My life

I have kayaked the Missouri and read Hemingway on a sandbar under the raining hot sun.

I dream of floating from Pick City to Bismarck, camped out overnight along the way. See that old stump fire sparkle in the night from the far hills?

I have read thirty books, but want to count a 100 titles in less than a year. Steinbeck, Cather, Forster, Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Oppenheimer. I can start a conversation and talk for two hours about books, ideas, people and places. Erdrich, Bellow, McCarthy, Burton, Speer, and Weizel.

Make that six.

The Elkhorn Ranch is sublime. I love the bend of the river, the jagged buttes, and haggard trees. The beauty of imagination lives in that valley.

Bullion Butte must not escape me. I see it in the horizon. Things must look different from the top. There's Little Heart Butte, and Crown Butte, and the Square Buttes. I must make a list of 10, and cross them off. You will be with me.

Let's sleep on the pontoon, sip wine into the night.

Heirloom tomatoes, such beauty. They will grow in the garden this year. Wait until we slice in September, a juicy kaleidoscope.

Surround yourself with life and I will do the same. Quiver for the quaking aspen, hearts beat for the butterfly bush. Hummingbirds how do you fly backward? I hear you Mary Oliver, words play within me. And oh, cottonwoods in a breeze how you dance with delight.

There is so much to do. Tonight I will turn a page, and then another. The creep toward 100. I'll dream of that sandbar, watching Orion sweep across the blackened sky.

Join me on the boat.

I'll close my eyes, thinking of Lawrence, Eliot, and Rand, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, and Conrad. Are you smirking Billy Collins? This is only the beginning.

Art, light and life

I love light, how my eye moves to it in art and in life. I love lights aesthetics and its energy. Like the curve of a smile, I am drawn to it. Like my new favorite painting by Van Gogh (Enclosed Field With Rising Sun), it bursts in my heart and awakens my soul.

I am now most aware of light. It is October, and each day it swings more quickly into the horizon. But in fall light seems extravagant in sight and feel. It frames colorful leaves and ripening apples, and falls softly on fields of golden stubble. Like a cake dripping in chocolate, it is rich in taste and texture.

Light can come unexpectedly. Two clouds part. A trio of quaking aspens filter the shimmering sun by a park. The moon outlines the curves of whitecaps on the river.

Sometimes light comes in the pages of books. I like what Marilynne Robinson says in Gilead about light within light, a flickering candle set in the warmth of a rising sun. I think of my soul within all of humanity.

The other night, the light-soul of life began to creep into the pages of Henderson the Rain King by Saul Bellow. 'Grun-tu-molani," says a character from an African tribe. It's the desire to live despite challenges faced.

We battle our humanness, looking for light in our lives, feeling our way through darkness. A poet I am reading (Charles Baudelaire) says it's natural for people to fail and lust and envy. He says sinning comes naturally. That is darkness. It is work to be good. Truth and honesty, compassion and hope come at a price. That is light, and light feels so good.

I want to open a favorite red wine, a Mondavi merlot and gently fill my glass. I'll wait for a gripping sunset, one that steals my eyes. I'll stand guard for the perfect occasion, waiting to see the jagged horizon in the distance and feel the wind. Then I'll lift the deep color before me into the light of the sun and fill the red lips of my soul.

How I long to be like the titan Prometheus. I want to steal fire from Zues, and bring light to all lives.

The importance of coffee

Grandma grew up near the Tamarac River in northern Minnesota. It was seven miles in two directions to the nearest towns, and the only way to get to Stephen or Argyle was by horse or by foot.

She says Bill and Jerry used to build rafts for the river, as most brothers would, but she preferred to swim. Of course the woods were close, too. She remembers the berries. There were chokecherries, juneberries, wild cranberries, plums, one place with raspberries, and some spots with wild grapes. Great grandma Laura used to put the grape leaves inside each jar of pickles. She made the brine, packed in the cucumbers, added a good amount of dill, and put those grape leaves right on top. Through time grandma says she can still taste them.

A lot of things were different back then. They called the old wood stove"Leapin' Lena." Most times the house was too hot or too cold. Many days were used to chop wood for winter. When they stuffed that old stove full of fuel before bedtime, she says you'd as soon break a sweat as you'd catch a chill. By early morning, it was time to pull those old blankets up around her ears.

Great grandma could cook. There was another wood stove that kicked out hot, fresh bread. It wasn't easy to get the right temperature--you had to know just the right amount of wood to put in. There weren't any knobs like today, no "medium" or low, no automatic 350 degrees. But they learned, and grandma says the food was really good, especially summer peas and potatoes with cream from cows they milked.

There was a lot of work to do. It would have been nice not to have those cows on the farm. It was hard to get away, hard to take any time off. She says they were kind of chained to the place. She says, "I can milk a cow alright." Life wasn't easy. She says great grandma told her she would go off to school because she wouldn't have her staying on any farm when she got married.

She left home for schooling in town in 9th grade. She lived with her dad's parents Mary and Pat during the week. Grandma would go home on weekends. But those seven miles were just too much to cover on a daily basis by horse and buggy. Mary and Pat lived in Stephen. Life stayed that way until she graduated.

In 1940, grandma Vivian moved to Grand Forks to go to the beauty school. She lived with her aunt Rose--great grandma Laura's sister. It was the Hairdressers Ball that changed her life.

In walked Raphael. He had another date that night, but grandma noticed him. In fact she says, he called her later that night. She says she noticed him at church, too. He always used to walk in late, and head right up to the front pew. Grandpa knew how to make an entrance. Ralph finished three years of school at the University of North Dakota before the war called. They were married February 15th, 1944 in Joplin, Missouri, where he went for training.

While the two were dating and grandpa was in the service, grandma did something most remarkable. She moved to Seattle with her friend and worked in the shipyards. In months she went from beauty school to welding school. She welded the great naval ships of the sea to aid the war effort. Because of her height, or lack of it, she says she was sent into the tightest corners of the ships. She and her friend worked the midnight shift because they were able to earn more money. They lived with her friends sister, but moved back to North Dakota after a handful of months when illness struck her friends family back home.

Life got pretty crazy in 1945. We were in the middle of a war, my grandpa was in the Army, and my grandma found out she was pregnant. A couple months later, grandpa Ralph was on his way to the east coast to join the conflict in Germany. But orders changed after the German surrender, so grandpa was shipped all the way to the west coast to ship out to the Philippines. He told grandma half the guys got sea-sick before they left the Golden Gate Bridge, but he was able to hold his own.

En route, on August 6th 1945, President Truman ordered an atomic bomb (Little Boy) dropped on Hiroshima. On August 9th, a second bomb (Fat Man) was dropped on Nagasaki. My grandfather never saw combat. I wonder if that changed my life. My dad was born while my grandpa was in the Philippines.

Grandpa still had to do some work overseas. He was first in the post office in the Army. Then it was stint with the military police, before he finally moved on to work in the hospital. Grandma says he gave shots and "sewed up people that were stabbed."

Grandpa first saw his son when he was seven months old. It must have been strange walking in from war. Grandpa brought some things back from the Japan. There was that gun that hung in the basement for many years, a kamono for grandma and another for great grandma. He also brought some dishes, and a saddle for great uncle's Bill and Jerry. The gun is the only thing still around. Shawn took it when grandma moved. He looked up the serial number online and found out where it came from.

Grandma says they moved to Bismarck in 1945, when my dad was eight months old. They lived in a trailer house by the river, near the current Memorial Bridge. They moved several more times, including finding places and neighbors grandma really liked on Griffin Street and Assumption Drive. They finally moved into the house I know--1616 N 18th Street. She remembers it was close to Thanksgiving. Dad says 1965. It's a place grandma called home for 43 years. Grandpa wasn't as fortunate. He died in 1977. My favorite memory is the day he pulled up in front of the house with a shiny new apple red Lund fishing boat. Grandpa finished the basement in that home. He always had a hammer in his hand.

When I think about that house, and I think about it often, I remember malted milks, icy cold kool-aid in sweaty glasses in the garage. I think of the weeping birch I used to watch sway in the backyard, its rhythms and shadows casting me into afternoon trances. I think of sneaking out of bed and down the hall with cousin Jim to watch Johnny Carson. Relatives played pinochle for quarters, and there was all the laughter. I think of vegetable soup that no one else can make quite right. Of course there were dozens of cookies, and carmel rolls and homemade doughnuts with chocolate frosting. And we ate Cocoa Wheat's and cereal with half & half. Everything got a healthy dose of butter. At night we slept with the windows open and listened to the soothing sound of traffic on Divide Avenue. And I'll never forget the Thanksgivings and Christmas's and the thick brown gravy and piles of presents.

We were exploring Bismarck sipping coffee as grandma shared these memories. She likes to go for drives. She always says things have changed a lot since she first moved to town.

Eventually, I had to drop her off in her new apartment. Over the summer we moved her from that wonderful house on 16th Street. Found out her birth certificate says her first name is really Mary, and her middle name Vivian. "Must have been a mistake," she says.

The other night I saw for the first time a glow of light coming from grandma's north facing bedroom in her old home. Someone's moved in. It seemed strange at first knowing those walls hold the hopes and dreams of new lives. What will their memories be? I have a safe place for mine.

The move is quite a change for grandma and there's been a flood of memories. I wonder how she'll adapt. I wonder how often she thinks of the juneberries and the steaming-hot fresh loaves of bread. I wonder how often she thinks of her mother, her brother Jerry, and those wonderful pickles. Today she still swims. I wonder how often she remembers the waters of her first home, near the Tamarac River.

Good Earth

Our first tomato is turning from green to orange on its way to red. The site gives me a thrill. It came on unexpectedly. One night green, the next morning the transition is underway. It's August 11th.

I meant to keep a journal of our backyard. Candace and I transformed it into something of our own. Watching its progress is a daily engagement. I feel the desire to know what we planted and when. I want to quantify the rich fruits of our labor, to count tomatoes and beans and peppers.

We decided on an early June Saturday to till a piece of earth on a whim. It is something we had thought about often but hadn't acted upon. Why go through the work when I felt with certainty we would move from this place? I also wondered if a garden would get enough light sandwiched between our house and the towering pines.

Our friend Clay gave us the ok to grab his tiller. Later that day we added peat moss and fertilizer and compost and bags of rich, black top soil. We tossed away clumps of mulched tilled grass and picked out stubborn roots from the pines.

Candace marked off perfect rows with several wooden posts at each end while stretching pieces of taught twine in between. She did much of the planting. There are thirteen tomatoes of various origins, green peppers, hot peppers, peas, beans, cucumbers, onions (red and white), radishes and lettuce.

I cherish the architecture of vines and leaves. It is exhilarating to see beans sprout through the earth as if they were waking after a night of sleep, the way I might raise my fisted hands from my feet to far above my head in a slow single motion. The radishes were quick, but too thick to grow bulbs. Too few of the onions sets caught on. Heartache.

The lettuce is grand and delicious. I venture to guess we have harvested three dozen bowls of the crisp, refreshing leaves and still they sprout. The cucumbers started slowly but began their feisty crawl during the early part of August. If only I knew the day I saw the first fruit.

Candace was the first to snap a pea pod and taste the luxury of its contents. The beans flowered and then came in waves toward the end of July. The yellow petals of promise on the tomatoes showed early and often, and now the plants are staked to tall mahogany wooden posts to help hold the hope-filled weight. The smell of the vines is therapeutic.

I went back in the garden tonight, in the dark with a small light. I lost count of the tomatoes at 130. I know there's at least another score.

There's so much to tell. I want to share with you the climbing vines, the roses, the butterfly bush, and how we want to attract hummingbirds. I want to remember it all, for all time.

The river runs through me

Have you ever dreamt of being alone on an island with the sun shining on you while holding your favorite book? It happened to me today, and I had Hemingway.

I put the kayak in north of Bismarck. It was my first trip down river, past places I'd been many times in a boat.

Things look a lot different close to the water. You feel bigger and smaller at the same time. Bigger for experiencing nature in this way, smaller for realizing the world is a big place and you're one wave away from swimming in current. It is good to feel small, a minuscule part of something so sweepingly beautiful. It's like the sand on my favorite beach north of where the Heart flows into the Missouri, one speck in a trillion. When I fall into its luxury I scoop up handfuls of it and let it fall back down, my fists forming a human hourglass.

My maiden journey reminded me a little of the Old Man and the Sea, I hooked to some great fish leading me away. "Take me somewhere," I thought about the kayak. "I want to see things I've never seen, I want to feel things I've never felt."

The word harmony is on the end of our paddle. I loved that there was no noisy, smoking engine. I could hear the kayak cut into the river as it moved forward, the trickles of water off the oar. Nothing interfered with the bird songs or the whispering wind.

A half hour after I started, I stopped at a sandbar in the middle of the river. The cool water was welcome relief from the heat. I sat down in it and splashed it up on my face and back. I drenched my hair. I watched some boats go by and I tried to remember the paths they took. When I cooled down, I circled the small island, maybe 35 yards long. The rippled sand felt good underfoot. I found a dry spot in the middle and, using my life jacket as a pillow, opened For Whom the Bell Tolls. Robert Jordan is planning the bridge attack during the Spanish Revolution. He has a trusted friend in Anselmo. He is in love with a perfectly imperfect woman, and a great snowstorm has struck. All this from an isolated island in the middle of the Missouri River on a 90 degree day near Bismarck, North Dakota.

I return to the water along the east shore. Two guys ask me where I started. "Up north near Double Ditch," I tell them. "That's a good day," they reply in stereo, raising their Mountain Dew bottles to toast my adventure.

I am told for a peaceful voyage to stay away from the main channel and take the shallow, narrow tributary-like route behind Christmas Tree Island. It is good advice. For maybe two miles I oar and stop and float and oar and stop and listen. The sun beats down on my brown arms. I see a bald eagle. There are many switchbacks and I learn to read shallow water along the way.

There's Grant Marsh bridge. A couple dozen people are walking up onto the riverboat. Above, traffic races both east and west along I-94.

The kayak gracefully turns the corner from the main river channel to the boat ramp. I wonder what people think of me. Perhaps I started in Montana, a man with a gypsy heart and a book and somewhere to go. Or maybe they think I'm crazy, or brave, or out of place.

With the vessel loaded onto my shoulder, I walk up to a park bench. I stretch out and read more pages. Candace pulls up with the pickup. She brings refreshing cold peaches and a half can of Diet Coke.

It is good to be on my way home, yet still I think of the river.

Double Ditch at Sunset (2008)

This time I laid my body down in the grass. I found one of the many ditches dug over 200 years ago by the Mandan Indians and eased to the earth on a slant. I dropped my head on a thick biography of Thomas Jefferson and looked to the sky.

My hands rested on my forehead with my elbows up. They combined to frame the blue sky above. The architecture of prayer. I stared at it for minutes. It was such a soft color I began to see sunspots in my eyes. I knew Crown Butte was straight in front of me, Square Butte was to my right, and a 3/4 moon to my left. The prairie wind welcomed me in pulses, gusting here and there across the brown stubble. I live by heart. I hoped nature would rain on my soul. This is a place you'll find me.

At one time it's estimated 10,000 Mandan Indians lived here. It started around 1490. I wondered about them, great planters of the prairie. They raised corn, beans, squash, sunflowers, and tobacco. They dug ditches by hand for protection and women built the earth lodges. What magnificence. Buffalo were abundant as were fish and birds. The river provided fresh water and the high hill a majestic view of in three directions.

I think it's the humanity that draws me here. On this ground they lived and loved and fought and ate and played and discovered and learned and gave birth and died. Life advanced. So did time.

By 1785 Double Ditch was abandoned. A small pox epidemic wiped out much of the population. Perhaps 1200 were left by 1800. When Lewis and Clark came through on 22 October 1804, they noticed several deserted villages.

I sat up from my book pillow. The sky around me changed as the sun eased into the horizon. Clouds formed like wispy purple-blue ghosts far from the sun. Soft pink settled gently in-between. I fixed my eyes on the flaming mango-orange sunset. Ordinary turned sublime. It is one of the stories of my North Dakota.

Sixty-four colors

Candace and I drove up to Double Ditch a couple weeks back with the intention of writing, reading, soaking in the sunset, the sounds of prairie grasses, and the history. We had to arm wrestle Riley into coming with us.
It is sacred ground--no doubt--deserving of respect. But this is not always easy to do when trying to appease a 7 year old. That meant a stop at Wendy's on the way out to get chicken nuggets and fries, a southwest salad, and a spicy chicken sandwich.
So we pull into the circular drive, gather our things, take the paved path out to the blue bench and plop down. By now we have violated just about everything Clay Jenkinson mentioned in his recent Tribune article! But I think maybe we have achieved a balance of being able to enjoy the landscape, the sweet air, the caress of the breeze, and the symphony of crickets and grasshoppers mixed with the crunch of fast food bags, the odor of greasy fries, and the slurp of a fast melting frosty.
It was good for about ten minutes. Quiet was just settling in , the soul of the place was weaving into our minds and hearts, the taste of the air was replacing that of the spicy chicken and chili--when Riley informed us he had "to go."
So the sun didn't set on us from the beautiful buttes as we had planned. We didn't get a chance to fall into the grass and look up into the heavens, we didn't open Mary Oliver--Orion did not start his creep from eastern horizon to west. Instead we gathered our stuff, left the sun hanging like a family picture on a wall, and scurried back into Bismarck.
The thing is, the trip was beautiful in its own right. Far from perfect. Far from expectations. Far from simplicity. But beautiful. No doubt Crayola is jealous of North Dakota skies--hard as they may try, the colors can only be matched by the memories they burn into my mind. Each night when I lay down, I review these fleeting sunsets hoping they drift into my dreams. I see the colors again as I want to remember them, and am glad in my imperfection to be a North Dakotan, a husband, a father, and a friend.

To myself

I am
laughter
on a good day,
kind and thoughtful.
I read obituaries--
my heart fills with
sorrow and pride
for lives lived.
It's as good as any of us can do
sometimes
to get through the days.
But when it's over all lives
could be great movies
because they have joy and pain,
dreams and hopes,
success and failure.
These souls saw colors of sunsets,
so many colors who could
pick a favorite?
Fire flies, stars shooting, a rainbow.
Little wonders.
Hear the prairie thunder--
it could be July or August against Orion's
midnight sky of black.
Some painted in watercolors or
told great stories around crackling campfires
by any lake anywhere.
Have you ever felt wind
so strong
it takes your breath?
Courage, honor
tradgedy, failure.
Walt fought in the war.
Georgia was a poet.
Ralph lost his sunglasses
in an outhouse
then tried to fish them out
with a daredevil.
Laura loved me.
Delores danced.
Odie gambled.
Who would have known?
These wild lives
fill me
with a crooked smile
that says you lived, all of you lived
and I will too.
On a good day,
I do more
than dream.

Word dancing with my daughter

I remember the day she was born. I cried, and said, "She's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen." My mom wiped tears away and softly agreed. "I know."

It was a wondrous Friday in September.

Now here we are, twelve years later, sitting on the couch in our living room. It's past 10 but before 11. We're lost somewhere in between, reading poetry by Mary Oliver. We wander through her prayerful love of nature and her attentiveness to life. We like Sleeping in the Forest, The Sunflowers, and Sunrise. We read several more, taking turns. As she talks, I close my eyes. She skates across the words as if on clean ice. Her voice is strong, intelligent, and thoughtful. She is all things and more.

We come to First Snow. I'm reading now, quietly so we don't wake anyone.

"The snow/ began here/ this morning and all day/ continued, its white/ rhetoric everywhere/ calling us back to why, how,/ whence such beauty and what/ the meaning; such/ an oracular fever! flowing/ past windows, an energy it seemed/ would never ebb, never settle/ less than lovely! and only now,/ deep into night,/ it has finally ended./ The silence/ is immense,/ and the heavens still hold/ a million candles; nowhere/ the familiar things:/ stars, the moon,/ the darkness we expect/ and nightly turn from. Trees/ glitter like castles/ of ribbons, the broad fields/ smolder with light, a passing/ creekbed lies/ heaped with shining hills;/ and though the questions/ that have assailed us all day/ remain--not a single/ answer has been found--/walking out now/ into the silence and the light/ under the trees,/ and through the fields,/ feels like one.

I get to the end and we begin to ask questions. We start to pull apart the poem with care and gentleness. There is joy in defining the subtle flavors of words and rhythms.

"Oracular," we wonder? Divinely inspired, ambiguous, reads dictionary.com.

A million candles. Beautiful. Micaela says, "Maybe she means the stars." I'm startled by the ease of her answer. Is she 12, or 21? By reading on, we think it's something else.

Maybe she's talking about glittering snowflakes aloft in the heavens of the night. Knowing, not knowing, thinking and sharing is delicious.

We go on. "Trees glitter like castles of ribbons..."that's good," we both say.

And the broad fields smolder--I love it. "What does smolder mean," asks Micaela. "It's like when you pour water over a fire and the smoke and steam overtake everything near," I say, using my hands to show the magnitude. "Oh, yeah," she says. "She's really good."

There's more.

"Questions that have assailed us all day/remain--not a single/answer has been found--"/

The word "assail" springs like an arrow from a bow. It seems the awe of nature has invaded Oliver's soul, yet show knows no answer for her feeling.

Then the poem takes a dramatic turn and ends gently, like a big feather-filled snowflake falling from the sky onto one of its own.

walking out now/into the silence and the light/under the trees,/and through the fields,/feels like one.

There is an answer.

We hustle back to the beginning.

We feel the strength in words the poem begins with--white rhetoric, oracular fever, an energy it seemed would never ebb. Then she dips her brush to change the color of the language--the silence is immense, trees glitter, broad fields smolder, and heaped with shining hills paint vivid pictures in our minds and hearts.

Then the exquisite transition before she ties it back to the beginning--the bold questions of why, how, whence such beauty and what the meaning.

And the haunting--not a single answer has been found--

But then she steps outside the walls of her home and heart, where nature's beauty holds her captive. "walking out now into the silence and the light under the trees and through the fields, feels like one."

We go back to the beginning at least three times more and start again until our thirst is satisfied.

As we say goodnight, I think to myself, "She is a beautiful young woman." I hear my mom whisper, "The most beautiful."

A prayer to light

All the weight to hold, I hold unto me.
Heart heaved
against wind and will
shadows cast crookedly
against my soul.

Staggered, drunk, dizzy
midnight covers dawn
there seems no light to see.

Lifted by grace
hope soflty shines
and this weight let go
is no longer me.

Moments

I saw an old couple today
probably in their 70’s or 80’s
in a gold Buick.
My glance caught them
debating a grocery flyer
shiny and creased.
They were looking at the meat section
pot roast, steak, bacon
it was 4:08 at a stoplight
Divide and State, cloudy, warm, breezy.
I saw a glance of green
and turned without thinking.
Suddenly they were left behind.
Gone.
She had curly hair and rimmed glasses
and looked intense.
He was attentive—both hands on the wheel.
Silent.
Five blocks later
down the hill and to the right
I still wonder what they’ll have.
When your days are numbered,
I say eat steak.

Walking with Roosevelt

There is a direct connection between the history and landscape of North Dakota, and the very soul of who I am. Walking along the Missouri River, through the badlands, or atop the thick black soil of the Red River Valley, I often stop, close my eyes, and wonder who's walked there before me.

On these days, I find my thoughts drifting away through Dakota's history, as if caught be a gusty northwest wind, carried purposefully from place to place across the prairie.
Some days I'm sitting around a campfire with the Corps of Discovery, writing in my journal, chewing away at the days adventures.

Other times I'm running cattle in the badlands, sipping coffee black enough to jump-start a dead mans heart, or celebrating with a shot of forty-mile red eye.

There are times I see my grandpa working eighteen hour days to get the crop in, or out. I smell the fertile Red River earth, see him pick up a handful of dirt, and watch it fall heavily to the ground between his weathered fingers. Sweat coats his face, soaks his shirt.

There is no place like North Dakota. You cannot walk the land and not feel her presence. Winter winds whip your face while the summer sun tans it. Always you feel very much alive. Your heart pounds with the excitement of a flying pheasant, the wind whistles in your ears as it wraps unsympathetically around your face, and a cold winter day put a sting in your fingertips. In many cases, North Dakota awakens an unquenchable spirit of adventure.

From time to time I dash off into the heart of my dreams. I was at one of these places not long ago, the site of Theodore Roosevelt's Elkhorn Ranch. It lies in rugged, remote territory some 35 miles north of Medora. The land remains much as it was 100 years ago. As I slip between some fence posts and onto an old, beaten, trail to reach the place, my imagination slips into history. I'm walking with Roosevelt.

His pace is nearly too quick to follow. Like the spirit of the badlands, I am lifted by his strength, character, and courage. Although he first came to hunt, he writes, reads, and heals. Black-care will not catch us today.

I trudge further down the snowy, sometimes icy trail, breaking into small pools of wintry water. It is, of all things, a 60 degree January day. A beautiful clearing emerges slightly west of the banks of the Little Missouri.

I close my eyes and hear Bill Sewall, the ranch foreman, and Wilmot Dow cutting giant cottonwoods. They are experienced woodsmen, and friends. TR cannot keep pace. The rugged pair make quick work of over 100 trees today, while the boss is only able to “beaver down seventeen.” I imagine hearty laughter as Roosevelt realizes his is no match for the two men from Maine. The Elkhorn takes shape.

My mind skips ahead, and winter turns to spring; the ranch is complete. On his beloved horse Manitou, Roosevelt crosses the Little Missouri, shallow, earthy water splashing up around him as he heads off to hunt. I struggle to catch him as he reaches the top of a butte. These badlands are a strangely compelling place that captured and mended his lion-heart, a place so magnificent they won't leave you.

He moves with conviction, after buffalo, elk, grouse, deer, and other wild game. He is off to Wyoming, Montana, sleeping in two inches of rain, braving cold so bitter he seeks shelter in an old shack in the dark of night to survive. He feels alive.
He captures boat thieves, knocks out a loud-mouth drunkard, shoots a grizzly square between the eyed (all twelve hundred pounds of him), and stands toe to toe with the sharp-shooting, confident Marquis.

He rides through starry nights and purple-pink sunsets. He tells stories, eats well, and shares laughter. He reads, writes, and checks the herd. There are pictures to take, and fences to mend, and wrongs to right. But we must return to the ranch.

Sitting on the veranda, dazzling shades of orange, pink, blue, and yellow gently fade into the sky, reaching in stark contrast to meet the tops of sharp, sometimes rolling and jagged buttes. There are stars bright in the sky, darkness in the valley, thick sweet smells of wild earth, and burning coal mixed with sage. Roosevelt slams another book shut. The rocking chair creaks against the weathered floorboards. He reaches up to remove his spectacles, and rub the top of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Another day is gone, and although he will soon leave this place, it will never leave him.

In the distance, a restless deer breaks the silence. It snaps my mind back to the present, and I turn back to the trail. My soul is refreshed.

Why Scoria?

I have always been fascinated by trips through southwestern North Dakota. The landscape is one to wrestle with, rugged and tempting, lonely and intimidating.

From time to time, there is an unmistakable feature you'll see carving its way across hills and around buttes. "Scoria" is the rusty colored rock that paves the way to many farms and ranches. The scoria roads look their best after an early evening rainfall, with the backdrop of deep-blue thunderheads marching to the east, while golden sunlight slips in behind from the west. Like light in a good painting, the scoria on the prairie catches the eye.

The North Dakota Geological Survey says the stone is called "scoria" locally, but is actually referred to as "clinker." You tell me what sounds better. Scoria" is sandstone, clay, or shale baked by burning lignite coal.

After passing through western Dakota in 1864, General Alfred Sully called the badlands "hell with the fires out." He wasn't the only one who noticed. Scoria also caught the attention of Lewis & Clark.

Said Clark, "Saw an emence quantity of Pumice Stone on the sides & feet of the hills and emence beds of Pumice Stone near the Tops of them, with evident marks of the hills having once been on fire. I Collecte Somne of the different sorts i.e. Stone Pumice & a hard earth, and put them into a funace, the hard earth melted and glazed the others two and the hard Clay became a pumice Stone glazed."
On April 16, 1805, Lewis wrote the following:
"I believe it to be the strata of coal seen in those hills which causes the fire and birnt appearances frequently met with in this quarter. where those birnt appearances are to be seen in the face of the river bluffs, the coal is seldom seen, and when you meet with it in the neaghbourhood of the stratas of birnt earth, the coal appears to be presisely at the same hight, and is nearly of the same thickness, togeter with the sand and a sulphurious substance which usually accompanys it."

If you google scoria, you'll find it's really volcanic rock. It comes from the Greek word σκωρία, skōria, rust.

I love the thought of our journey through life, upon a fiery road, not knowing what's around the next corner. Scoria stands out among the golden-brown fields of the badlands, as if it's leading to a promise of something better along the way.

Honoring the fallen

June 6th is my birthday. It's also the day North Dakotan's Travis Van Zoest and Curtis Mehrer died serving their country. They lost their lives in 2006 in Afghanistan.

I'm thinking about them today because of a story I am working on. The All Veterans Memorial on the state capitol grounds honors our fallen soldiers. It was dedicated June 10th, 1989, during our state centennial. On the bronze tablets are names of 4,050 soldiers who gave their lives during our first 100 years of statehood. The problem is, around 200 of those names are mispelled, others were missed (though few), and those from the current conflict are absent.

The 2007 legislative session provided a ray of light. $100,000 dollars was tucked into the Facility Management budget to make things right. The hope was to replace all the panels with proper corrections in time for Veteran's Day, 2008.

Today comes bad news. The price of precious metals is so steep, the project may have to be put on hold. Instead of $100,000, the state now needs $280,000. The price of each panel has skyrocketed from $1,500 to $5,500. The worst case scenario is the 2009 legislative session will be called upon to authorize the difference. It would be a shame to wait that long.

The state has a budget surplus of $200 million, and other reserve funds totaling $400 million. We need to do what's right for our fallen soldiers. The money needs to be found, and found now. These men gave their lives for our country. Van Zoest and Mehrer never got the chance to celebrate their 22nd birthdays. It's the least we can do.

There is another consideration. Soldiers who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan may have to wait longer before their names are bronzed. Because of the cost invovled, and the possibility others could lose their lives, those who've fallen in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom may have to wait until the conflits are resolved.

I talked with Van Zoest's mom today. She says the names need to be included immediately. Sheila Richter lost a son June 6th, and all she wants is for his memory to live on in the hearts and minds of those who live. In my mind, and my heart, one cost cleary outweighs the other.

Becoming a great "North Dakotan"

There's been a lot of talk about what North Dakota isn't in the news lately. I guess the state appears empty to most of those outside of it, and quite honestly, even to many residents within its borders. The whole idea of North Dakota being a boring place has gnawed at me since I was young. To some extent, it seems like we spend a lot of time trying to make ourselves something we are not.

I remember when I was in college, the mayor at the time wanted to build a waterfall by River Road in Bismarck. There's also the idea of dropping "North" from Dakota. The argument is to change outside and inside perceptions. Sarcastically I suggested in the student newspaper a retractable dome be placed over the state. I say it's time to embrace what we are, and what we have. It does get cold here, no matter how the tourism brochures try to alter reality. The wind blows. Temperature differences can be extreme, and in a short amount of time. So what? Don't people like challenges? How about scaling Devils Tower, climbing Everest, or competing a triathlon?

The truth is, North Dakota is prime, sublime territory for those who are adventure minded. I think if we want to change outside perceptions of who we are, we need to start on the inside. I propose a plan of action, something to stimulate average, everyday North Dakotan's to get off the couch and learn more about our history and our future. Kind of a "you have to love yourself before someone else can love you" type of thing.

If we are concerned about the future of the state, we had better act now, investing in our youth. If they grow up embracing North Dakota, they are more likely to stay, open a business, start a family, and eventually reach out to others about visiting this place. I want to build a base of "Great North Dakotan's."

I'm taking ideas for lists of buttes to climb, books to read, and places to visit. I want to hear about your adventures, see your photos, read your writing, and be stimulated by your thoughts. I've kicked around a few ideas with family and friends. Right now the idea and its parameters are limitless. As I carry the weight of 37 3/4 years on my back, I know two things. It's time to get started, and it's never too late to get started. I hope to see you along the way.

Finding Abe

It's amazing what books can do. Words really open doors. I've started reading a lot again. In the past few months I've finished "Snow Upon the Desert," "Gilead," "The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt," My Antonia," "Giants in the Earth," and "Team of Rivals." My mind is now wandering around in "Theodore Rex." I am excited to open the pages of "1776" and "Jon Adams." There are many more. I am excited by titles and frustrated by lack of time.

I literally feel alive. When I close the pages, I can feel the stimulation in my head--the throb of learning. The books I've read have awakened my senses, revived a tired spirit, given me hope, and touched my heart. I'm sorry I waited so long to meet Abe Lincoln. Never have I read of someone so real, so intelligent, so compassionate, so honest. He's a modest hero who helped define equality in flesh and bone, and not just on paper. Lincoln was a man with vision, extraordinary patience, and the ability to work with friend and foe alike.

I also relate to the mood of "Giants in the Earth," the landscape, and the character Per Hansa. Life isn't easy. Some days I'd like to walk out on my job, eyes pointed to the west, always west. The more I learn about those who settled our state, the more I respect them. There's a lot of sorrow in the story. There's also depression and tragedy. Yet somehow I came away deeply touched. I know I feel broken at times, desperately lonely, and down on myself. But much like the characters, through grace I find the strength to pick myself up.

It's been a long winter for me. I'm ready for the rebirth of spring. I've got a lot to look forward too. There are many new pages to turn. I like when I slip my book-mark in for the night, and close my eyes. Like globes in a lantern, I can feel the glow in my head. These books have given me a lot of good things to think about. I think I know a little more about who I do and don't want to be. And somehow, reading Roosevelt and Lincoln and characters less in name, I find a little courage to go out into this world. This afternoon, the wind demanded to be recognized by all across this western prairie. But then a remarkable thing happened. Steel blue clouds crept in ominously from the northwest. They brought a gentle rain. We cracked some windows. The trees fell silent. Life feels refreshed.