In February, I committed myself to two summer Habitat trips. Truth be told, it is hard to refuse Ronnie’s southern drawl and infectious energy. When he emailed me a list of builds he would be leading this year, I picked one and signed up. Since leaving Disney, I’ve participated in four builds and have recently joined a group traveling to Mongolia next July. There is something certain about starting a project with your bare hands, hitting hammer to nail, contributing to part of the sum. And to do this alongside a group of people who share the same purpose, whose energy has driven them to a remote town in a still remoter state with the ultimate gift of selflessness and thoughtful introspection, it’s a wonderful space to coexist in.
Words to describe central South Dakota don’t come easily. My friend Mark Miller eloquently cited this area of the United States in his last email to me “It's an austere landscape out there on the Great Plains, but it has its subtle charms.” I recalled an old Variety article about how the Dakotas were trying to boost film production, however, their chief problem was that most couldn’t place them geographically and the general assumption that it was always cold. In fact, my favorite building in New York, built in 1882, ended up being christened “The Dakota” because it was so far away from 14th Street, where the fashionable set was living at the time.
So much of nothingness surrounds our four-hour trek to Eagle Butte. A soft breeze proves to be constant, and with a seven-year drought in effect, can be maddening, gritty and unpleasant. Rolling, grassy hills, dried out lakebeds and kettle ponds pepper the roadways. Sunflowers woefully bend their necks away from the sun, as if in disgrace, their growth stunted due to lack of water and irrigation. Corn crops resemble broad leaf weeds. The effect leaves you feeling thirsty and helpless to their plight. A wide-open sky never peaks above pale blue.
Housing can be a bit of a surprise, so you prepare yourself for anything. You could be sleeping on a church floor, a cheap motel or as we were, in a rebuilt government house with non-opening windows and two bathrooms to share between 12 people. After a long day of building amidst constant wind and dust, we are dirty, sweaty. The rooms are crowded with bunks, there isn’t any space to move about, let alone relax. We collapse on our beds and wait our turn for the shower, hoping for hot water. At night, I try to shield my evening cigarette away from the wind and dirt that finds it way into my teeth.
The team spanned the age spectrum from 16 to 70 beginning with two teen-age Korean boys from Vancouver to an elderly go-getter from Iowa. That our Septuagenarian hails from Dubuque is a fact she reminds us of constantly as if all things flowed from Dubuque; pie tastes better, roads are smoother, the air sweeter. Her voice is a piercing soprano pitch, a trait that forces me to call upon all of my inner strength when I stumble out for coffee at 7:AM. When one of my roommates ambles by and whispers ‘shuddup” in my ear, I laugh right out loud. She is trying to contribute, but by day four, I have forcefully confiscated the keys to one of the rented Suburbans from her. Still, I do admire her. She is active, frequently traveling with elder hostels and habitat trips. And I sense that while Dubuque is home, it is probable that she is quite lonely there. Ironically, we also have an introverted exhibitionist in our midst as well.
There are four decades between the three women I share bunk space with starting at 19. We fumbled into the same, cramped room and in that tight space, I found kindred spirits. We make a list of our favorite books, music and movies and plan a trip to the Grand Canyon. We laugh a lot. And the last day, we cry.
I am reminded of Mark’s sentiment as we caravan back to Rapid City through a corner of the Badlands. There is peacefulness, which resonates here. Land, untouched as yet by the quagmire of homogenous development. Though the reservations struggle to maintain their meager population and economic growth, they also serve as protectors of a vast territory. There is profound bravery in this task. To be able to drive and drive … and drive... without a Chili’s on the horizon, just the earth, a landscape that is probably pretty much the way it was and always has been, is quite settling and I find myself to be grateful for the nothingness.
Eagle Butte may not have been exotic, but a sense of what life was like “On the Rez” affected me. Quiet. Bleak. Desolate. Dry. Poor. Despite the harsh elements, the people are kind, quick to laugh, ingrained with a sense of place, a feeling I lost when my parents sold the Sudbury house.
When I arrive home, my eye catches one of the many inspirational passages on my fridge. “Every year, go somewhere you’ve never been”. I add one of my own. Stay home for two weeks in a row.
