I think in one of my earlier missives, I might have mentioned that I like adventures, and as such, my wanderings on motorcycles became just that, a ride to another adventure, or even the bridge from adventure to adventure. One of my many faults is that I became a creature of habit and as such, do certain things not out of any sense of need, but rather because that’s what I’ve always done.

One of the three things I was gifted, mechanical aptitude, for lack of a better way to say it, always kept me in work when I wanted it. And so when I needed to gather a mound of traveling cash, with my rep as a Harley mechanic, I could just about guarantee myself a job. Well, with my references and abilities, the problem wasn’t procuring the job, it was convincing the proprietor of the Harley Shop that I would be there long enough to make it worth his while, or at least long enough to clean up his backlog of motorcycles to be repaired. After the references and whatever discussion my qualifications required, the conversation usually went something like this:

“So Mr….Puppy??? When can you start?”

“Oh…tomorrow morning early enough?”

“Good! Good. So then I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Well, Sir, there’s only one thing I’d like to kind of discuss, say, before I commit.”

“Oh? And…?”

“Well, you going to let me off for Sturgis next year, or do I have to…you know… quit?”

“Isn’t that…where you just came from?”

“Well, sure. Haha.”

“That’s a whole year away. Why don’t we come back to this later on in the year?”

“Nah. I’d rather get it out of the way now. That way I can concentrate on my work and not worry about it, ’cause I’m going. I’ve been going for blank amount of years.”

“Well, ok. Um…how long would you be gone for?”

“Let me see…about a week to get there, a week there and say…about four weeks, and maybe I could you know, trim it to three if I absolutely had to, but I’d say four.”

“Damn.” I can see exasperation setting in. From there on it became either an argument or resignation, but I usually got the job. Nobody wanted me working for their competition, and for your info, I only work on HD oriented motorcycles or Indian, old or new.

One of the best letters of recommendation I ever got, I carried around on the road with me till it nearly turned to dust. It said; “Robert ‘Puppy’ DeGroat is well versed in all aspects of Harley Davidson sales and service, works well with customers and while he was under our employ, he developed quite a following.”. Couldn’t lose with that one.

I worked there for a couple of Sturgis’s, I mean years. Every year, the pressure built till I was throwing things and yelling at the top of my lungs; “DAMN! AIN’T IT STURGIS YET!?” The problem with that was, sometimes that was about two weeks after I started work and that was usually within a month of just beginning to wind down from Sturgis, or simply put, not even the new year yet. Everybody got used to it and by the time June of the next year arrived I had a whole group of people wanting to go to Sturgis with me.

Anyway, back to the adventures. As some of you out there are aware, out of a group of twenty people, only some will follow through, and about one out of every four or five would show up, and some of those even wimped out when the road took over. The road has a whole new set of requirements and they aren’t particularly the same as around town riding. When you bring a bike up to cruising speed, the vibration isn’t the same as when it is up and down, through the gears, hit the brakes, turn, up and down, through the gears, hit the brakes, stop and park. The bikes of most round-towners, hardly ever get properly warmed up, and believe you me, bikes on the road do. I’m not saying that these fellows who build their bikes and ride them around town don’t build some fine machines. They do! They are basically the backbone of the custom bike shows, and their wild radical bikes are usually the top winners, but those bikes are not built for the road and here’s a simple example.

My favorite style of motorcycle is the modified chopper/bobber with fat bob gas tanks, Ape-hangers, springer, up-sweep pipes with fish-tails or reverse cone megaphones, both sound bad to the bone, or six foot stacks, and a tall sissy-bar with a taillight at the top. It’s important to be as close to the ground as possible. I like the bobbed back fender with a little flip up in the back, and HD copied that from us, not the other way around, as they did every other good thing you see out there, including the eternal race for more power and inches. Whatever, I like the front wheel to be a 19, so that I got some meat on the ground, but there is a trend now to bigger tires for twenty-one inch wheels and that is acceptable, and of course, to show off the wheel and the springer, no front fender. BUT, that only works for a little while on the road. First thing is, you’re eating everything the road has to offer right off the front tire. In the rain it’s a constant high pressure shower even if you took one already before you hit the road. On the other hand, a little shower every now and then never hurt anybody, but fighting that constant high pressure blast for hours or days gets old real fast, and you can try all kinds of tricks, but eventually you’ll usually get a front fender of some type.

Next thing is the pipes. Now what do they have to do with anything? Well, let me tell you. I have to admit I’ve seen people, even knew a few that tied, bungied, or even duct taped crap all over their motorcycles just to get it home. One of the plagues of road riding is carrying crap. If you’re going to spend any time out there, you need certain things. Those things take up space. Space, on a chopper is at a minimum. You, and maybe the girl on the p-pad on the back fender take up the space on a chopper. Can you imagine building a one-off custom bike with lots of nice goodies and chrome and a nice paint job…with road grime all over it, or heaven forbid, with crap taped all over it? I can’t, but I’ve seen it done a few times. But the fact is, those awesome sounding pipes are in the way of a set of saddlebags. Oh yeah, you could run one on the other side. Right. Okey-dokey. Whatever blows your skirt up. Ultimately, what is a bike with a front fender and saddlebags, but a dresser.

Oh no! My bike is not a chopper/bobber any more! It’s a dresser, but at least I’m not eating road crap and I have someplace to put my stuff. And when I’m at Sturgis, or Daytona, or Laconia, and I’m envious of all those choppers and my bike’s a dresser, or as close as you can get.

So now, with the first requirements out of the way, the shape, generally of the bike, the next phase is the condition of the bike. And as tragic and gut-wrenching as that is sometimes, it takes a leap into the unknown to find out what is required, and that is the adventure. The only other option is to load it into a trailer and race from home to out there, wherever there is, in the comfort and security of your four or six wheeled vehicle, unload and ride into the rally as if you just arrived from a long trip, sans adventures. Some of the finest friends I have in my life were made at road stops where my bike was not cooperating with me or the road, and sometimes, that’s how I got a job, because my bike needed work. Now that’s an adventure. I remember putting over the hills of western New York one year…Oh well, that’s another story, for another time.

John “Puppy” DeGroat

http://www.facebook.com/ulflat

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I am! If you have never watched, tune in. Full Throttle television show gives a behind-the-scenes look at how the bar is run during the Sturgis Rally. The owners, Mike Ballard and Jesse Dupree from Jackyl, along with Michael’s fiancee(?), Angie, give viewers an inside look on the ups ‘n’ downs of running the world’s largest biker bar.

This past summer while attending the rally, we were fortunate enough to be there while they were filming the third season. If you’ve seen any of the ‘reality’ shows on TruTV, you know that they give a new meaning to the term ‘reality’. Most of the shows are anything but real…repo drivers being chased by men dressed in chicken suits, SWAT teams entering a camper while grandma eats pot brownies….puh-lease.

Although Full Throttle does not appear to be in that same category, I was pretty surprised to see some apparent scenes being set-up. I was a bit disappointed, I must say, but do understand that it is a television show and has to entertain. I am hoping that the scenes we saw were part of an opening montage or perhaps advertisements for the show, and that they are not messing with my ‘reality’. In the past two seasons, there has been plenty of drama, no need to embellish.

Off my soap box and on to the show….

Filming has begun…

As a crew of around five followed Ballard all over the property

Though filming, he still took time for his fans. Much like the person on the show, he seems very down to earth…

Directing his ‘reality’ TV show…things that make you go ‘hmmmm’…

These are the filming bartenders…or so it appeared. The hard working beer slingers were out front, these ladies were there to look good and hand out a few beers…they did both.

Interviewing the bartenders…

More bartenders…I think she forgot her underwear…

This scene played over quite a bit, seems like it might be part of the show intro? Will have to tune in…

Filming in the burn-out pit…

Burnin’ some rubbah…

                            Nice tatts…

Then there were these two…I don’t know what to say. Were they part of the show? Were they trying to be on the show? No idea…they were just walking around half naked…drinking soda…at 4pm…on a Thursday. Maybe that’s their thing, I don’t know…

Free FTS tattoos…remember last season when Michael caught Angie in here getting a spider tattoo on her foot? Bit of an overreaction, I would say…

Now that’s a fan…

These ladies might look familiar…one is on security and the other handles the girls and all that comes along with that…

FTS,
more than just a bar…

I guess he will have to catch the show on TV…

These are the cabins that are shown on television…remember Fajita Mike kicking in Jesse’s  cabin door after 38 shots of tequila….damnnnn. I think he was fired and we

 

/>won’t be seeing him back, but there is always hope. That was some good TV right there….

And good TV it is. With a DJ named Goat who quits every year; a chef who drinks all the profits; raging

 

/>storms with golf-ball sized hail; light-fingered employees who don’t appear to notice the hundreds of cameras; cat-fights and bar-room brawls; an aging rocker with a chain saw that shoots himself out of a cannon; and of course the bikes…this show does not need any ‘direction’.  Let the reality play out, TruTV…don’t mess with this show.

And, we never saw Angie…boo. I think we were in bed by the time she comes out, but there is always next year. And until then…

 

See you on TV, Mr. Ballard.

 

 

PS – These are only my opinions and I have made a gazillion assumptions. My reality could simply not be theirs…just saying…

 

Backseatrider

http://hogadvisor.blogspot.com/

faebook/backseatrider

The beginning of a new life starts with some pain and a little bit of sorrow. I’ve been watching my mom for the last 5 years living on the road on her motorcycle. I was always envious of her for doing just that, living. So when the next chapter of my life was about to be written I decided to join her for a few months. The reasoning behind my joining her was pretty simple, to see how she did it and bond with her on her level. Life seamed to become dull, the excitement for the world I once felt seemed to have disappeared and everything became redundant. Not to mention the pain that was brought about due to a recent breakup. It was time for something new, something different, something out of the ordinary for most.

I left the house my ex and I had bought together with a storage container half full and my motorcycle packed with everything I thought I might need. A tent, a tarp, a couple sleeping bags, a small foam mat, a flashlight, a pair of boots, a few pairs of pants, a few shirts, a leather jacket given to me from a friend, my chaps and some knickknack items. I hopped on my bike and off I went. It was about 6pm and I was heading east trying to make it to South Dakota to meet up with my mom. I had little knowledge of the journey that lied ahead but I was ready to learn and experience it with an open mind.

As I crested the Pedrogosa Mountains in Arizona the sun started to set and my mirrors were filled with the brilliant oranges and gold’s of the summers desert sunset as the clouds absorbed the last bit of sun of the day. The start of a beautiful feeling started to overwhelm me as the weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders for the last few years was yanked off as if there was a chain tied to the past that was slowing me down. I began to feel a freedom that I haven’t felt in a long time.

This was the freedom I felt as a kid running through the Jacumba mountains with my brother, the freedom from the rat race, wakeup go to work, come home fix dinner, take a shower, go to sleep just to wake up and start over again. The freedom of a really self-absorbed life. Nothing around me seemed to exist, maybe it was me that didn’t exist. The beauty in life had become a dull kind of uh yeah sunset, uh stars, oh look a wild animal. Tears welled up in my eyes at this regained emotional state and I almost felt the need to pull off of the road to celebrate in a well deserved cry for a new beginning, a cry for I’m actually doing something, a cry for the excitement that I wasn’t sure about the future again, a cry for being in the moment which was long coming. Instead I laughed and gave out a scream of joy and continued on my journey. As the excitement built inside me I found myself going faster and faster and really enjoying the speed on the open highway.

The ride after the sun went down seemed to be a beautiful adventure in itself. The sky was like a big mouth just waiting to swallow me up. The stars were so bright I could have probably ridden without lights. The temperature was almost a perfect 80 degrees and the wind that blasted me was a warm tropical wind. I was in heaven. I was in the moment; nothing seemed to matter except the road and the beauty of the stars dancing in the skies. I found myself swaying back and forth in ecstatic pleasure. It seemed there was no one in the world except for me and the couple of cars that were on the road, at that moment I was once again one with the moment, one with my raw emotions, and one with the gods of the road. I was a kid again without a care, without worry, experiencing life again instead of just going through the motions.

When it came time to find a campsite I had no idea what I was going to do with myself. Like a kid out in the neighborhood for the first time I looked to my mom for advice.  I was directed to look at the truck stops and camp there but I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of a bunch of truckers. This was still all too new to me and so as it started to get late I found myself pulling into a hotel with a motorcycle in the front. As I walked in the gentleman inside greeted me and offered me a room for a discounted rate. He told me I could keep my bike under the awning with his. He assured me he would watch it so I kindly thanked him and went to my room to shower and sleep. It seemed like it took me a long time to fall asleep that night with the excitement of my new adventure. With thoughts racing through my head, “ Am I doing the right thing”, “What happens if I like doing this so much I don’t want to stop”, “How will this life affect my daughter”, “What if I die on the road”, what if what if what if… finally I fell asleep and woke ready to join the road again. After a good breakfast I left enjoying the cool morning air as I rode into the sun.

Jimi Dean has started riding the road, along with his mother Michelle Hope (find her stories here at hdopenroad.com). Although often riding alone, they seem to meet up at regular intervals. James provides a fresh new look at life as a gypsy biker, and we look forward to his future stories and insights.

You can reach Jimi Dean at facebook/jimi.dean

Florida is a good place to winter and, of the two months I’d just spent in the sunshine state, there was certainly no regret as the events of those warm days had been anything if not memorable. But the season now approached early May and, besides the fact that Florida had already grown uncomfortably hot, the Myrtle Beach motorcycle rally would soon begin in South Carolina. —I intended to be there.

So I left the spring heat behind, using only tiny back roads, I piloted the aging FLT north through the lush green countryside that is central Florida. The highway names I do not remember but many small country towns came and went before, and after, the Georgia State line. Of a man traveling on the back of a packed up Harley Davidson people are almost always curious and will often go well out of their way to make his acquaintance. And so it was that I passed from town to town only to touch the lives of some momentarily before traveling on. Moving slowly now, I camped wherever I pleased and soon lost track on the days. But eventually the state of Georgia gave way to South Carolina and the town of Myrtle Beach lay before me.

It was my intention to seek employment among the numerous vendors that would attend this rally in order to help finance my journey around the country. This approach had worked well for me in the past. At week’s end I would simply collect my pay and mosey north.

Myrtle Beach is a large party town that caters to the multitudes of tourists that frequent this magnificent coastline annually. But I knew that the bikers would soon arrive by the tens of thousands bringing with them a party attitude so intense it would test the limits of reality for an entire week running. Only when they had gone would the noise of bands and smells of beer and burnt tire rubber begin to subside as the town settled into its previous state of—comparatively speaking—tranquility.

Yet, 15 miles south of this thriving metropolis lays a much smaller community of Murrells Inlet. As the rally party always extends as far south as Murrells’ I knew employment would be readily available there and intended to stay, and work, in this semi rural neighborhood.

And so it was that, keeping a sharp lookout now, I located an abandon area of thick pine trees not ¼-mile from the famous “Suck Bang Blow” and, after parking the bike, walked in to investigate these woods. Although the trail was small there was still plenty of room to maneuver a large motorcycle in and, once surrounded by the tall trees that guaranteed absolute privacy; I noted a large clearing at the center. The place, it seemed, was perfect. But I had noted a king sized bed (box spring and mattress) that had recently been discarded at the entrance of my personal campground and knowing that a beautiful woman would soon share my bed I decided to move the thing into the clearing. At night I would simply park beside the mattresses, cover them with a tarp, throw out my bedding and sleep beneath the tall pines. And so, having solved the lodging problem it was time to head for town.

Although the rally would not officially begin for two days the nearby shopping center parking lot already bustled with vendors and the many bikers who kept them in business. And so it was that I moved among the crowd browsing merchandise and searching for old friends. But 15-minits had not yet passed when I found myself standing at the large vending tent of D&L Leather talking with two employees of whom I’d worked with many times before. After the moment of re-acquaintance had passed Jamey (a red headed woman) informed me that they were short handed and asked if I’d hire on for the week and help sell a few leather jackets.

Past experience with this outfit told me that, although the boss could sometimes be a pain in the ass, the wages were certainly good. Well the boss was out of town for the moment anyway and in his absence Jamie was in charge. But there was still a fair chunk of change in my pocket and, not wanting to put in 12-hour days as, besides work, I had a mind to spend time partying’ at the rally, Jamie and I struck a bargain. Come Monday I’d show up at noon, work like a dog, an’ be off at 6pm. Well it was only Saturday and so, with a promise to be on time, we shook on the deal and I walked off.

Farther down the lot, and parked beside the tent of a mobile motorcycle shop, I came across the old Panhead that belongs to a man named Billy Burrows. Of the four full time scooter drifters I’ve met Billy is probably the best known as his gypsy life has been the focus of many stories published in a variety of magazines over the years. While engaged in his life of perpetual travel I have run into this guy all over the country and we had been friends for many years. But Billy was no where to be found and the old Pan now sat alone with both heads and cylinders removed. His plight, it seemed, was a mystery that I would not learn the details of until later. And so I left the lot and remounted my bike.

The next order of business was shower facilities. After making a few calls I rode out to investigate the local country club. Besides the accommodations I’d hoped for the place also offered weight room, swimming pool, vending machines and a hot tub. It was nice, very nice actually, and so I purchased a temporary membership.

As evening rolled around I set out in search of the action. It was rumored that “Suck Bang Blow”, a little bar that had climbed the ladder of biker fame by allowing guys to ride inside and place their front wheel against the bar before doing ear-splitting burn-outs on the concrete floor, had built a second, and much larger, glamour bar. I decided to check it out.

The new warehouse sized building was already packed with rowdy patrons. I looked around. Incorporated into the place was the most grandiose burn-out pit in fucking existence. The rider would enter the building through large doors then ride a little road (no shit) that led to an enclosed Plexiglas room built against an external wall. Once inside the glass room he would place his front wheel against the wall, put her in gear, and drop the hammer. As the man was busy burning off a hundred bucks worth of tire rubber to entertain me for five minutes (thank you very much) two eight foot fans installed in the wall overhead would kick on and blow the enormous smoke cloud outside. I bet the EPA would have loved this fucking thing.

At 2am I finally made my way home and crawled into the sack.

At 11am of the following morning I exited a crowded cafe and headed for my bike. Then, as I hit the button and nothing happened, the realization came that the tired old starter had finally bit the dust. Fortunately, even a small guy like me can easily push-start a fully loaded Electra Glide on even pavement—if he knows how. And so, after riding to talk with many parts vendors, I finally located an affordable starter ($125) and installed the thing in front of the dude’s tent. The problem was solved.

Come Monday the work began and with it life soon settled into a routine that went something like this: Sleep late, breakfast at the coffee shop, shower at the country club, work for D&L, get off at 6 and party all night. Next day, do it all over again—man what a fucking rut.

But it was at the end of that first day’s work that I ran into Panhead Billy and learned his story. The old Pan had given up its top end somewhere outside of town and a passing truck had offered him a ride in. Once the engine had been torn down Billy learned that the heads were shot and had ordered a good set from Negotiable Parts (909-683-4304) in California. But the best set of heads available (Pan-heads ain’t easy to come by these days you know) needed some minor welding and Billy would simply have to wait until they were ready. In the interval he would work by day and sleep beside the crippled Pan at night.

We talked for a half-hour more and Billy told me of a small bar ¼-mile from our location that offered a free daily buffet. Being a sucker for a free meal I decided to check it out. And so, when we’d finally talked ourselves out, I mounted up and rode for the little grubstake saloon.

The old bar was separated from the small secondary road by its own parking lot. In the lot smoke drifted lazily from the stack of a large industrial barbecue as huge slabs of pork and beef slowly roasted inside. Beside, a handful of patrons ate, drank and socialized at wooden picnic-tables.

While most bars around town were mobbed with huge crowds and impenetrable noise, the Winners Circle was a local’s place offering a much smaller crowd set in a family type atmosphere. The owners, Mark & Tammy, were always on hand and the order of each Winners Circle day seemed to be fun and friendship rather than huge commercialized profits. I found this attitude refreshing and began to frequent the place everyday after work. Good friends, it seemed, came easy in that place.

And so the week wore on as the parties raged and the money piled high.

It was after work of the final Saturday that I rode through the night air to pick up Miss Adrienne at the airport some 12-miles away. She had flown in from California with intention to spend a month or two enjoying the eastern scenery from the passenger seat of my Electra Glide. We strapped her meager luggage atop the tour-pack and, since I had promised to buy her dinner, made our way to the Winners Circle Saloon.

But my new barroom buddies had been expecting Adrienne and, to her delight, she was greeted like some awaited celebrity. And so we sat beside the smoldering barbecue as one man strummed a guitar and those who gathered around him talked or sang along. The evening, it seemed, now offered a gentle mesmerizing quality.

Later, and having said nothing of where we would stay, I piloted the FLT along the trail that led to the clearing and our waiting king sized bed. As the headlight lit the private campground Adrienne exuberantly voiced her approval (as I had known she would) saying, “It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen”.

And so, after rolling out our sleeping gear, we settled in to make slow love beneath the full moon that hovered tranquilly above the tall pines.

Sunday meant tear-down and repack day for the vendors and it was after breakfast that Adrienne and I made our way to the D&L tent to help with the job. In all fairness, and although the boss and crew think I’m alright, they really love Adrienne as she (unlike myself) is an excellent sales-person who had worked with them many times before. And so it was that, at the days end, Billy D (the boss—now returned from his leave of absence), offering exceptional pay, struck a deal with Adrienne to work the Americade rally in upstate New York three weeks later.

When the work was complete I collected my $600 of pay before receiving the added bonus of a $325 jacket. I had worked six, six-hour days.

Across from the D&L tent I had watched as Panhead Billy helped tear down another vendor and mutual friend. When the work was completed the last thing to be loaded into the truck was Billy’s old, and still disassembled, Panhead. The parts, it seemed, had not arrived in time and the bike would have to be transported to the next rally by truck until the reworked Panhead-heads arrived and the bike could be resembled. But I knew that Billy’s determination and love for that old motorcycle would ultimately prevail and, as eventually came to be, I would find him riding down the road in some other state.

But the job was done and I found myself once again unemployed and sitting on a wad of cash.

By Monday the bikes had cleared out and the town quickly resumed its former stature as a simple beachfront, tourist type, party town. And so we decided to hang around for a week and enjoy the beaches and local parties. After all, with our sleeping accommodations and country club memberships, our Myrtle Beach visit was kinda like staying at a luxury resort—only with our bed in the woods.

The warm days brought times of hot sand and long dips in the ocean. There were also beautiful afternoons of small parties where beer flowed from an open-air bar high above the water as bands played and fishermen fished at the end of a large peer. In the mornings we held true to our new ritual of visiting a small roadside fruit stand (Adrienne loves fruit) and many nights were spent riding, or parting, in the company of various local bikers. The Winners Circle continued to feed us extravagant dinners and our arrival always brought a small welcoming committee as our friendships there had tightened into something beyond the superficial. Times were good.

But time was also running out and the bike needed an oil change before she would be ready for travel. And so, after a stop at the auto parts store for oil and a Fram filter we visited a Jiffy Lube. The friendly crew was happy to loan me a drain-pan and, after the job had been completed at the edge of their parking lot, the boys wished us luck with our journey.

The day finally came to leave Myrtle Beach and we began to pack the Electra Glide. But it was with a momentary feeling of loss that we said goodbye to our personal campground—the place had certainly served us well. But the skies were sunny and, as the excitement of the coming journey began to fill our hearts, our attention soon turned to the road ahead.

Traveling slowly we would return to the many secondary roads that lead through the very heart of America. Eventually we would cross into the state of Virginia and spend much time atop the Appalachian Mountains as we toured the famous “Blue Ridge Parkway”. Later we’d pull into the small country town of Lake George New York for the Americade rally and I’d spend a grueling week changing motorcycle tires for the Dunlop Tire Company while Adrienne did her time at D&L Leather. Next, would be Laconia, where having made plenty of money by then, we would take employment from no one and spend our days only in the pursuit of fun. From Laconia would come Canada, Michigan, Colorado and, eventually, Sturgis South Dakota.

I guess you could call it a working vacation, except, for some of us; the ride never really ends….

Ride long and prosper my friends,

Scooter Tramp Scotty

http://www.facebook.com/ScooterTrampScotty

605-430-8801

I went through the sublime Beartooth Pass to get to Yellowstone National Park. The pass is a scenic windy road that abuts Wyoming, Montana and Yellowstone. Travel on the road is limited throughout the year as the altitude reaches 12,000 feet at the peak. If you can cross without freezing, or being stuck in a 20 foot snow embankment, you witness some of the most magnificent dark alpine, montane landscapes, lush forests, and vast tundra, any road in America could have..

The Beartooth Pass was the first real handling test on how the new car tire would work the bike. I weaved and turned her hard on most of the ride, attempting to drag pegs and drag heart. I have to push and lean the bike harder into the corner but she still feels great, and even more stable when holding the curve.

Near the top of this surrealistic road, I witnessed another surrealistic moment. To my right a band of Mountain Goats took advantage of the most fertile grassland along the way. A few cars stopped alongside the road, and I spoke with a local who travels the pass several times a year who told me he’s never witnessed this many goats up here at once.

I spent about an hour with the goats, watching their movements, observing their simple lives. They are not like the goats you would see on a farm, but much larger versions. The adult males are 300 pounds, have an aggressive social structure and conflict with other males 2-3 hours every day. (this would have been useful information to know beforehand) The goats perfect white coats made great contrast to the open colored rocky land behind them. They didn’t seem to mind me hanging and taking photos, until I came too close to their babies. I overstepped the boundary because the two males, 20 yards away, began a fast paced trot directly towards me, in a eerie alien-like sidestep. The goats raised shoulders and intent stare had me not walking, but running away like an inmate breaking from prison. I didn’t look back for a good 30 yards to make sure I wasn’t being chased. Lucky, I didn’t become target practice or fodder for the surprisingly large goats.

Yellowstone is prehistoric America with wildlife at every turn. The park is the most sensual of all lands I’ve seen yet. The land is impressive, and her gentle auburn, red and yellow valleys spread across the gracious earth like fine hair woven from silk linen. Eruptions of water come from her ground, steam rises off of cool rivers, colors of all kinds lay down before your eyes and each corner of the park has a different aphrodisiac to experience. While gazing through her beauty I counted five times my hair stood up as if touched by the gentle hand of a woman.

I stopped for my lunch and walked into a lush green open meadow that set next to a rising forest line. I enjoyed my lunch in peace, away from the spinning movement and tourist traffic. After finishing I laid back into the grass and dozed off. The next thing I remember I was being awoken to the sounds of Buffalo grunting. I was now in the middle of a passing Buffalo herd. Big Papi Buffalo was chasing his girlfriend and grunting right next to my face. There wasn’t much I could do at this point, but maybe crap my pants. I was pretty sure if I moved the massive brown furry beasts would gore me. So I relaxed and watched in wonder as these large frame giants munched, grunted and slowly passed by me with ease. I was happy I didn’t seem to be a threat, and I was allowed to leave without having a horn stuck into my side.

I left Yellowstone ecstatic and crossed the free open plains of Wyoming headed for Rapid City South Dakota, home to Mount Rushmore, The Black Hills, and The Badlands. I ended up staying a week in the town thanks to another adventure and the generosity of some friends who allowed me to crash at their place a few nights.

South Dakota is also home to the Lakota Indians. I was set on going to one of their legendary sweats. I would have to go to their reservation, and even though the sweat was open to public, I knew I would be considered an outsider. Regardless of the discomfort I decided it was an experience I wanted to have and I was determined to go.

I arrived at the location, met the holy man who would be running the sweat and offered him pipe tobacco I bought before coming. He instructed me to throw three pinches into the fire. The fire was comprised of upright firewood four to five feet tall with a total circumference of around six feet. The center of the fire acted as a furnace and heated the stones, which the Native Americans referred to as Grandfathers. These rocks were used throughout the ceremony, and ranged in size from 2 to 3 feet around.

Immediately after throwing the tobacco into the flame, smoke spirals shot out around me, and the two Lakota men conferred and stated the spirits were here.

At first I thought the place was makeshift. The huts were covered by cheap blankets, the alter had little trinkets around it, a skull of an ox was painted in bright blue and yellow, assorted painted sticks and colorful flags lined the top of a small mound outside the sweat hut.

The feeling of dis-credization was quickly removed as soon as the Medicine Man shut the door to the hut. I was covered in complete darkness, and my senses were lost. Chanting began and the Medicine Man started to place the burning hot rocks, from the outside into the center of the pit using a devilish looking pitchfork. Eight of us filled the ring inside the hut. We shared sage and bitterroot, that we either chewed, rubbed on ourselves, or threw it onto the rocks. The Lakato also threw flat cedar onto each glowing stone as more Grandfathers were placed into the pit. Inside this sacred darkness these cedar chips created a fragrant fast sparkling light display.

Their was a series of four doors, each one increasingly becoming hotter as the the Medicine Man filled the center with more Grandfathers while pouring water on them during the ceremony. After each door we took a break and passed along water in a rustic steel pot with a ladle. Some pored the water over themselves, some drank it, and some threw it at the stones.

Through each door the Medicine Man became increasingly more powerful and the flame outside by the fire-pit appeared to lick the sweat from his body. As he forcefully dug into the burning furnace wielding more and more Grandfathers from the core with his rusty pitchfork, the steam inside the tent mixed with the cold dark setting air outside. The trinkets on the mound I once thought were tacky, now covered in our fog, transformed into ancient mystical powers. The temperature from the steam inside was so hot it forced you to pray. As the Medicine Man pored more and more water on the Grandfathers, and more songs were sung, I began to slip into a trance. The darkness that once was blinding became filled with tiny white lights which I witnessed dance in the blackness. Time, if there was a thing that could be considered time at that moment, stood still. Everything darkened with serenity, and within this kind dark spirit, whom through my life I have come to accept and understand…I was home.

In one door we shared a peace pipe, and each participant was given a turn to pray to their God. When my turn came, I had succumbed to the awe of the experience. I spoke loud and I prayed hard, real hard, to which I asked for the well being of my Mother throughout her life and the understanding of suffering for mankind.

I hadn’t spoken or heard from my Mom in about a week and to my surprise after the ceremony, my cell phone had a text from her that read “Can you hear me” I smiled and realized…she had heard me.

The experience was nothing less than profound. And much more came from it than can be written in the space of this article.

By Tony Santoloci

http://www.intotheblueagain.com

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