Monday 1 October 2018

Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Unit

As expected, the cold rain continues for most of the night. By daylight, which is barely arriving at 7:15 am central time, the rain has stopped, but the sky remains gray and the morning is cool and breezy. As we are cleaning up from breakfast, John, the ranger from Saturday, stops by our campsite for further conversation and to see if we stayed warm in our tent last night. He seems pleased that we did not find the cold and rain to be a problem. Again our conversation ranges widely. He asks what we will do today and tomorrow. We reply we will hike the Prairie Trail today and we are leaving tomorrow. He tries to persuade us to stay for what is forecast to be the best day weather-wise of the week, but we explain we have relatives to meet on our way and we must get home. “Oh,” he replies. “Human things…sad!” He tells us he believes all humans are born wild. It is best if we (civilized) humans can rediscover and nurture the wild spirit within. He is interested to know where our home place is. O and I reply “the eastern woodlands.” For John, of course, it is the wide open spaces of the prairie. He is glad though that we have a sense of place. He describes a brief trip to New York City for the premier of a (bad, per John) film of which he was one of the subjects. He knew nothing of the city and needed a guide just to find his hotel room. He could not understand how people could live in New York until his friend took him to Central Park and for a hike along the High Line (“in cowboy boots – a big mistake!” said John.) He realized that even in NYC one can find nature. His friend also took him to the Museum of Natural History. “Noisy,” he said. “But I don’t mind that kind of noise. It’s little people learning!” He asks if we know what you see when you enter the museum, his eyes bright. “Yes!” I reply. “The giant diorama of the prairie!” He is glad NYC kids can see that. It might light a little flame. The conversation moves on to our broken politics and the exploitation of the land by oil companies. He is very sad and angry, especially about how the current government is treating Native Americans. John finally tells us that we have “made the cut.” He asks if we would like to read his poetry and writings. It is a two-way conversation he explains. We are welcome to comment on anything and if we get tired of it, just let him know and he will remove my email address. We exchange full names and email info and John goes on his way.

O and I finally drive up the park road to the starting point of the Prairie hike. The hike is really more of a meander. The bluff John pointed out is wider and longer than it first appears. It is crossed by a web of wildlife trails, (not game trails, per John, there is no game in National Parks as there is no hunting allowed.) O and I wander about for a few hours and thoroughly enjoy the afternoon. We see no bighorn sheep, but we see some bison and lots of birds, grasses, trees and flowers. On our way back to Vincent we spy John’s truck on the road and see him talking to another couple. We cross paths with the couple awhile later. They already know all about us! They, too, found John to be quite interesting.

From the Prairie walk, O and I drive up to the Oxbow overlook for a last brief hike to Sperati Point, a mile beyond the end of the road. From here we can see more of the bends in the Little Missouri far below. The afternoon sun is shining on the river bottom and the cottonwoods are golden.

We return to camp and prepare our last camp supper. We strike Wglwof. Tonight we sleep in Vincent so we can get an early start tomorrow. I mention to O that there should be a special ceremony, kind of like Havadalah, separating our camping life from our home life, but having the sweet spice of our adventure linger on.