Glacier Burning - 3 - the Screaming Silence of Waiting

No alarms needed. I awakened early. It was barely light outside. I had stayed up after midnight waiting and hoping for rain as I watched the ridge to our north east for the errie red glow of fire. There had been only one scare during the late evening. It was after 10 pm when there was a knock at the door. It was a good friend who also happens to be a Law Enforcement Ranger. My first reaction was that she was here to give us the evacuation order. No. She had a pizza box in her hand. Her story was that she had been given pizza to share with "folks working hard in the park." It was definitely an emotional boost. I had the feeling, when she said that she had other pizza in her squad car to deliver, that this was really our LE friend's doing. No matter who, it made a tremendous impact. Someone out there was sensitive to our plight.

As I was putting on my boots this morning to do rounds I saw our boss parked nearby. She lives near Flatlead Lake, south of here, and was in the park early. The normal fall staff attrition leaves her with one VUA ranger who was already getting things together for a trip to the east side of the park. She had no more news. We talked about weather and hopes, hope and weather. All we could do was wait. Each of us would, from time to time look up at the grey sky and the tall, silent lodgepole pines. The silence screamed. It was an almost hysterical scream of fear and anticipation, where the mouth is open but there is no sound. Like us the trees were waiting. But they were so still, so silent, creating a sense of tension that made the three observers nervous and concerned. What was going on up on the mountain that we didn't know? The trees knew but weren't telling.

Inside each of us we really knew for what they waited. We knew what they feared. It was the calm before the storm. But what kind of storm? Rainstorm or firestorm?

We have two loops containing 99 campsites open. Twenty-one sites had been occupied last night. I walked the deserted loops to pull tags. That's the early morning process of removing all of the registration tags that had expired. There were only two tents and one RV remaining, and all three of them were right next to us. I couldn't help think of the forest young drawing close to their mothers for comfort and protection. That is, indeed, part of our job. Campers asking us repeatedly if we were going to be sure to warn them. It must take some courage to trust us, total strangers, with their safety. As I walked I imagined, or maybe I fantasized, that it was beginning to rain. I would stop. All of my senses were on high alert, but there was nothing. There was no rain. When I would do this I would glance over my shoulder at the mountain barely visible through the trees and haze. Just beyond that ridge was the fire. Was it coming? Who would get here first, the fire or the rain? I looked again down the empty campground road. At least, if the worst comes, we don't have hundreds of people as we did before.

But I don't want to give in! My defiant screams, like those of the trees around me, are silent. To have this happen twice in ten days is almost intolerable. Nevertheless I know the truth. I am helpless in face of a burning inferno. My only hope is the rain and the skills of the brave women and men who have placed themselves between the fire and me.

Pamela checks the weather every few minutes. Like all of us, she is desperate for hope. The radio cracks. It is dispatch with the morning report. From the sounds of it the fire didn't get as much wind as we expected last night so there was not as much growth as anticipated. That was good news. We have a stand off. The fire hides behind the ridge above us. We know it's there. We wait, but perhaps not patiently, for every nerve, every emotion, screams for relief. We wait to learn our fate. We await our fate. We wait.  

Glacier Burning - 2 - The Longest Hours

To date, September 13th, it has been ten days since we evacuated Avalanche Campground in Glacier National Park, Montana, because of the Sprague Creek Fire. Since that time we have been in four different camp sites in two different campgrounds in the park. We finally seemed to have landed at Apgar C121, one of the two Apgar host sites. The other hosts are the couple who evacuated Sprague Creek Campground the same day we evacuated Avalanche. We have two of the five loops of this 200+ site camp group open, with each couple responsible for one loop. We were expecting a school group that we were going to put in the group site loop. The devastating forest fire continued to burn but was making little headway. The number of campers was increasing, rain and snow were forecast for tonight and we were actually beginning to feel half-way normal. Then it happened.

We were in Columbia Falls doing laundry when we heard the news - an evacuation warning had been issued for Apgar and West Glacier. Our hearts sank. Pamela immediately called our ranger office. One of our VUA rangers and the chief Law Enforcement ranger for the west side of the park were already in our campground handing out the notices. We finished the laundry and returned to Apgar as quickly as possible.

It is hard to explain the emotions of going through this twice in ten days. We're not afraid. We're not worried that we will die in the fire or that we will lose Sinni (our camper trailer home). We're in the enviable position of being able to hook our home to the back of our truck and drive off. The emotions relate to the fact that an evacuation warning means that something on the fire line has firefighters worried. Eradic winds, winds from the wrong direction, high winds, or a sudden change in the fire's behavior. If the evacuation order is given it means that things are going very wrong. The last time this happened we spent the evening of the evacuation watching the fire almost double and begin to peak up over the ridge near us. The last time the order was given it meant two campgrounds and a handful of cottages along the north side of the lake. If the order is given for this evacuation it would mean one campground, two entire villages, the park headquarters along with all support services and government housing. We were at the point that we were almost able to hope that, with the coming of rain and snow, this fire could be kept to less than 15,000 acres. We wanted to hope or maybe even believe that it would end without destroying any more of the rainforest. This evacuation warning instantly dashed those hopes.

The emotions with which we contend are dealing with the unknown and the painful anticipation of the inevitable. Almost everyone has been hit by something - anything from a ball to a paddle to a fist to a vehicle - and experienced that sickening and painful anticipation before impact. You remember how the time from the point you realized the impact was coming to the actual impact was an eternity, an eternity of that emotional pain because you knew that there was no hope, no rescue, no escape. From the first evacuation warning to the predicted rain was twelve hours. Can the firefighters hold out until the rain and snow began? Would the winds blow the fire over the ridge forcing evacuation before any help could arrive? There's no sign of rain or snow on the NOAA weather radar. Is it coming? Have our hopes been dashed? Will the evacuation order be given?

We have worked constantly since we returned from doing the laundry at about 1:30 pm. It is now 8:52 pm and we will be up well into the night. In those seven plus hours we have gone through the campground multiple times making sure that we have talked to all of the campers who have elected to stay. They must know that we might awaken them at any time and say they have two hours to get out. The rain and snow is supposed to start around midnight. What is happening on the fire line? Are we going to make it? Sinni's big back window faces the Belton Hills and Snyder Ridge. I keep looking up worried that I'll see the red glow from our site. If we see red, all hope is gone. But as time ticks away should hope grow stronger? And so we wait.

Some natural disasters strike without warning and are over almost before one has a chance to figure out what is happening. Earthquakes and tornadoes fall into this group. Some natural disasters come rumbling in almost on schedule, like a hurricane. Fires are not like any of those. Fire is menacing.    You can see it coming but have no idea which way it will go or how fast. Fire does not hit one thing and not another. It totally consumes everything in its path.  Unlike any other natural disaster which may last from seconds to minutes to hours to maybe days, a fire can go on for months. 

This is very much our lives in Montana right now. The smoke was so thick in the valley today that we couldn't see the mountains. The fire is destroying peoples' homes and businesses. Many are being evacuated with only the hope that everything they own in life will not be consumed. People are dying. As of September 9th sixty-six firefighters have lost their lives this year, and the end is not in sight. I have no idea how many civilians have died directly or indirectly from the fire.

Tonight will be another extremely long night. As we did ten days ago, we will remain vigilant until the morning in case we have to get our campers up and move them out. We will wait and watch for the rain and snow we were promised. We will keep watching the ridge northeast of us lest the flames come before the rain. It will be a long night of waiting, wanting to hope but fearing to hope, anxious for the nightmare to end so that we can finally rest and the healing begin.

Pamela and Russ

Sept. 13th., 2017 21:39

www.followsinni.com

Glacier burning

First big expansion - the day we were evacuated
from Avalanche at the base of that mountain.

 My daughter-in-law posted one of those Face Book questionnaires a day or so ago. One of the questions was 'when was the last time you cried?' That's easy. Last Sunday morning after we finished evacuating Avalanche and took one last look at our beloved cedars and hemlocks as we locked the gate, not knowing if we would ever see them again.

Montanans, like so many people in the Pacific Northwest and Rocky Mountains, are accustomed to 'fire season'. It's like tornado season for the mid-west or hurricane season for those along the Atlantic or Gulf coast. You can become so accustomed to the dangers associated with these seasons that you become almost jaded. This being only our fifth fire season Pamela and I aren't there yet, but earlier this season we had several long-time and life-long Montanans say "Oh, it's just fire season." They have changed their tune. It isn't just another fire season. It is the fire season from hell. So far we have broken about every record possible to break: (i) longest dry period - 52 consecutive days without rain. (ii) Least rain - only 0.23" since June 16th. (iii) hottest summer in history. (iv) most fires, biggest fires, and most acres burned. Those last figures just keeps growing. To date the northwest has lost around 9,375 square miles. That is an area greater than the States of Connecticut, Delaware and Rhode Island put together. And that doesn't count the Canadian fires which are gigantic and a story unto themselves. 

Smoke is both your enemy and your friend. It can be deadly to people with pulmonary problems and do damage to the lungs of young children. It retards fire because it reduces oxygen. Of course, it reduces oxygen for all air breathing reptiles and mammals. The smoke was so dense when I drove past the lake today I couldn't see the lake. It was less than twenty yards away. For days you haven't needed any filtered glasses to look at the sun. It is nothing more than a large orange disk in the sky. Ash looks like a really light snow or a very bad case of dandruff. The Nat'l Park Service has issued employees respirator masks and we do rounds that we once walked in vehicles. 

Our fire, called the Sprague Creek fire, started on August 10th. We had a night of lightening without rain and had 50 reported lightening strikes inside the park. It started, and continues to burn, in an area that is so rugged that you can't get people in to fight it. All you can do it drop water and chemicals and soak down surrounding areas. We lost an historic 1913 chalet - Sperry Chalet. The firefighters who made a valiant effort to save the chalet had to be dropped into the area by helicopter and climb out through a high mountain pass.

Mt. Brown is on the north side of the fire. For a while it provided a formidable barrier - steep, rocky terrain with little vegetation. That didn't stop the fire. It went up Mt Brown in about six hours.  We learned from a fire behavior specialist that fires can cross what appear to be barren land by following roots and interspersed grass. To the east is Edwards Mtn, and a collection of lakes and glaciers. That's where we lost the chalet. The southern flank was originally Sprague Creek drainage area. In one night the fire burned through that, over a ridge and into an area called the Lincoln and Walton drainage. The fire could follow the Lincoln Creek trail right down to US 2. On the west and northwest are the last of the temperate rain forest and an historic lodge called McDonald Lake Lodge. The fire is currently nibbling at these magnificent 4-500 year old trees and has been progressing toward the lodge. I did learn that the giant cedars and hemlock, because they are a rain forest, are more difficult for the fire to ignite and burn. This weekend we are to have another weather front move through. With it will come high winds and lightening. The last two times that a front went through the fire doubled in size each time. We're at around 13-14,000 acres now.

We live about sixteen miles into the wilderness nestled between four great mountains.  Our water comes from a spring on the side of Mt Canon. It is a completely gravity system and the best water you've ever tasted.  We have no electricity. We have 480 watts of the new photovoltic (solar) system and two 224 amp hour 6 volt batteries, which is much more than sufficient for our needs. Of course, despite the size and power of our batteries we don't have A/C. You generally don't need A/C in Montana. There is no telephone, television, internet or wifi.  The park got us a satellite phone this year but between the mountains, forest and latitude it never worked. We have a special radio with a full meter antenna so that we can communicate with park dispatch. That's our link to the outside world.  We never go to work without bear spray and a radio.  We spent our first 3+ years in a 35 year old 16 foot trailer we called Willy. Last July we got a new 20 foot trailer that we call Nitsitapiisinni - Blackfeet for 'our way of life'.  Our transportation is our 2013 Dodge Ram half-ton heavy.  For us it is a wonderful life, but it isn't for everyone.

A Sunny Day 

Our home from May 1st to October 1st is Glacier National Park, in the northwestern corner of Montana. This year we were taking care of the Avalanche campground. We fell in love with it immediately. Set in the last of the temperate rain forest among giant cedars and hemlock we look from our home up at magnificent mountains all around us. The campground has 87 sites. The average occupancy is 350 people with 75 sites being tent campers and 12 sites having RVs. (Of course anything with wheels is to be recorded as an RV. That means people sleeping in their cars are recorded as RV.)  It is a mile around the campground. We average walking it three to four times a day and biking four to six times a day. We get lots of exercise. We are frequently visited by black bears and both mule and white-tail deer. Nearby, but not in the campground, we have grizzly bears, elk, moose, pine martens, and a host of marvelous animals. Birdwatchers come to stay at Avalanche because of the tremendous variety of  birds - varied thrush, swallows,  two types of owls, three types of woodpeckers just to name a few. 

Then the lightening struck on August 10th. and our lives have been turned upside down. At first there were hopes that it would burn itself out, taking only a few acres. But we hadn't had a good rain since June 16th.  We had rain one day after the 10th. It rained for over an hour but the ground under the heavy forest canopy never got wet. It got hotter, windier, and drier. We knew that we were in trouble when the fire service would drive through the campground at least once a day. By the 17th we had an evacuation plan. Thursday, August 31st was one of the worst days.  Local authorities thought that it would take a long time for the fire to advance up the south side of Mount Brown. It did it in about six hours. It was downhill from then on. Every time there was wind the fire doubled until it is now just shy of 14,000 acres. There have been nine fires inside the park. Three of them are still burning and dangerous.

On Saturday, Sept 2nd we were told to close Avalanche at noon on Sunday Sept 3rd.  We finished our own personal evacuation plan. Later that day they gave those who own land inside the park 'evacuation warnings.' Sunday morning we got up early and removed all of the tags and notices. People were getting up and moving out, but there are always some who poke. When people would ask why they had to leave and what's the hurry my favorite line was "see that mountain right there?" I would point in the direction of Mt. Brown. "No," was always the reply. "That's why we need you to leave . . . . now."  At 10 am the official evacuation notice was issued.  We hustled out the last few campers, did a very basic shut-down,  had Sinni outside the gate and the gate closed when our boss' boss' boss showed up to do the closing.  We locked the gate, took one last look and headed south down Going-to-the-Sun Road toward Apgar.  As I passed our beloved cedar and hemlock forest it was all I could do to maintain my composure enough to drive, but drive I must. Time for tears ... time for heartache and grief would have to wait.  That night we stood at the south end of Lake McDonald with two Law Enforcement Ranger friends, four fellow CGHs, and hundreds of others watching Glacier burn. The fire again doubled in size that night and we watched it come over the ridge.

All of us in the northwest United States and western Canada do feel very sad about those who have and are suffering due to the hurricanes. We are not heartless.  Nevertheless people do need to realize that we too are suffering.  The most recent death count I read on Harvey was 70 (as of 9/9/2017). The number of deaths of firefighters alone (not counting civilian casualties) was 66 just in the US.  To give you an idea of the size of the US and Canadian fires, it is basically equivalent to the country of Switzerland or the entire States of Delaware, Connecticut and Massachusetts.

For those of us who live in and love these mountains and forests, the fires of 2017 is heartbreaking and isn't over yet.  Many of the 89 fires in the US are in areas that will not get snow, nevertheless the heavy snow necessary to suffocate a fire.  Two of the governors of the four states with the most fires report that Washington D.C. rejected our pleas for help.  To see our states burn is devastating. To be rejected by our national government and ignored by the rest of the country is cruel and painful beyond belief. 

Martha

The young woman lay dying in a pool of blood along side the lonely stretch of Illinois prairie highway. "Áápikiááyo! Áápikiááyo!" she screams. "I love you, Áápikiááyo!" Two-thousand miles away in the wilderness of the Bitterroot Mountains a Blackfeet brave grasps his chest, sits down on the ground and begins to sob. His name . . . . Áápikiááyo.

Martha was the youngest daughter of Robert and Ruth Standish who were second generation settlers in western Montana. They had a ranch on the high plains just east of the Lewis and Clark mountain range of the northern Rocky Mountains near the little town of Cut Bank. On a clear day they could make out the mountains in the distance. Cut Bank was right on the eastern edge of the Blackfeet Reservation. Martha had many Blackfeet friends, which made her extremely prejudice parents angry. They wanted her to spend her time with her "own kind." Nevertheless Lowa, a Blackfeet girl Martha's age, was her best friend for many years. Martha knew Áápikiááyo, Lowa's older brother, and somewhere over time they fell in love.

Martha became pregnant by Áápikiááyo. Her parents attempted to have him arrested but Martha warned him and he fled with the last words spoken to each other, "I love you. I will find you." To avoid disgrace, Martha's parents sent her back east to a "home for wayward girls" where she gave birth to a little girl whom she wasn't allowed to hold, see or name. Shortly after giving birth, Martha sneaked away from the home. She started waiting tables in road houses to make her way westward. Martha had sent a letter to Áápikiááyo's sister, Lowa, telling her that she was on her way and would be there as soon as possible. Martha never arrived.

Martha's child was given to a good couple in western Pennsylvania who did love her. They knew nothing about the child except that she was the illegitimate child of a white woman and Indian man. Not knowing the child's mother's name, the couple named the girl Martha. The couple, innocently but ignorantly thinking that they would spare little Martha the shame of her background, never told her the truth. Young Martha never felt at home among the Aryans of Pennsylvania. It was not just that she had dark hair and beautiful mahogany skin with very native american features but she never felt at peace.

Áápikiááyo became a recluse. A nomad, he moved up and down the Rocky Mountains living in a small tipi in the wilderness. He would occasionally go into town where he would look for Martha.

Several years later Áápikiááyo ran into a shaman named Áípi . The shaman understood Áápikiááyo's pain and helped him learn to live with the pain. Áápikiááyo learned the ways of the shaman from Áípi and soon became a sought-after medicine man himself. He tended to stay in the Bitterroot Wilderness and along the Salmon River where people would journey for days to seek his wisdom and remedies. Throughout his life, however, he never stopped looking for Martha and would call out her name in his sleep.

Young Martha went to college at the University of Wyoming. When asked why a Pennsylvania girl would go all the way to wild Wyoming for college she would reply that she felt called. There was no way that she was going to explain the sense of connection whenever she saw or read something about the west. Who would believe her if she tried to explain the feeling deep in her gut that told her she belonged in the west. She had never been there but she grew up with the sense that the west was her real home. There was also the ever nagging feeling that there was something more in her life. This feeling didn't dissipate when she moved to the Rockies, so the west wasn't her 'something more.' On the contrary, the feeling increased when she moved west. Whatever it was, it was still out there for her to discover. Whatever it was, it was in the west.

At the University Martha enrolled in a class in Native American culture. The first day she sat next to another young woman with dark hair and skin. The classmate looked at Martha and, without introduction, said "you're Niitsitapi, aren't you." Sometime later, when recalling her first encounter with Áápiinikimm, who went by Abby, Martha would say that, although she had no idea what Niitsitapi meant, she felt "a lifting in my soul as though some curtain had been lifted and light flooded in."

Abby and Martha became fast friends and Abby helped Martha develop her Native American identity. When the Christmas break came at the university Martha had nowhere to go. Abby took her home to the reservation where she met Abby's family. Abby's father was Áípi.

Áípi felt a shock when his daughter introduced Martha. He immediately thought of Áápikiááyo and Áápikiááyo's search for the white woman, Martha. This girl was neither white nor old enough to be the Martha for whom Áápikiááyo searched, but there was something about her that made his nerves tingle.

Martha quickly became a part of Abby's family. Áípi gave her the nickname of Pokááattsistaawa - baby rabbit - because despite the strength and courage it took for her to leave the comforts of eastern United States and travel, as a single woman, to the wilds of Wyoming, she was as timid as a baby rabbit and Áípi could sense that she was equally as frightened. One evening, while sitting around the fireplace in the log cabin Áípi had built, Áípi told the story of Áápikiááyo. Martha began to cry. She could feel Áápikiááyo's pain. She could feel Áápikiááyo's beloved Martha's pain. Áípi said nothing but could not help but wonder if Pokááattsistaawa had some connection to Áápikiááyo. She was experiencing the most vivid understanding of his pain. It was as though she were physically sharing it. But how could that be? She was Niitsitapi, not white, and much too young. Besides, she had no prior awareness of Áápikiááyo. This was the first she had heard of him. He watched in sad compassion as Martha cried. "I don't know why," Martha kept repeating through her sobs. Abby, who was comforting her friend, looked at her father. Áípi didn't need words or sounds. The look shouted 'help her, father!'.

Áípi stood up, gently put his hand on Martha's head, and said "I will try to help." With that he left the cabin and walked to a spot on the side of the mountain where he always went to meditate and think through problems.

"Where are you, Áápikiááyo?" he spoke to the sky. "Where are you, and what is your connection to this i'nákaakííkoaiksi? (little girl)" He had no more said this than he was filled with the sense of a tremendous anguished cry. He held his head and looked around expecting to see the forest around him violently shaking. Back at his cabin Martha's sobbing became so hard that she was gasping for air.

I must find him, Áípi thought to himself. He withdrew from the world around him and entered a trance state trying to keep his mind clear as he watched for signs of Áápikiááyo. Áípi had known from many years of experience what science was just beginning to seriously study, viz. we are all one with and in the universe. Quantum scientist call it entanglement. It confronts not only scientist but humanity with a new reality. We begin to see that "at a level of reality deeper than the ordinary senses can grasp, our brains and minds are in intimate communion with the universe."₍₁₎ Áípi already knew this. For centuries the white man had made fun of the shaman but now the white man's own science, time and again, confirmed what Áípi had practiced his entire life. Áípi didn't know anything about quantum physics but he did know that his spirit animal, Omahkapi'si (the wolf), would help him find Áápikiááyo. And while so many, afraid to explore anything that might be contrary to their belief system, scoffed at Áípi's way of life, their own scientists were discovering that "Minds are entangled with the universe, so in principle minds can non-locally influence anything, including a collection of other minds or physical systems."₍₁₎ Áípi would sit quietly and do what scientists had observed and were replicating and analyzing in sterile laboratories as though it were something new, strange and bizarre. Some scientist from George Mason University wrote "... however strange or bizarre it might seem, ... all of physical reality is a single quantum system that responds together to further interactions." (2) Áípi would have laughed. It isn't new. Áípi would have worded it differently but it was the truth that had been passed down to him from unknown generations before. We are all one and he could reach out to Áápikiááyo in his mind and turn to Omahkapi'si to lead the way.

After some time Áípi began to sense his friend in pain. As he concentrated he could feel both physical and emotional pain. Both were great. The emotional pain was greater than he had ever felt in his friend and the physical pain was excruciating. Áápikiááyo was badly hurt. Áípi could almost hear his friend call out the name "Martha". "Where are you, Áápikiááyo?" He began to see the vision of mountains and a monument. He concentrated intently and finally recognized the place as Chief Tendoy Monument by which he had traveled many times. Áápikiááyo was somewhere near the monument and he had to take Martha there. The snow would be deep but the road should be passable.

Áípi returned to the cabin. "We need to talk," he said to Martha.

"I know," Martha replied. "He's asking for me."

Abby looked shocked. "Who's asking for you?" she demanded.

"Áápikiááyo," Martha looked at Áípi. "He's hurt, isn't he?"

"Yes, I think so," Áípi answered.

"Will someone tell me what's going on?!" Abby was becoming frustrated.

"Áápikiááyo isn't just a story I tell," Áípi turned to his daughter, "he is a real man."

"Somehow he thinks I'm his Martha and wants to see me," Martha added. "But he's hurt."

"He's somewhere near the Chief Tendoy monument in Idaho."

"We have to go," Martha addressed Áípi. "We must find your friend."

They loaded up Áípi's old truck with everything they could think of that they might need and headed west on US-26. It would be a long circuitous road through a corner of Yellowstone National Park, Jackson and on to Idaho Falls where they would catch Idaho State Route 28 north to Tendoy. It would be a trip of at least 285 miles. Between the age and condition of his truck and the possible snow on the roads, Áípi figured that the trip would take them close to six hours not counting any stops. It was too late and too dangerous to start out at night, so they waited until early morning to leave.

As the three pulled out onto the highway and turned west Omahkapi'si was standing in the snow across the road. Áípi stopped the truck. Focusing on the great wolf Áípi thought "I am going to need you, dear friend. Please help me." Omahkapi'si lowered his head, turned and disappeared into the snow covered sage brush.

Martha looked at Áípi. "An old friend of mine," he said with a smile.

The trip was mile after mile of snow covered roads, thru mountain passes and along the Snake River. Jackson was the first town of any size they encountered. They bought gasoline, coffee and stale donuts and pushed on. The old truck, which was almost as old as Abby, chugged along without missing a beat as though on a mission. Áípi loved his old truck even though it got horrendous mileage. He hoped that he had enough room on his credit card.

They had to go into Idaho Falls and take Interstate 15 north for a few miles. This made Áípi very uncomfortable. Besides not being accustomed to the heavy traffic and high speeds he didn't like cities. Idaho Falls, a small city by eastern standards, was far too big for Áípi's liking. It made him feel closterphobic and he was happy when they passed through Mud Lake and turned north onto Idaho State route 28.

It was snowing heavily as the trio pulled into the Chief Tendoy Monument. The snow was too deep to pull into the parking area so Áípi did his best to pull over enough for other vehicles to pass. They sat and look at the extense of white and green that surrounded them. The trip that had taken then eight hours and ten minutes was the easy part.

"Where do we go from here?" asked Abby.

"I have no idea," Áípi admitted.

"What?!" his daughter exclaimed.

"I'm trusting Omahkapi'si to guide us."

"Father," Abby's voice almost sounded like a parent scolding a child, "you know that I respect your belief in your friendship with wolves but you can't seriously believe that one is going to come and show us the way."

"Yes, he can," Martha almost whispered.

Abby followed Martha's gaze. There, not far from the tree-line, was the largest wolf Abby had ever seen. It stood looking at them. Áípi got out of the truck and saluted the animal.

"Will you lead us to Áápikiááyo?" Áípi addressed Omahkapi'si with respect.

The majestic Omahkapi'si dipped his head and turned toward the forest.

"Please, brother," Áípi called after him. "We are not as well adapted as you. We must prepare." The wolf turned and waited.

Áípi and the girls dawned their parkas and backpacks. One carried food, one carried medical supplies and the third carried camping supplies. Putting on snow shoes, and giving Martha a super-quick lesson on how to use them, the three headed toward the patiently waiting Omahkapi'si.

The snow hug heavy on the limbs of the trees which were, at this elevation, mostly lodgepole and larch with the occasional spruce. Omahkapi'si was very patient with his slow human followers. He would run a short distance then sit and wait. The three of them trudged along silently concentrating on the steep climb and lost in their own personal thoughts.

Abby had always had a great respect for her Father's traditions and proud of him being a shaman, but she had never believed much of what he said, especially the part about talking to Omahkapi'si. Now she was witnessing the truth. Her father was intimately connected with Omahkapi'si. This wild animal communicated and understood him, and was now leading them through the forest.

Perhaps communication wasn't the right term. Áípi didn't need to speak. They didn't seem to need to be near. There were no normal channels for the flow of information. It made Abby think of an interdisciplinary course she had taken involving physics, psychology and information technology. The discussion had turned to the current research and debate around quantum physics and psi. There was strong evidence that something exciting was going on and it included quantum physic's entanglement and psi's telepathy. Although, to quote Einstein, it was a bit "spooky", the evidence was strong that there is a connection between all sentient beings that could account for what is known as telepathy. Here Abby was witnessing such a connection, such a communication without the use of any of the "normal" methods of communication. How did this wolf know that they were coming?

Martha too was amazed at Áípi's relationship with Omahkapi'si but her mind was mauling over why this Blackfeet shaman wanted so desperately to see her. Did he think she was his lost Martha? Did he think that she was an incarnation? Abby had decided that she was Blackfeet, but she had never been west of Pennsylvania until she left there to study at the University of Wyoming. This man was a shaman. He was a seer. Did he know something about her that she needed to know? She ignored the pain in her legs from walking in the awkward snowshoes. This enigmatic man was becoming more and more important to her.

It was beginning to grow dark when they saw a tipi. There was no smoke coming from the vent and no signs of life. Omahkapi'si stood to one side as Áípi moved as fast as his snowshoes would allow for the last fifty yards or more. Quickly removing his snowshoes and instinctively standing them in deep snow, he started digging his way into the tipi. Martha and Abby we right behind.

There was no light in the tipi, nor was there a fire. With Áípi's flashlight they could see a man. His long, heavy salt-and-pepper braids hug down over the blanket that was pulled up to his chin. Martha could just barely see his face but it seemed extremely familiar. Abby looked from the man to Martha and gasped.

"Get a fire going, Áápiinikimm" Áípi barked. "Martha, bring me the first-aide kit."

The girls sprang into action. The man was awake and talking to Áípi in a language Abby recognized as Blackfeet - one of the Algonquin languages. Soon Abby had a fire going and the cold tipi began to warm. Throughout this time Martha could not really get a good look at the injured man.

Áápikiááyo pushed Áípi aside so that he could see Martha. "Is that Martha?" he asked Áípi. Áípi nodded. If Martha had been looking at Áípi instead of concentrating on Áápikiááyo she would have seen the tears running down Áípi's face.

Kneeling down at Áápikiááyo's side she got the first really good look at him. She began to cry. She knew why she was to be here. It was like looking into a mirror.

"Child," Áápikiááyo took Martha's hand. "I am your Father. Your Mother was taken from me when she was carrying you in her womb." He paused as he fought back his tears. "She sent a letter to my sister, Lowa, saying that you had been taken from her as soon as you were born and that she was coming home. One night I heard her scream my name. She never arrived. I searched for her for years. When, in my anguish, I called out her name you responded. That's when I knew that you existed and that you carry your Mother's name. And you are beautiful, like your Mother. The infection in my leg is very bad. I may not survive. But you came. You fulfilled your Mother's promise. If I die, I will die happy because my Martha is home."

Crying tears of joy and sadness Martha lay down next to her Father and put her head on his shoulder. Now she knew that she was home. Now she knew that 'something more'. It was her Father and her heritage.

REFERENCE

(1) Radin, Dean. (2006) Entangled Minds: Extrasensory experiences in a quantum reality. New York. Paraview Pocket Books.

(2) Nadeau, R., and Kafatos, M. (2001) The Non-local Universe: New Physics and Matters of the Mind. Oxford Univ Press.  

A Rainy Evening - Life is Good

The rain on Sinni's ₍₁₎ roof is gentle and comforting. It is the only time we do not hear the rush of the nearby McDonald and Avalanche Creeks carrying the melting snow and glacier waters to Lake McDonald. A few stragglers, who didn't get off the mountain before the storm, go by, but for the most part it is just the four of us - Pamela, me and the two dogs - with Sinni in the cool, beautiful, solitude of the dense forest of cedar and hemlock. Soon our nearest neighbor will be six miles away. Even when a campground is full, rain generally brings quiet. Here at Avalanche we only have two campsites that we can actually see from Sinni.

There is a stillness in the forest as though all nature is standing so very still to receive the life-giving rain. Mni wiconi - water is life. Some animals will continue to quietly forage in the rain while others will seek shelter and bed down for the night. Our resident Grizzly bear sow, with her two big cubs, will be moving almost silently up Avalanche Creek, along the side of Mt Brown, to her night time retreat at the southeast end of Avalanche Lake. Her cubs are two-year-olds and will soon be on their own. Tonight, however, they will still know the warmth and protection of momma.

The table lamp by me gives off a soft golden glow. I converted it to run off our 12-volt electrical system. Our batteries are holding at 12.7 volts. The rule of thumb is to shut down and go to bed when they drop to 12.2. Sinni is so small and efficient that we rarely drop that low. We will have >12.2 volts when the first light of morning hits the solar panels on the roof. As a result, I am not quick to turn off the lamp that give the room a cozy, comforting glow.

Canon Mountain above us is shrouded in low hanging clouds. I can only make out a very little bit of its peak. The forest is our protector and the mountains give us strength. The rushing creeks lift our spirits while the animals - deer, bear and a wide variety of birds - remind us that we are never alone.

A handsome and confident white-tail buck watches majestically from a distance. A lovely young mulie - mule deer - doe stands at the edge of our campsite trying to figure out our fifteen year old Pomeranian. His name is Theodore Ursus. Maybe she thinks he looks like a tiny teddy bear too. A magnificent blackbear makes his daily trek down to McDonald Creek, checking out the picnic area before morning's light, and returning to the mountain. He always goes behind us but never stops to visit.

The rain has passed. All that is left is the patter of drips off the tall cedars above us. The sound of the two creeks returns accompanied by the high single whistle of the Varied Thrush. The sky is still light. In a few days it will not get dark at all through the night. Nevertheless the forest will. It is time for the night-time predators, the pine martens and barn owls, to begin hunting silently as we sleep.

You have never experienced dark until you have been in a place like Glacier or the desert where there is no human light pollution. Glacier is a dark-sky park which means that it is dark enough here that we are able to see Northern Lights and the Milky Way like few other places on the globe.

Nitsitapiisinni - our way of life. No where are we happier than when we are in the wilderness. No where else do we feel more alive. Perhaps the hundreds of days and nights we've spent in the wilderness, sometimes as much as sixty miles away from the chaos and trappings of so-called civilization, has awakened a primordial longing. Perhaps our time has enabled us hear and heed the call to return to the oneness with all of nature.

As the rain becomes a memory the forest wraps us in the comforting blanket of darkness and Unci Maka ₍₂₎ sings us a lulaby. Nitsitapiisinni.

FOOTNOTES =====

(1) Sinni is the name of our twenty foot camper trailer and short for Nitsitapiisinni - Blackfeet for "our way of life." For those who don't know us, we are full-timers and Sinni is our home.

(2) Unci Maka means Grandmother Earth.  

MOVING OFF THE GRID - LIFE AS A NOMADIC FULL-TIMER

The rain was a gentle patter inside Nitsitapiisinni (nicknamed "Sinni"), our twenty-foot camper trailer home. Rain is normally a very pleasant experience inside a camper and, for us, is rather like putting an old-fashioned clock in with a puppy to help it sleep. This would have been true on this particular night had we not been camped on a narrow peninsula in the desert created by two dry gulches. Long before I ever camped on the desert I had learned that you don't camp in dry gulches no matter how inviting they may be. We weren't in the gulches and I figured that both were sufficiently deep to handle the 1.5 to 3 inches of annual rainfall in the Sonoran Desert. Nevertheless this was our first time this far off the grid. Little did we know that the Sonoran Desert was about to receive one-half of its annual rainfall in one night. Thankfully we didn't learn this fact until later.

We are, what I call "Nomads". I started using the term "nomads" in February of 2017. For some reason it seems to make more sense than "full-timers" when describing the distinct group of full-timers into which we fall. A lot of full-timers, and probably the original full-timers, give up sticks-n-bricks (a house) in favor of an RV or trailer which they take to a gated community with full hookups (water, electric & sewage), swimming pool, community hall and activities, etc., in a state like Florida or Arizona where they stay from September or October to April or May. Some live at the same place almost year around. The group I call "nomads" have likewise given up sticks-n-bricks but we move around and rarely, if ever, stay in a gated RV community. There are three main reasons that we move - (i) there is a stay limit where we are camped, (ii) the weather, and (iii) we just feel like moving on. We generally stay in no-cost or low-cost dispersed camping areas. In the west there are lots of areas where one can camp for 14-16 days at no cost. There are some areas where you can stay an unlimited time because it is just too remote to be checked often. If we hear of a really bad storm, extreme cold or other less than pleasant conditions, we will determine whether or not our location is a good place to ride out bad weather. If it isn't, we go in search for the best place to hunker down. Wanderlust vies with stay limits for primary cause. We will read or hear of some place that we'd really like to visit. Off we go. We may also get a call or text from one of our nomadic friends to meet them somewhere for a few days.

When we do hit the road we rarely know where we're going to stop for the night. Sometimes we have a fair idea of the general area we're seeking. There may be a park or some feature that we want to see and we will head toward it and find dispersed camping nearby. We have also been known to see a local park of interest and just pull in.

When our 2016 season at Glacier National Park ended on September 29th 2016 we made our way back to visit family and friends in the midwest and south. After a granddaughter's wedding we started west. Little by little we found ourselves being drawn more and more off the grid. It didn't take us long to realize that the off-the-grid nomad was our life-style.

We had been staying at Corp of Engineers (COE) campgrounds and a couple of state parks as we moved westward toward Quartzsite, AZ. We had been in free dispersed camping about five or six miles southwest of Quartzsite, AZ for two weeks. Even though the masses of campers that converge on Quartzsite every January were gone, we still had a number of campers around us. There were also a number of prospectors, camped along dry gulches, digging holes in the side of the gulch looking for gold. There were a number of hand-dug and timbered deep shaft gold mines that had been blocked off by the government. Prospecting is legal but deep shaft mines are unsafe. The prospectors around us were understandably suspicious of anyone getting near their digs. We didn't realize that we were camped on almost the exact spot where gold was first discovered in Arizona.

After two weeks outside Quartzsite we decided to move south and east near the KOFA Wildlife Refuge. We had been told that an area of free dispersed camping along the Palm Canyon Road was outstanding. We found a marvelous place where we had Sinni's big back window facing the mountains of KOFA refuge. At this time we had only our two 80 watt portable solar panels, but they provided quite adequate power to charge our two new 6 volt, 224 amp hour batteries connected in series to give us 12 volts with 224 amp hours. We were a good hundred yards or so from the dirt road that led into the refuge about a mile further east. There was a meditation circle someone had made about fifty yards from us. That was the only sign of human existence. The nearest town was 25 miles away and we knew that there we two other campers some miles into the refuge on the Queen Canyon Road, which is definitely a four-wheel drive only road. We had traveled the Queen Canyon Road that day. Some of the drops were so bad that I had to stop and remove our big Blue Ox receiver because it would bottom out.

On any clear night you can see the Milky Way with amazing clarity because there is absolutely no light polution. It was magnificent. We were happy, content and totally at home. We had confidence in our truck ("Mighty Moe") and Sinni. That was when we knew. We were nomads.

The furthest we every were from so-called civilization was at a place called Hite in southern Utah. We were sixty miles from the nearest village, gas or phone and camped on an open area just above the Colorado River. It happened to be a small fee area. At one time in its history it was a bustling marina, but as the lake receded the marina was abandoned and nomads, such as ourselves, and primitive campers took possession. There were two other campers near us. We became friends with one couple and shared meals and information in the evenings after we returned from our day's adventures.

Some of our nomad friends never leave the southwest. They move down along the Mexican border during the coldest part of the winter and move into the mountains in northern Arizona and New Mexico as the temperatures climb. Because we do really love our new home; Columbia Falls, MT.; and Glacier National Park where we volunteer as camp hosts along with other duties, we anticipate an annual pilgrimage north and south, driven by weather and the park season. We will undoubtedly explore new areas and want to spend some time in New Mexico, but we have some favorite places where we know we can spend a comfortable and enjoyable winter.

Our twenty-foot trailer has everything we need for comfortable living. I often joke about the fact that we use the term "camping" but I don't really consider what we do to be camping. The people who sleep on the ground, cook outside and rely on a tent and -20 degree sleeping bag to stay warm are camping. We merely take our comfortable home, albeit quite tiny by most standards, with us. When we're on the road we're never more than eighteen feet from home. We have electricity, a furnace, hot and cold running water, an 8 cubic foot fridge, a really good gas stove with oven, a walk-around bed and our bathroom even has a bathtub. What more could you want? The biggest thing about being a nomadic full-timer is that you must be totally self-contained. If we had a good source of drinking water and a way of properly disposing of our sewage, the only thing that would force us to go to town would be propane. We can go about a month on our two thirty pound cylinders.

Moving off the grid is not for everyone. Some people don't like the isolation or may fear being so far from a town. Other are very honest about being afraid of things that go bump in the night. At this writing we have seen fifteen bears in ten days. Many people find the idea of depending upon PV (photovoltaic energy - the name for the new solar technology) and not having city water, microwave, TV, etc., intolerable. Downsizing is a significant barrier to anyone contemplating any sort of full-timing. My entire wardrobe, including park uniform and coats, is contained in one 17" closet, two 11" square designer bins, and a corner of the under-the-bed storage area. You can pack a lot into a 40 foot motor home (Class-A) but then you're limited to where you can go. We're only twenty feet long, so we can go almost anywhere. We have 160 square feet in the trailer and use our 6'6" covered truck bed for storage and to carry our kayaks, bicycles, back-country equipment and scuba diving gear.

Living the nomadic life is quite inexpensive. Between May 2016 and May 2017 we spent $1,508.65 on site fees, $268.62 on propane, $5,821.99 on gasoline (for the truck), and around $7,800 on food and incidentals. Our basic living cost for the year was $15,399.26. BUT one should not consider this life-style to save money. Firstly, almost half of our year is spent volunteering for the National Park Service. For our volunteer time we are given a camp site for Sinni. You really need to love the parks and being a park volunteer to do this. It is work. People who volunteer for the purpose of getting a free camp site are terribly disappointed and don't last long. Secondly, we find our way of life very comfortable and enjoyable, but not everyone would agree with us, especially if they can't do without television, internet, malls, restaurants, and all the trappings of the city.

For us being off the grid is bliss. We travel around the country enjoying some of the most magnificent scenery and wilderness on the planet. We spend our lives as far away from urban congestion and suburban sprawl as possible. We avoid all of the life-draining ugliness and chaos of what humans call civilization. We would much rather be deep in the forest or out in the desert than in an RV park or resort. We have many friends who share our passion for being off the grid but we do often spend extended periods of time in what many would call isolation or solitude. But we don't see it that way. The mountains give us strength. The trees and plants give us shelter and provide unparalleled beauty. The animals are our friends. Nitsitapiisinni - our way of life.

Life

Sitting looking out the large bay window in the back of our trailer home, Sinni, I look at mountains and mesa, buttes and canyons that are the result of billions of years of wind and water. The desert landscape is scattered with clumps of grasses and scraggly shrubs struggling to survive. The scene is beautiful, made more awesome by the cooperation of cloud and sun constantly changing the appearance of the land. A distant butte goes from a solemn dark giant to a shinning monolith of dark chocolate brown topped with white. It is almost a flashing beacon or sign saying 'I will not give in. I am strength.'

Looking across the Colorado River at the massive walls hundreds and hundreds of feet thick cut by the persistent river I can see layers of time designated by color and texture. The story of this land lies exposed for all to see. Sadly I do not yet have the skill to read it but I will try to learn. I will seek to understand. Even sadder, however, is that so many people, even those who will admire the land's beauty, will not give a thought to what it tells us.

The land tells us a great deal. It teaches us and will guide us if we but stop and listen. We humans are poor listeners. Perhaps that is because we don't believe that anything but humans have anything to teach. In a way that is ironic since we are the newest creature here and have the most to learn. Perhaps that is why we have made such a mess of everything we get near.

Sit and watch and listen to the land. Watch that strange shaped rock at the top of the mesa. Watch it closely and listen carefully. So many would tell me they head nothing and saw no change, no movement, no life. That is so far from the truth. That boulder changed and the sound of the wind attests to that. It may have lost some of its mass to the wind while you actually watched. It may have accepted a fine layer of dust from the wind that was once a part of another rock many miles away. But that boulder, like all the land, is ever changing. It tells us "even though I'm a mountain I will not be here forever. I had a birth which lasted thousands of millennium and I will some day be gone. Only my story, written in the layers of the land, will tell of my existence. Yet I will not die. I will always be a part of the land. Only my form will change."

The rock that changes over billions of years may not be organic life but it is a part - a vital part - of the life of this planet. The land is alive. It isn't sentient life but that does not make it any less alive. Like an animal or a plant, the land is a complex combination of molecular, atomic and sub-atomic activity. We can not adequately define life scientifically. Even philosophy fails. How can we exclude that which shares so much with us? The more I read quantum physics the more I am convinced that the magnificent, strong and seemingly indestructible mountains around me are nothing more or nothing less than a different manifestation of our oneness. We are both the manifestation of the sum total of elements that cling together, by forces yet to be understood, flying through space at an unimaginable speed. Quantum physics is seeing more and more evidence that even this planet has a oneness with the universe and what appears as empty space is really quite full.

The land tells me this. Even as I learn to read its story. Even as deep canyons and giant mountains tell us about ancient seas, long forgotten creatures, atmospheric change, bombardment from outer space, continental migration and much more, it tells us about life. It shows us that time, as commonly understood by humans, is merely an abstract we use to get to our next appointment. Time has a very different purpose and definition in quantum physics which I will not try to relate here. But

the life around me - the life of which I am one - tells me that human time is really inconsequential.

As a sentient creature in this collective life I, unlike my animal sisters and brothers and unlike the rock and plants around me, can decide whether I am to be a deadly, destructive cancer cell or a cell with the goal and purpose of protecting the whole organism - the life of the universe.

The mountains, my kin - a part of my being, have so much to teach me about patience and endurance. I will endeavor to watch and listen carefully to the lessons they have for me.

Plants, many of whom have been killed by human negligence yet struggle and re-emerge fifty to one-hundred years latter, have so much to teach me about perseverance. I stand in awe and hope to learn from them as I struggle to keep my fellow humans from destroying life on this fragile planet.

All other sentient beings, all of whom have been a part of this collective life and this world much longer than humans, have so much to teach us about survival and being a productive part of nature. I will treat them with respect and love, and learn from them.

Life is not my personal beginning and end in this human form. Life is not a collection of organic specimens which I decide are worthy of existence. Life is the entire planet as a part of the cosmos, and you and I are called upon to decide whether we are a cancer or the means of future life.