Day 11 - Billings, Montana

Earthship Le Van Gogh Diary

Day 11 - Billings, Montana

I’m presently ensconced at the KOA outside of Billings, Montana. For those who give a rat’s fanny, and I’m sure there are very few, myself included, this is the first KOA ever, the beginning to the great chain that now rules the highways and byways of America’s campgrounds. And its prices reflect this - to now I’ve paid an average of $30 a night for water, electricity and sewer hookups. In this place I pay $45 a night and campgrounds charge by the person, not the size of the rig. So even with my discounts this is a primo campground and not one I would spend an inordinate amount of time in. But it is nice. Very, very nice. My little van is nestled beneath a grove of quaking aspen (one of my favorite trees!) and off in the outer parameters of the grounds where it is quiet and peaceful. The land around me is beautiful and green and yellow with a lovely breeze blowing and no touch of autumn has yet appeared to turn the leaves to gold.

And the area is rife with history! Oh, my gawd! This place REEKS of history! Custer, that megalomaniac fool (my personal opinion), made his last stand with 210 soldiers against over 3,000 of the Teton Sioux and Northern Cheyenne Indians who easily wiped them slick. What a twit Custer was! And if you’re a history buff, as I am, albeit an amateur buff, you will swoon over the memorials in the area to the likes of Chief Joseph, who led the Nez Perce Indians from Oregon through Yellowstone Park into Montana to the Laurel area where yet another battle was fought at Canyon Creek just north of the town. And there’s more, with petroglyphs and carvings and so much that my mind boggles. I don’t dare take the time to see any of them or I will never get to Georgia. But I’ll be back; oh, yes, I’ll be back…

On August 12, 2009, Dr. Joseph Medicine Crow was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Obama. Dr. Medicine Crow, who is a native of this area and a member of the Crow tribe, is 97 years old and honored for his many published works on Native American history and reservation culture. (And yes, I’m quoting from a local hand-me-out on the subject) He has a masters degree in Anthropology from the University of Southern California (USC) in 2003. He has also been awarded two honorary doctorate degrees, likewise from the USC and the Rocky Mountain College in 1999. He is probably best known (though I’ve never read his work but plan on doing so in the future) for his writings about the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

He’s amazing for his accomplishments and his personal history. He served in WW II in the Army and his ‘war deeds’ include hand-to-hand combat with an enemy German soldier and leading troops into enemy territory where they captured enemy horses. Medicine Crow alone captured 50 horses from a Nazi camp. I find this ironic and fitting because the diary of Sgt. Pryor’s group of men (one of the groups who met up with Lewis and Clark along their passage) includes notes about having every single horse he and his soldiers brought stolen from them along the Sacajawea trail. I suspect it was one of Dr. Medicine Crow’s ancestors who was involved with that theft. And all power to them (can you tell I‘m a wee bit sympathetic to the Indians‘ side of the story?).

There is a map of the trail that Lewis and Clark followed, led by the intrepid Sacajawea who finally recognized Beaverhead Rock in 1805. There’s a memorial sign of this and I’m not sure what the significance of this means other than it must have been a tremendous relief to her to know that she wasn’t hopelessly lost. There’s an intriguing note of a Private George Gibson who fell on a stick (owwww…?) and had to be carried on a litter until canoe-size trees could be found. I presume at that point that he would have been tossed in the canoe and floated downstream until either help was found or he died, whichever came first. The local history doesn’t say.

And then there is the ongoing saga of the stolen horses. This would be funny if it weren’t so tragic for the men involved. Everywhere there are notes from Clark (and Pryor) about crossing this and that river and fording this and that stream and every time they stopped to camp more horses disappeared in the night. And then there’s an interesting note that on July 29, 1805, they camped on Pirogue Island just east of Miles City. Pirogue Island???!!! What the…??? For those who don’t know, a pirogue is a wonderful Italian potato pasta which was probably a very cheap and easy way to fill the stomachs of hungry men. It’s just weird to see it in the context of unexplored western territory…

Anyway, I want to stay and explore and see and retrace the steps of the Sacajawea-led path through Montana. I yearn to do so but must wait until I fulfill the bonds of friendship and love and meet with my beloved friends in Blairsville, Georgia. Speaking of which, I had a hilarious chat with Sharon last night, the friend who’s house I’m heading for in Blairsville. We chatted for a bit and then I said I had to go beddy by and sleep and there commenced a ridiculous and much-longer-than-it-should-have-taken attempt to quit talking and just shut up. We went back and forth with an “ignore that I’ve answered you” and “I’ll pretend that I’m not answering this,” etc, before, in desperation, I finally clicked off my connection to the internet. We would have kept this up all night, I know, because Sharon and I have had marathon phone conversations before but I was too tired to do so then. But I wanted to, oh, yes, but I heard my body calling to me to sleep, sleep… We’ll stay up all night and chat when I get there, ok, Sharon? LOL!

I must keep my blinders on in this area and ignore the signs pointing to the Yellowstone Park and any other wonderful stops along the way that I will have to explore further and much later down the road. Tomorrow I’m headed towards Buffalo, Wyoming who’s path will lead me by the Little Big Horn monument. Sigh. Later, later. And I will keep on until I get to Georgia where beloved friends await me and who’s faces I long to see. And history will have to wait until I come by again. It won’t go away soon, I know. It lives on in the hearts of those who’s ancestors lived through the events that today we can only surmise and wonder about. And that’s ok, too.

Lessons Learned:

That I’m really not supposed to dump my holding tanks at the site where I’m set up but it’s too irresistible not to.

That it saves me time and energy expenditure to do so which is why I sign up for sewer hook-ups.

That I’m probably not the only one who does this.

So sue me.

That it’s wonderful to be traveling in the so-called “off season.”

That the only folks I see are those who have no children, children too young to be in school, or those who’s children are all grown up.

So it’s really, really quiet.

And quiet is a good thing.

That though I’ve lived in the four corners of the United States and lots of places in between that I love the western states probably better than all the rest.

Even the New England states which I love devotedly.

That my heart seems glued to the west in some unfathomable way.

That I accept this and will keep coming back, and back, and back.

Observations:

All kinds of deer to my right off the highway between Bozeman and Billings.

What appears to be a small herd of bison grazing in an enclosed area on my right as I head towards Billings. Is this the herd spoken of on NPR this morning during the local news segment? If so, this herd somehow found its way out of Yellowstone and into this area and now they’re trying to figure out what to do with them. Ted Turner of Turner Broadcasting Network has offered to let them roam on his 130,000 acre ranch but he wants to keep their offspring. For what? To star in a reality show? The Wildlife Management folks in charge of such decisions have demurred and delayed their decision until November because others have offered to take in the wandering herd without desiring the offspring and there are apparently other decisions to be examined. Whatever the outcome may be, I hope they don’t end up ‘euthanizing’ the herd because they simply don’t know what to do with them. This is, amazingly, one of the outcomes if they can’t find a suitable place for these bison. Truly amazing.

The stench of wildfires close by, and in fact less than 300 feet from the road on which I am driving. These are very recent fires with areas still smoking and smoldering. The ground is black and the trees reduced to wizened skeletons, but it’s a patchy job of burning. There are entire copses of trees and bushes that remain untouched in the midst of destruction all around. I see a water truck heading towards an unknown destination where possibly the fire remains unchecked. It’s hard to tell with all the smoke in the area. I’m just glad I wasn’t here when the fire came so close to the road.

I also passed areas where long ago forest fires have now given birth to a new generation of trees and scrubs. The ground underneath is presently covered in soft wheat-colored grasses and small seedlings can be seen sprouting from the ash-enriched ground. And so the cycle moves on, burning and clearing and making room for the young, and sprouting and growing and maturing and seeding until the services of the fires are required once more. And so it goes.