Lovebus

Chapter 19: The Return of Crazy Horse

Chapter 19: The Return of Crazy Horse

Chapter 18: Wounded Knee

Chapter 18: Wounded Knee

Chapter 17: Mud for Dessert

Chapter 17: Mud for Dessert In a remote corner of Badlands National Park, there is a little swimming hole hidden behind a clump of trees across the street from the White River Visitor Center. The bus passed through a small gate, down a dirt road, and parked in a field beneath two massive oaks. Past the trees, through a row of thick bushes to the left, we could see a shallow and slow-moving river about twenty feet wide. Behind the row of thick bushes to the right, a muddy creek joined with the little river, creating a delta full of grey mud. The mud had collected in the creek bed, covering an area about ten feet wide by forty feet long. It was hot and everyone was excited to swim. When we got to the edge of the mud, no one really knew what to do. As he started to undress, Chicken Jim informed us, “This is the best mud in the whole country, right there. It’s mostly volcanic ash and sediment that erodes out of the Badlands when it rains.” Berndt Toast took a seat on the rock and started removing his prosthetic limb. Little Josh, Mother Michelle, Australian Sheila, and Chicken Jim all wore bathing suits, but everyone else got naked. We all stood sheepishly by the edge of the mud for several minutes and no one had the guts to go in. Our drivers knew just how to break the ice. They both came running through the bushes naked, yelling and yahooing, and they jumped right into the mud, feet first, landing like bombs, throwing handfuls of mud as our group scattered. After testing the depth of the mud in several places, the two drivers found spots they liked and began wiping mud all over their bodies. Driver Brian made ape sounds and painted lines on his face like war paint. Driver Chris dropped into a seated position making a loud squishy sound with his ass. It looked fun. Soon passengers began jumping in, and I followed suit. Out of the bushes we heard another thundering roar. “MOOOO!” To my amazement it was Buffalo Dave. He came thundering like a mad bull out of the bushes bent over at the waist with fingers pointing in the air like horns. “I’m a Buffalo!” he shouted. “MOOOO!” “Look! It’s Buffalo Dave!” I yelled. Passengers darted out of the way to clear a path as he arrived. As the massive man’s body came to a halt at the edge of the mudhole, his feet slipped in the mud sending him careening down the bank of the creek like a Buffalo on water skis. He stayed upright all the way off the lip of the foot-high embankment. His feet kicked out from beneath him as he launched off the wall. Time seemed to suspend itself as we stood there naked watching his giant form land like a hairy bomb in the wettest part of the mud hole. His ass explosively threw mud in every direction for twenty feet. Mud splattered the bystanders like shrapnel, freckling naked forms with flecks of grey. There was a universal cringe and a groan of communal pain. Considering the force of the explosion, the massive man’s ass must have been jam-packed with mud. Silence befell both tribes as we held our collective breath like a parent after hearing a disturbing thud at the bottom of the stairs. Hardly anyone knew about his spinal injury, but it was obvious he was feeble and limited in his ability to walk. A moment later, Maid Marian rushed to his side and urgently asked, “Are you alright?” Driver Chris asked too. “Are you okay, big guy?” The Old-Growth-Hippie checked himself. He wiggled his toes. He straightened his back. “I seem fine,” he intoned. There was a big cheer. “Woohoo!” “Hey Chicken Jim,” Little Josh called out. “We have a new bus name over here. He’s Buffalo Dave!” “Well, that name’s gonna stick,” Buffalo Dave bellowed with laughter. “Ya!” Shouted Fräulein Vera. “You will call him Buffalo Dave.” “Get him!” shouted Yülia. “Get him!” shouted Jewels.

Chapter 16: Champagne for Breakfast

Chapter 16: Champagne for Breakfast A whiff of campfire smoke awakened me from my astral slumber high atop Sheep Mountain Table, in the Badlands of South Dakota. I lay awake for several minutes, alone on the communal mattresses encircling the smoldering bonfire. The morning air was cool and refreshing. The sun had already risen above the horizon, so I got out of my sleeping bag to avoid overheating. I lay there for a while watching and listening to the sounds of Green Tortoise camp. Passengers were moving about in all directions, busy with breakfast tasks, packing gear, seeking privacy with shovels, loading mattresses on the bus, sipping Cowboy Coffee, collecting trash, and conversing happily. The orange juice looked especially appealing. I heard Little Josh yell, “I got it!” He was playing Frisbee along the cliff with a couple of passengers from the other bus. The other players were playing keep away from him because he sucked at throwing. He kept running from side to side trying to catch the Frisbee, shouting, and pushing the other players as they snatched it away from him. I stood up, stretched my arms over my head, and took a deep breath. Only a few passengers remained on the massive circle of mattresses surrounding the smoldering bonfire. Juliano was still in bed but he was not sleeping. To my dismay, he was making love with one of the girls from the other bus in plain sight of more than fifty people. The South American stud was really going at it, grunting, and huffing like a snorting bull pawing the earth. One of the other girls Juliano had been entertaining the night before lay beside them less than three feet away, resting on a bent elbow, watching them intently. I looked around to see who else might be watching. The Irish girls, Fräulein Vera, and Flip-flop were staring right at them, casually sipping tea while they enjoyed the show. Judging from the telltale strings dangling over the rims of their mugs, they were drinking Ireland’s finest. Their relaxed postures and jovial conversation made it clear that the shock had already worn off on them. Apparently, Juliano and present company had been going at it for quite some time. An errant throw floated the Frisbee into the camp kitchen where it skipped across the food table on which people were cutting fruit salad with sharp knives. There was a burst of laughter, but no one seemed to mind. Little Josh tore into the crowded kitchen area at top speed, bumping into people and creating a stir. Driver Chris picked up the Frisbee and gave Little Josh an unspoken look. He threw the Frisbee so far that the game moved away. He was aware of the South American’s fireside free show, and he had been watching the boy to make sure he remained unaware of the double backed beast. The girls drinking tea giggled as Mountain Girl walked straight up to them. She picked up a sleeping bag and draped it over them, and shouted, “Get a room!” Juliano lifted his head with his back arched in surprise. The girl beneath him looked horrified. She glanced at Mountain Girl, then her voyeuristic friend, then she pulled Juliano back down on top of her and hid beneath the blanket. The teetotalers held their bellies laughing and Driver Chris guffawed. I stepped off the mattress onto the cool dusty ground close to the still-smoldering embers in the fire pit. I was conscious of the Earth beneath me, as if my bare feet penetrated the soil, rooting me into the land. The fine dust between my toes was like a conduit of heightened awareness. I could sense my place on the earth like I was looking at myself from space. I was standing on the same land where the hooves of Buffalo and the feet of Indians had certainly passed. It was then I recalled my vision. I had seen myself out of the eyes of a Buffalo.

Chapter 15: American Prayer

Chapter 15: American Prayer [Whistle of wind, faint drums and Indians chanting.] Nature called me awake in the darkness before dawn on Sheep Mountain Table in the Badlands of South Dakota. I wiggled my way out of my sleeping bag and rose to my feet. I stretched my spine and took a deep breath. The cool moist air startled me. I turned and surveyed the hillside. A veil of fog was moving over the land, billowing down from above my head, covering the downslope of the plateau. I breathed again with a rush of appreciation for the forces of nature. I walked barefooted past the prone bodies of my friends, around the smoldering embers of the campfire, through the gap between the two Tortoise buses, to the edge of the highest cliff in the Badlands. Carried by a steady wind curling up the lip of the wide plateau, a fog bank rolled up out of the canyon like a vertical wave until it broke far above my head in the prevailing wind. As if falling into a dream, I had stepped into a pocket of clear-air below a twenty-foot-high wall of windborne fog. The tumultuous force of moisture flowing up out of the canyon churned as it crashed in the upper reaches, spreading out above Sheep Mountain Table like frothy water cast upon a beach. The fog settled to the ground ten yards from the edge of the cliff where it thinned out down the slope of the hill like water sinking into sand as it retreated into the sea. I strode effortlessly alongside the mystical wall of fog in rapt amazement, following the lip of the cliff toward the East. As I walked in the pocket of clear air, I felt like a surfer riding in the tube of a wave. I peeled off a dozen yards away and stood to make water with my back to the wall of fog. I felt a presence in my chest. Then I looked up, I got the unsettling feeling that I was not alone. I peered into the fog. Someone or something was out there. I could feel it. I was inexplicably drawn forward without fear to the edge of the clear air where the fog started falling back to the ground. I recognized the shape of a Buffalo partially obscured in the broiling mist. It was standing perfectly still on the hillside facing the cliff farther down along the edge of the canyon. The lone Buffalo stood on the slightly downward slope of Cuny Table with hooves planted in the ancestral earth. I felt compelled to step closer through the zephyr of mist. The fog thinned as I drew near, revealing the broad head and silhouette of a female Buffalo, identical and no less formidable than a full-sized male. She faced into the wind breathing billowing clouds of breath from her nostrils. Her eyes were open, but she did not so much as blink. The Buffalo appeared to be sleeping with her eyes open. It was still dark in the distance, but I had crossed the veil into a brighter world where celestial light penetrated the atmosphere, as if a new sunrise had breached the horizon of the stratosphere. The other eye had gone partially out of view with the proximity to the Buffalo’s massive head, still some twenty feet off. “Oh my God!” I spoke out-loud, doubting my own sight. “No way!” Beyond the Buffalo at the center of my vision, another Buffalo stood shrouded in the veil of mist. I fell forward a few more steps, letting my eyes adjust in the distance. The deeper into the fog I walked, the more shapes I could see obscured in the light haze on the hillside below. Spaced at twenty-foot intervals, a pattern of massive Buffalo stood facing North into the wind, spread out across the entire plateau down the slope of Sheep Mountain Table. Visibility was better along the ground farther downhill, partially obscuring Buffalo a hundred strong. All remained motionless, except for the billowing plumes of visible breath wafting in the wind. Somehow, I understood there to be a great herd standing out there in the fog beyond the boundary of my perception.