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.