Savitri L. Bess

 

 

 

My friend Eagle was going after his bacon and eggs, and I was enjoying my French Toast during one of our breakfasts at Sips in Southwest Harbor, Maine. From our booth by the window, I noticed there was still a bit of snow in some of the outdoor planters. It was April. Most of the tables in the small restaurant were full, and an elderly couple behind us were arguing about house renovations. Eagle rolled his eyes. We laughed a bit and then Eagle said,

 

"So, you're planning on driving that thing all the way to Washington?"

 

"It's not a thing! It's a 2011 Subaru Outback in great condition."

 

"Yeah. Well. Don't forget it had 200,000 miles on it when you bought it last year."

 

"Subaru's go to 300,000 miles."

 

Eagle, an attractive boyish looking fellow, was pointing his fork at me, smiling all the while. "We'll see. It's got a lot of rust under the hood," The waitress came by to see if we needed anything else. We thanked her and said no but gave a nod to topping off our coffee cups.

 

"Yeah," I said, "but the dealer put in new brakes when I told him my mechanic had said they were shot."

 

"You never know what else might be worn out. Do you really expect that car to make it over the Rocky's."

 

"You're just trying to scare me. I'll get over the Rocky's just fine." We were quiet for a few minutes. I realized he was worried that I, a 79-year-old woman, was planning to drive alone all the way to Washington, and so, he was saying stuff that just wasn't true. I broke the silence. "What I need is if you could help me pack, just like you did when I relocated to Ireland for a while last year. I have to be out of my place by May 1. That's two weeks from now."

 

"Just give me a shout when you're ready," he said, "and don't forget to study up on that Port Have A Lock town where you're going."

 

I couldn't help but laugh. So, we laughed.

 

Over the last few months, I'd been gradually selling the bulk of my belongings. I'd applied for low-income subsidized housing in several towns around the Puget Sound area in Washington but hadn't heard a thing. Finally, at countdown till departure date, I'd gotten a call from Garden Court Apartments in Port Hadlock on the Olympic Peninsula. I was good to go. What a relief. Online I saw that my new home was close to Port Townsend and the famous Whidby Island Ferry, and it had a little beach on the shores of a Puget Sound inlet. The first time I'd seen the Puget Sound area was in the 60's, on my way to study for an MFA at University of Washington. When I got off the plane in Seattle, I thought I'd thought I'd died and gone to heaven—there were billowing clouds, the snow-capped Olympic Mountains to the west and the snow-capped Cascades to the East. And the magnificent Douglas Fir trees all over the place. I didn't see those mountains again for about 3 months because of constant overcast skies.

 

During our final breakfast at Sips, I said to Eagle, "Just so you know, I've mapped out all the places where I'm planning to camp along the way."

 

"You're sure about camping out?"

 

"Yup. It'll be like a pilgrimage. You can't do a pilgrimage staying in motels."

 

We were silent for a few minutes, sipping coffee. "I'll never forget when I met you all those years ago," I said. "We were making Christmas wreathes, working for that old guy."

 

Eagle laughed. "Yeah. You and I hit it off. And that old man was a character."

 

"You'd wanted to learn yoga from me and for me to teach your son, too, but instead I cooked meals for you now and then, baked Salmon and yams, with a little mead on the side."

 

"I don't care that a Norse god drank mead—it was too sweet for my taste."

 

Neither of us wanted to stop our time eating together—at Sips or at my apartment. I was grateful his wife never minded that he'd go off to eat with me. And this was our last meal together.

 

So, as it had been decided, on the day before my departure, Eagle strategized the packing of my Subaru according to what I'd need along the way, and according to what wouldn't get destroyed by getting wet if it rained and the roof top canvass luggage carrier leaked. There were reports of torrential rains in some of the states along my route.

 

The next morning, just after sunup, I took off, saying farewell to Echo Lake as I passed by, and then taking the land bridge off the Mount Desert Island, and heading out on my 3,400-mile journey. Once I got to Boston, it was going to be Interstate 90 all the way. My first stop was the Herkimer Diamonds campground where I'd promised to mine some Herkimer's to send to my littlest Southwest Harbor friend, six-year-old Perley, and some to his cousins, too. The stream at Herkimer Campground was full to overflowing, and there was only one other person in the whole place, and he had a small RV.  While I might have been smart to feel worried, I was not. I was too enamored with the scent coming from the moist evergreens and the sound of the rushing stream.

 

At the Herkimer mine office across the road, the ranger said, "Sorry. We're closing." When I told him where I'd come from and why I'd stopped at the mine, he said, "Well, I guess maybe we can let you dig around a bit, but you might want to buy one of these bags full of sand with Herkimer's buried inside." Digging around in the mine area turned out to be a bit of a lost cause. But someone still out there sifting the sands, gave me a couple of Herkimer's he'd dug up. Later I discovered that my purchase of the small bag of sand yielded several Herkimer's, and a couple of good-sized ones, too. Perley would be delighted.

 

The sound of geese honking woke me up in the morning, and when I poked my head out of my tent, I was delighted to see them swimming in the stream. My old tent proved to be way too small. It was nearly impossible to get my air mattress inside. I'd have to find a larger tent. But, for now, I loved camping—the fresh air, the sounds of breeze in the trees, birds singing. After an oatmeal breakfast cooked on my camp stove, I was off to my next spot, a KOA 500 miles down the road.

 

Every morning I'd begin my journey by playing CD's of Amma's senior disciple whom we call Big Swamiji, chanting the Lalita Sahasranam (the 1000 names of the Goddess), and me repeating the response, "Om Parashaktyai Namah" (I bow down to Supreme Feminine Energy, who is Mother of all Creation). Then I'd play and sing along with some English bhajans, "Let my spirit fly to you, no place could be too far…" Or "Come Children, leave all your sorrows, find the Truth that is dwelling within you." Then I'd enjoy the silence while driving. In between I'd stop at roadside rest places or Interstate restaurant malls for coffee and toilet. My dear Southwest Harbor friend Nancy had given me a hand-woven basket filled with all kinds of snacks and lunch food.

 

The KOA was too close to the Interstate for my taste—with the sound of trucks roaring by. And I was still squashed into my little one-person tent. Luckily, on the other side of Chicago, somewhere in Illinois, and well off the highway, I pulled into my next campground. At a Walmart not too far away, I bought a new tent. When I was trying to figure out how to put it up, a middle-aged couple walking by stopped to help me. "Fantastic," I said. "What a great tent. Thank you!" At every step of my way, I was blessed with the kindness of others.

 

After breakfast, I set my GPS for the American Creek Campground on the Missouri River in Chamberland, South Dakota. To my relief, the majority of cars and the hordes of roaring trucks turned off Interstate 90 and took the fork to Minneapolis. With practically no traffic, I fell into a deep contemplative peace as I drove along the vastness of it all, the flatness, and everlasting skies. These days, the great prairielands are mostly taken over by corn fields and hay fields and with small farmhouses and tall silver silos here and there. You have to go off the Interstate to the various preserves or national parks in order to see the great grasslands as they used to be.

 

Nevertheless, the uninterrupted landscape where herds of buffalo used to roam, was still awe-inspiring. The buffalo were considered sacred by Native Americans and were worshiped as such. While galloping bareback amidst a stampeding herd, they would hunt one down, armed with no more than a bow and arrows. They would say prayers before and after the hunt. They used all parts of the animal—meat, hoofs, teeth, bones, horns, and woolly skin. On a sad note, I couldn't help remembering accounts I'd read about the US Army slaughtering entire buffalo herds, and leaving their carcasses to rot. I prayed for some kind of redemption for the horrors that were perpetrated on Native Americans (and still are) by the US Government.

 

At some point along the way, I'd noted that the great wide Missouri River had flooded in many places, but it hadn't occurred to me that the aftermath of the heavy rains would affect me any worse than Herkimer campground had. It was never raining wherever I was. However, my hopes were dashed when I found my chosen campground in Chamberland on the banks of the Missouri River was closed due to flood damage. The woman in charge suggested I try the upscale RV place just across the river. She didn't sound certain I'd be allowed in, yet said it was worth a try.

 

After re-negotiating the narrow streets of Chamberland and re-crossing a couple of bridges, I got myself to the other side and guessed my way onto a narrow, paved road that followed the riverbank. I drove past an elegant hotel with well-kept lawns and landscaping, then down another narrow road that led to the RV campground. Inside the office a woman at the desk told me, "Tents are not allowed." But an attractive man, dark hair, maybe 40 years old, stepped up to the counter and said, "You can put up a tent for a couple of nights." The woman demurred, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you!" I'm sure he realized that not many would be seeking to camp when there was so much flooding, and the revenue from my one tent would be better than nothing.

 

I followed him on his little cart to a spot, up a gentle slope, where I could pitch my tent under a tree. I noted that there were only a few RVs parked here and there, and only one near me, several yards down below my site. None were parked close to the shore of the Missouri for obvious reasons. The campground was a quiet place surrounded by lawns and small trees here and there.

 

I was puzzled as to why the great Missouri River was not flowing but looked like a lake instead. I found out that this part of the river is known as Lake Francis formed by the Case Fort Randall Dam. It turns out that many "earth-rolled" dams and the resultant lakes can be found along the Missouri, all designed to help protect from flooding.

 

To my delight, I awoke in the night to the sound of a couple of owls hooting in the tree above me, and later in the night the gentle sound of raindrops on my tent. I was in bliss. The next morning, a lady in her 70's or so, standing near her RV several yards down from me expressed concern. "Were you alright in the rain last night? It was chilly, too."

 

"Oh, thank you," I said. "I was toasty warm, and my tent didn't leak." We laughed over that and chatted for a bit about the weather and if the fishing was any good now. "My husband keeps heading out but hasn't caught a thing."

 

Later that morning I found her cooking on her barbecue outside her RV. "How would you like to have some bacon and eggs?" she asked. The smell was inviting, and I could not resist. We sat on folding chairs. "This is absolutely delicious," I said. And it was.

 

During my two days there, she and I kept in touch in small ways. In the afternoon, I told her, "I'm headed to the laundry room now." I was grateful for the little amenities of this campground, the perfect halfway place.

 

On the morning of my departure, I said to my RV friend, "I'm off to the Badlands."

 

She said, "I don't know how you do it, all alone and with only a tent. Please be careful." With tears welling in her eyes, she said goodbye to me. Here I'd been a person who'd stuck my nose up at the RV camping-style, but now with my erroneous belief eradicated, I felt a soft spot in my heart for my generous RV neighbor. Amma has been teaching us again and again to adopt an attitude of acceptance and kindness to everyone, and here I was learning the beauty and freedom in it, through a gracious encounter in an RV campground.

 

Along the way, in the corn and hay fields, over maybe 100 miles or more, I came upon many curious Wall Drug billboards of many different designs—and there were no other billboards but the ones inviting visitors to the self-described funky store in the town of Wall, South Dakota. All across Minnesota and South Dakota I must have passed maybe 30 or more Wall Drug billboards posted out in the middle of nowhere. A few of the advertisements promised coffee for 5 cents and free ice water, others offered boots, buckles and belts. While Wall serendipitously became stop along my way, for reasons that will become obvious, I did not get a chance to check out Wall Drug.

 

I wasn't sure about camping in Badlands National Park, but I was deeply interested in passing through there because of Black Elk, the Oglala Lakota Sioux holy man who'd inspired and awakened people all over the world through his spiritual message in his visionary account, Black Elk Speaks. I had wanted to honor Black Elk by going to the Badlands and hopefully spend time in the Black Elk Wilderness and visit special sites featured in his book. As soon as he'd heard about the fight at Wounded Knee, he galloped there on his pony, to the site of the US Army's massacre of men, women, and children—150 to 300 estimated deaths, mostly women. Very painful for me to imagine such cruelty. When Black Elk galloped back and forth in front of the line of fire, no bullets could hit him. He was a great medicine man, a healer and tribal leader.

 

After turning off Interstate 90, I drove along on the Badlands loop road, stopping now and then to photograph the unusual landscape—barren, bone colored sand, and hills of all kinds of strange shapes and sizes, with nooks and crannies all around. In the early days, the Lakota used to hide there. The Badlands is a well-known site for finding fossils, but I didn't feel like hiking along the paths there to have a look.

 

I had read that Badlands National Park has the largest herd of Buffalo in existence. A buffalo can stand over six feet tall, weigh more than 2,000 pounds. You don't want to mess with something that huge. I'd read that if you see one stick his tail straight up, or you hear him growl and start pawing the ground or waving his head from side to side, you're in trouble—you've gotten too close and need to turn tail and get the heck out of the way. 

 

I passed many buffalos grazing or roaming around in the more prairie-like grassy areas. Taking care not to disturb, I stopped to photograph one of those pre-historic-looking beasts, with their origins of millions of years ago. After getting near enough to one of them and sensed its enormity, I was in awe that the Native Americans had the bravery to hunt them.

 

There was an energy in the Badlands that felt unsettling to me, though I couldn't pin-point say exactly what or why. And it didn't have to do with the heat. I wanted to get out of there. Perhaps I was sensing the lingering energy of all the US government violence on the Lakota, and other Native tribes over countless years, and all the broken treaties.

 

As soon as I left Badlands National Park, my danger lights on my dashboard all went off flashing like crazy. In retrospect, aside from the fact that that something terrible was wrong with my car, I wondered if I'd done something to earn a breakdown, something in a past life that was not favorable to the original people of this land. Maybe I'd been a perpetrator. Who knows. It was a passing thought that might have had merit. Now, my issue at hand was dealing with whatever caused the hood end of my car to be billowing steam. I pulled up into the farmhouse driveway. No one was home. So, I called AAA.

 

For my entire journey, I felt I was always in Amma's hands, always in a joyful, optimistic mood, even when I had trouble figuring out how to pitch my new tent. Or even when I had a terrible time finding my way through the maze of Chicago highways. Or even when my chosen campground in Chamberland was closed due to flooding. Everything felt like a blessing to me, the entire journey, a sacred pilgrimage. So, when my car broke down, it felt like a blessing.

 

The Triple A guy arrived after about half an hour. He towed me to Badlands Automotive in the small town of Wall, South Dakota. Yup, Wall, the home of Wall Drug! The billboard place. The Wall auto repair shop was full of old and new cars and auto parts. A busy place. Seemed like the whole world had broken down there.

 

The elderly mechanic looked my car over briefly and said, "A Subaru ought not to be flashing so many warning lights, not without a very serious problem." He gave me two options: "Would you like to be towed to the Subaru place in Rapid City, or to a mechanic friend of mine there?"

 

Without hesitation, I said, "To your friend."

 

"Ok. I'll call him and let him know you're on your way."

 

The two-hour, 75-mile tow to Rapid City, through a desolate landscape, ended up on the outskirts of Rapid City, gateway to Mount Rushmore and Black Elk Wilderness. Reminiscent of his Wall mechanic friend, the Rapid City mechanic's shop was littered with new and old cars and car parts all over the place.

 

He was a kindly looking, elderly fellow, slender, maybe 5 years younger than me. He walked with me, side by side, to have a private chat. Without beating around the bush, he gave me a little half smile, and with a little twinkle in his eye, he asked, "How fast were you driving?"

 

"Well," I said, feeling a bit ashamed, and trying a little fast-talk to justify myself. "I was going about 75 on the Interstate. The posted speed limit in South Dakota is 80 miles-an-hour."

 

"And what was the ambient temperature?" he asked.

 

Ah, well, "Hot," I said, smiling at his gentle reprimand. His point had been made and we became instant friends. He asked where I was headed, and I told him where I'd come from and where I was going and why.

 

He let go of the other car he'd been working on and set to work on my radiator. I know nothing about these things, but I watched him, with the assistance of his helper, go at it for over an hour and a half, testing this and that, putting some contraption into the radiator to test something else. Gunning the motor now and then. Watching what would happen when he did. What did I know? Nothing.

 

When he was done, he said, "Here's a gallon of antifreeze for $10. I won't charge you for the rest. Before you get started each morning, top off your radiator with this. Take it real easy going over the Rocky's. You'll make it ok to Washington where you'll need to get yourself a new radiator."

 

Oh, my, the beauty of kind souls. Tears welled in my eyes. So much tenderness in this man. Mentally I touched his feet and then, with my hand placed over my heart, I thanked him profoundly.

 

How perfectly he embodied what Amma says: "The beauty and charm of selfless love and service should not die away from the face of this earth. The world should know … that a life inspired by love and service to humanity is possible." Through the generosity of this man, it was obvious that no matter what belief or culture, anyone can choose a life motivated by compassion, rather than profit.

 

After I arrived at my new home, I sent the mechanic a copy of one of my books, Offer Me A Flower. If my novel wasn't his cup of tea, the gift would at least let him know how grateful I was.