Suddenly I feel no longer an outsider, I feel as if I belong.

We begin to understand that there is little obvious central authority. Even though clearly there are volunteers doing many tasks, it’s unclear if there is a sign-up process for these jobs, or whether people just pitch in wherever needed. Other folks seem just to drift around. While we’re unloading our food crates and coolers into the food storage, I notice a young bearded man holding a Mexican blanket of mine that we’d used to wrap stuff in. He looks like he’s about to leave with it. He sees me watching him and says he’d noticed this blanket on the ground and it’s “beautiful and sacred,” and asks if I want it. I tell him it belongs to me and I’d like to keep it and that we’ve just delivered many warm blankets to the clothing tent if he needs one.

He follows us from tent to tent as we find the locations for various types of supplies; evidently he doesn’t have a job here at camp but he does try to help himself to our gloves while we are working at unpacking the cooking pots. I tell him we have just donated a large bag of very warm gloves to the clothing tent if he needs gloves. He asks where we’re from and it turns out that he’s a Vermonter also, from the Northeast Kingdom. Both Rod and I are politely trying to detach from him. He offers us many blessings and we continue trying to navigate the maze of tipis, tents, yurts and plywood shelters.

Eventually, we find each place we need: we deliver a bag of western medical supplies as well as healing herbs to the Medical Tent, and two 50 pound bags of feed to folks down at the horse corral. After locating the horses and searching for someone in charge, I ask some young Indian men walking past who we should talk to about horse donating the horse feed. They point to where the horses are hanging out, eating hay, not penned in and say to drive back and honk to get the owners of the horses to come out of their tents. “They’ll be mad at first when you honk, but then when they hear you have feed, they’ll be happy.” We manage to find some horse folks without honking. They do seem happy. Finally we locate the sewing tent—this time through the help of someone who takes the time to direct us step by step—on the outskirts (pun accidental) of camp to drop off the rolls and bags of fabric and ribbon.

Before leaving we take time to enter the circle by the Sacred Fire. We place the packages of tobacco that we have brought on the pile of offerings, and are instructed to walk around the circle to the left, take a pinch of some tobacco and herbs (cedar) and to toss them into the fire with our prayers, then waft the smoke towards us. The gesture reminds me of the ritual of lighting Shabbat candles and the bringing the light into oneself. I feel awkward entering the ring around the fire, especially as I start to walk the wrong direction, and because prayer isn’t something with which I was raised so I often feel hesitant, as if I’m going to do something wrong and cause offense or embarrass myself. I don’t want to dishonor or insult. But after the first faux pas I enter the circle and kneel by the fire, expecting—I’m not sure exactly what to happen—something like thinking thoughts that I’m in charge of. Instead, as I place the herbs into the coals, I hear words: “May we heal the Earth together.” They come suddenly, not as if I chose or even thought them. I don’t know if I said them aloud but sat by the fire feeling surprised and moved, by the experience of having had this “prayer” come unbidden through me. After a few moments I notice that I am thinking more ordinary thoughts, noticing the fire itself, surprised that it is just a few logs and coals in an earthen pit, not the big blaze that I’d expected, so stand ready to leave. I am very happy that we spent these moments by this fire.

It becomes clear to us both that we need to head out fast We have accomplished what we set out to do. Now the weather is turning harsh again; the winds are wailing even more fiercely, the sun is getting low and the sky darkening with thick clouds. Though I had wanted to see the closed bridge, and mentioned several times that I wondered how to find it, when we leave we just head south. I  briefly think that if we make a right turn out of the camp we’ll probably come to it quickly, but I don’t say this. It is scary cold outside and I want to make the drive back to the Grand River Casino before it is fully dark.

into the unknown

 

In 2007, when Ellen and I drove through South Dakota on I-90 our way home, we promised to not return. After the dramatic landscapes of desert, Rockies, Pacific Coast, Cascades, Yellowstone, and the Big Horns, South Dakota seemed barren, flat, boring and sad. But Rod and I are arriving from the East so the contrast is different. Then we leave the highway and the land of billboards and plastic; we find ourselves in starkly beautiful country—open plains, then rolling hills, then snowy buttes. It looks just like the landscape in Westerns, with the exception of the blacktop slicing through and punctuated by occasional 20th century towns. At Mobridge, we cross the Missouri River again and enter the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation. We have been encountering the river since Sioux Falls, this deep green water, wind whipped whitecaps, steam like ghosts dancing lightly above the waves, is the source of drinking water for everyone in this area—Native and non-Native alike. Min Wiconi: Water is Life. This is the body that is vulnerable to the pipeline’s poison, the body that the people at Oceti Sakowin have vowed to protect. I feel reverence for the water, gratitude for the protectors, and fear of the greed that motivates the insistent construction of the Black Snake.

The sun is low on the horizon as we arrive at the Grand River Casino for the night. The sunbows on either side have blended into brilliant balls of color, the waxing crescent moon is “halfway to the top of the sky,” and Venus is higher than I’ve ever seen her. We are on the top of a hill and I want to stand for a few minutes to watch the sun slip away, the sky filled with shifting neon colors rivaling those inside the casino, but the cold and the wind are beyond anything I have experienced. In the seconds it takes to snap a picture, my fingers freeze, and I run, leaning against the wind, to catch up with Rod inside.

In the morning Rod talks with a woman on her way back to Austin, Texas from a few days snowed in at the camp. She warns him that the roads are icy and covered with deep drifts and that people are desperate to get out. She says that even supplies can’t get in and if, somehow, we make it there, we will be turned away. The casino a few miles south of the camp is filled to overflowing but, she says, perhaps we can drop supplies there. We talk with an Indian man who seems to know this area and he suggests a college about a half hour south of the camp. We try phoning the Standing Rock Sioux tribal offices but get no answer and the voicemail is not accepting new messages. So we decide to head up to Fort Yates where the administrative offices are to see if we can find someone who has a clearer idea of what the situation at the camp is, and how best to get our supplies up there. When we find the administration building, it is surrounded by drifts and locked. We decide to keep driving north and see how far we can get. Our next goal is the Prairie Knights Casino.

Although our day began in bright sunshine, the road ahead is often obscured by the clouds of blowing swirling snow, yet the sky above is still bright blue. The further north we drive, the more severe the cold and the wind. The sky darkens, and the road is indeed icy and at times covered with drifts. We pass many cars in the gullies perpendicular to the road, some have clearly been there for days judging by the drifts encasing them; one is resting on its roof like an upturned turtle, another faces the road and we can see the smashed front. At Fort Yates we top off our gas tank in case we end up beside the road also. I am stunned by the cold and the wind. I’m from Vermont. I thought I knew winter. This is a different order of magnitude. Iowa and South Dakota were windy but when we get out at the gas station, the cold rips through me; this new wind is intense. We put on even more layers and keep going, slowly and steadily into the worsening weather.

We pass lines of cars with camping gear heading other way. We see charter busses that we assume are filled with the Vets for whom we are filled with gratitude. Eventually we get to Prairie Knights and learn that despite the line of vehicles heading south, the folks at Oceti Sakowin are very much not breaking camp. The casino is packed with people—many Native, many White—who are sitting on the floor with gear, standing in groups talking, or waiting in a long line for lunch. We talk with two guys with “Water Protector” buttons on their hats and clipboards to ask what we should do with our supplies. They tell us we will be welcomed at camp, the road is passable, just go slow. We have about ten more miles to go.

We pull around to the leeward side of the building to shelter (if you can call it that) from the wind enough to pull out more layers. I am particularly unhappy because I am missing my (Ellen’s) lined and hooded ski jacket that I left hanging in the closet of a hotel in Iowa City. Luckily we have bags filled with shells and outer wear so I’m trying to improvise, but mad at myself for my carelessness.

We take off again, the sky now dark from clouds and blowing snow, continue on Route 1806 even when the the cars ahead turn left on Route 24, presumably toward Bismarck, and despite the sign and blinking yellow light that warns: Road Closed Ahead. That is where the police have closed the bridge we assume, though we’re not certain we’re going the right way, we’ll try, and if necessary turn around. Then, we reach the top of a rise and down below, there it is: the flags whipping and flailing crazily, the tipis and tents and cars all tucked together in the snow. Suddenly the sky is clear and sunny.

detours and delays

By the time we reached Iowa City, late Sunday night, I was fighting a cold; my throat raw, my nose dripping. I slept the last leg and when we pulled off the highway I woke up disoriented, sick, and cranky–mad at myself for not getting enough sleep many days on end. The heater in the room where we stayed was broken and blew cold air, so by morning I was in rough shape. After tea, Echinacea, vitamin C and Ramen noodles (emergency food), I felt a bit better. We stopped at a bagel place with Wi-Fi (where the university students look awfully young) and I finally got this blog started while Rod caught up on some reading. Then I wrote most of the day while he drove the whole way across Iowa to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Out west, our frame of reference changes: traversing Iowa doesn’t feel like we’ve gone that far because it’s “just” one state; then I realize that the distance is comparable to driving from my house in Vermont to Washington, DC. It’s a big country and because of our weather detour we still have about 600 miles left to go.

As we travel we get messages and calls with conflicting information about the situation at Oceti Sakowin. After learning about the Obama administration’s belated decision to deny the easement and initial celebrations at the camp, we learn that the TEP is continuing to drill under Lake Oahe in defiance of the ACOE’s decision. Rod asks, with just a bit of sarcasm, if the militarized sheriff departments will start arresting the DAPL folks instead of the Water Protectors now?  Given the the U.S. government’s history of deception toward Native peoples, and the fact that the denial of the easement does not at all assure that the pipeline will be terminated, we are certain that the Oceti Sakowin encampment and the resistance to DAPL will continue.

We are determined to deliver the supplies and funds that so many have generously donated to this cause. What will happen after that, remains to be seen. There seems to be no way for us to accurately assess what is happening there, other than the consistent reports of a blizzard making roads impassible. We hear that Standing Rock Sioux Tribal Chairman, David Archambeau has asked all non-native people to leave the camp due to the severe weather, but we also learn that all still there are being warned to stay in their tents and off the icy roads. Even though it is disappointing, we decide not to push on. My head cold and the blizzard to the North conspire to delay us another day. We stop for dinner and the night at Sioux Falls. Then my first full night’s sleep in over a week.

Today I wake feeling much better. We continue West, even though it’s a longer route, we figure that driving North into the snow won’t save us any time. As I drive, we see more hawks, snow geese glinting in the sunlight, Canada geese, and a Golden Eagle. The highway is paved with a reddish stone, the sky is clear blue, the land wide open prairie–golden grasses frosted with white snow ridges–and to our right, a strip of lavender clouds that we presume to be the storm.

Eventually we outpace those clouds and turn North, switching drivers at Pierre, South Dakota, the landscape changing suddenly and dramatically into hilly bluffs along the sides of the Missouri river. I feel the excitement rising–we are getting close! I am grateful not to be driving now. What had been a headwind, cutting our mileage to 8 or 9 mpg, is now buffeting us and blowing drifts across the road.

Visibility gets really bad and Rod is forced to slow way down. Cars and a tractor-trailer are stuck in snow drifts and abandoned on both sides of the road, a stark warning to take this weather seriously. Finally we turn West again, toward Mobridge where we will cross the river to the Standing Rock Sioux reservation.

Now the clouds are again to our right and the light from the setting sun illuminates the hills in gold; ahead of us and to our left shine what I like to call “sunbows” and Rod names “snowbows.” We reach the casino on the reservation just as the sun and sunbows are setting and the moon, Mars and Venus are in the Southwestern sky.

Tomorrow we plan to get up early, layer up and drive the last hour up to the Oceti Sakowin camp. We have no idea of what to expect other than that we will deliver all the supplies and offer to work or be of use in whatever way might be most helpful. If that means they prefer us to leave, we will of course respect that.

 

 

 

 

 

on the road

 

Saturday evening and night we took turns driving and sleeping until we reached Erie, PA where we crashed for a few hours at an inexpensive hotel. Sunday, we drove across Ohio and most of Indiana until snow sidelined us for a while. We found a little Mexican Restaurant in a town near Gary and ate our first real meal in two days. While there, Freddi texted, “Victory!” I phoned him and learned that finally, the Obama administration has decided to deny the easement for the pipeline under the Missouri River. It is gratifying to know that the pressure from thousands of people converging from all over the land, as well as all the actions, calls and emails throughout the country, have forced the administration to at least respond in some way. It took a matter of seconds for Rod to point out that “rerouting” the pipeline is only a shell game and a stalling tactic. We know that the new administration will try to reverse this decision, and that any route for DAPL must inevitably cross the Missouri at some point, so we assume that despite the joy of winning this, perhaps symbolic, battle, the Oceti Sakowin Water Protectors will most likely remain for the long haul. We are certain that the supplies and funds we are bringing will be needed and welcome regardless of this recent turn of events.

For us, the impact of this decision lessens the urgency to try to get there by Monday, the original eviction day and impetus for the trip; a relief given the snow pouring down. I worry that the duffels Rod tied to the roof rack are not lined well enough. I wish that I had double bagged them instead of just packing in a single liner. Nothing I can do now, they are encased in inches of wet snow. We debate continuing through the snow or holing up for the night. After agreeing to do the latter, we drive on a ways just to “test” and end up getting well past Chicago, then continuing West to get out of the storm, rather than turning toward Minnesota and staying in the snow.

Crossing the Mississippi River is, as always, deeply moving. The majesty of this sacred being, the main artery of our continent, and the demarcation of our entry into the West, never fails to bring joy and, this time, relief. Finally. We have traveled exactly 1,000, miles when we reach the river. I am remembering crossing for the first time, when Ellen and I drove cross-country in 2007. She had read about the river’s moods in Huckleberry Finn, and was excited and reverent. Crossing into the unknown was then, and is now, elating and the real beginning to the journey. Ellen and I were further south, near St. Louis, where the river is wider and very regal, but here in the dark the river has a quiet, elegance; to the north the lights from the bridge, reflect, decorating her like a string of pearls.

Ellen is with me always but more consciously present as Rod and I travel. The route is the same as she and I took until Cleveland, but as we parallel that earlier journey, memories dance back. This morning, just before waking she was with me in my dream. Today, crossing Iowa’s open fields, I have been accompanied by memories of driving with her across Kansas, the road lined with tall yellow flowers that utterly captivated me, the sky low as we gradually climbed. These Iowa fields are edged with snow, the clouds are high and the light shimmery, as if we’re catching glimpses of pieces of rainbows behind.

I am writing as Rod drives. The Durango is being tossed by the wind. We see many hawks, some greet us, some I can’t identify, some stall in place, as if playing a game the way a child plays in the waves at the seashore. A Bald Eagle flies low in front of, and then, right over us. Later, I hear Rod exclaim and look up; we are surrounded by enormous, swirling, silent wind turbines. Their power and grace is awe inspiring. Earlier we’d seen single blades transported on flatbed trucks. We wonder why the North Dakota winds, about which we’ve been warned, are not similarly farmed, rather than forcing toxic, life-destroying oil pipelines on the people there? We wonder what is happening at the camps today, the day of the original ultimatum? Are the cars still streaming in with supplies and Veteran protectors for the Protectors? Will many of the thousands leave? Will DAPL comply?

We are eager to get there.

igniting the spark

This journey began Saturday just after sundown when we backed the fully loaded rental SUV out of Rod’s driveway. Well, actually it began a week ago when we learned that the Army Corps planned to evict the Water Protectors on December 5th. Or it began this summer when we, in Southern Vermont and all over the nation, started holding our own vigils and actions to stand with Standing Rock. Maybe it really began in all the peace songs, all the civil rights and anti-war marches of my childhood. In some ways this journey is inevitable, a culmination of all the political and social justice work and beliefs of my whole life.

Since the first moment I learned of the non-violent resistance of the Water Protectors in North Dakota I have been inspired and felt impelled to join. But the reality of the constraints of daily life got in the way. When we heard the news of last week’s escalation by the Army Corps and then North Dakota’s governor, it was clear: we had to go. Now.

If Rod’s response had been to explain any of the many rational reasons why we could not go, I would have agreed, and would have suppressed the urge to participate. But without hesitation he replied, “Let’s do it. We’ll put out an appeal.” If you’re reading this post, you’ve probably read one or both of our letters and our explanations of why we feel so passionately that this is such a critical moment. You may be one of the 50 or so folks who responded with contributions. So many people have thanked us, but it is all of you to whom we are deeply grateful. We literally could and would not be making this trip without you.

Almost immediately we began receiving pledges and contributions on Facebook, via email and in person. The outpouring of support has been incredible. By Thursday we’d collected and sorted many large bags and boxes of warm clothing, boots, blankets, sleeping bags, food, fabric, medical supplies, electronics, horse feed, and so on. Rod’s shop became a staging area and his work tables stacked with many piles. Friday, I opened my back door and discovered my mudroom completely filled with more. Saturday mid-day I loaded all the stuff from my place, and my own personal gear, left grateful instructions for the team of dear ones taking care of my furry family, and headed to Rod’s to load what we’d organized the day before.

When I entered his shop I was completely overwhelmed. My eyes filled with tears of gratitude for the second time that day. Every surface in his 24′ x 34′ shop was covered with donations. So much more had arrived. Earlier that morning opening the envelopes that arrived in the mail I had become choked up, amazed at the trust so many are putting in us. We are deeply honored to be entrusted to carry your gifts to the people at the Oceti Sakowin camps.

So, many hours later than we’d planned, we somehow packed everything into our home of the next 3 weeks, and began.