Christopher Childs
Walk for Wind 2006: White Earth
by Christopher ChildsWell: even for a potentially jaded WindWalker from 'way back in '04 (creak of joint, tap of cane), this past weekend's third leg of the 2006 Walk for Wind was notable on several counts.
Personally, for me the notability began with a marathon drive from the Cities by the pair of us Clean Air & Renewable Energy co-chairs (okay: Michael drove; I rode), through the twilight and much of the night, to a campground near the White Earth Reservation. Including the intricate preliminary shuttling needed to pick up driver, rental car, and my mind-boggling collection of expeditionary equipment (and the later stops for the Quiznos subs and the DQ desserts) this consumed a solid seven-plus hours. Minnesota is a big state.
The larger notability had to do with having been invited by Native American activist, and former Ralph Nader running mate, Winona LaDuke — who has long spearheaded the well-known White Earth Land Recovery Project — to a powwow at White Earth. Visits to reservations — and other gatherings with tribal folk — are in my experience always memorable, often challenging in unpredictable ways, and potentially rewarding for reasons that are, again, not always what one may have anticipated. We particularly wanted to make this trip to show our support for plans to install a large wind turbine at White Earth, something that would both be consistent with the tribal philosophy of respect for the environment, and be a significant step toward energy independence for the reservation. And, as everywhere during this year's Walk, we wanted to enlist support on the reservation for the effort to block construction of the proposed Big Stone II coal-fired power plant across the border in South Dakota, a project that radically violates common sense ("When you're in a hole, stop digging") where global warming and carbon dioxide are concerned — and also radically violates a spirit of reverence for the natural universe.
Sunset was a fading memory north of Park Rapids by the time (midnight) Michael turned off Sunset Drive and we wound through the trees to join organizer and lead recruiter Cesia and her van crew (veteran WindWalker Daniela, and new recruit Andrew) at our reserved campsite on Bad Medicine Lake. The lake's name might, at first glance, put some people off, but rest assured that in this case Bad Medicine is very good medicine indeed. The private resort area where we stayed is celebrating its sixtieth year of operation, and there's a reason why it's stayed in business that long. It's in a beautiful location on the lake, is family-run, has a goodly number of (more or less level) sites for tenting and/or RV use, and features its own tiny store (and gas pump, which came in handy) — and canoe and kayak livery (also handy). And, oh, yes: a Finnish sauna — more about that later.
"Well, that all sounds dandy, but what's the name of the place??", I hear you ask. Not so fast: having received some special treatment from the owners, who made it clear that a) they don't extend sauna invitations to just anyone, and b) they already have a well-established clientele and don't need to be overrun, we want to make it a little bit challenging for readers to identify the establishment in question. Read on (and back) for further hints.
The resort is not only family-run but to a degree family-oriented, and may I say that "family" here includes canines. The owners keep company with very friendly and well-behaved dogs. Mention however needs be made here of a less cuddly canine connection with a small but curious (in both senses of the word) creature named Casper, or, as I shall always think of him, Baskerville. (Sherlock Holmes fans will catch my drift.) Casper — the ghostly-hued pet [thus the name, we assume] of some fellow-campers, not the resort owners — was small, determined, perpetually in quest of anything edible, apparently better at scent-location than night vision, and nonetheless possessed of a pair of spectral eyeballs that glowed with preternatural intensity when suddenly illuminated by the headlamp of a more-or-less unprepared camper returning from a wee-hours visit to the W.C. [that's the English abbreviation for "water closet," and that's… well, you know]. He also had a uniquely high-pitched and disconcerting bark and was not shy of deploying it — at any hour — when startled. And, as 2-a.m.-arrivals Brian and Kim found out, he was similarly possessed of a robust growl that belied his small size and made one seriously uncertain of the nature of his intentions. Fortunately, his bark (and growl) seem to have been ingenious feints. Nobody got bit.
Welcoming drummers
And thereafter everybody got at least some quantity of sleep — presumably including little Baskerville, who had ultimately crept off to parts unknown. We rose about midmorning and found our way to White Earth, a feat made challenging by the difference between route numbers published in our atlas, and those actually posted on the routes themselves… a situation not entirely uncommon "on the res," whether the res in question be White Earth or another. An additional challenge came in the form of the final stretch of road to the appointed meeting-place, from which the pavement had been removed prior to resurfacing. With the help of several young men who turned out to be the welcoming drum crew recruited by Winona, we slogged our way to the right place, an excitingly windy rise that is home to the recently-built tribal ambulance and fire center.
Conversations about energy with Winona LaDuke
After some preliminary drumming, and conversations with White Earth energy coordinator John Shimek and his fellow-staffer Carly Thomsen, Winona eventually arrived in the company of our colleague Audrey — who had a connection with her via a friend. Winona outlined plans for the reservation wind turbine, which would presumably have an output of a megawatt or so, supplying up to one-eighth of White Earth's power. She also spoke of other environmental and ecological concerns — especially the need to forestall genetic experimentation with wild rice, the traditional wild-gathered crop — asking for our assistance in passing legislation to prevent genetic tinkering with this unique resource. Cesia, having outlined the threat represented by Big Stone II, reasonably opined that the wild rice issue sounded like a task for the North Star Chapter's Environmental Justice Support Committee. We said we'd take the idea back with us — in the hope that the chapter could make a commitment to work on the issue, something that would inevitably build the relationship between Sierra Club and the people of the reservation.
After another round of powerful drumming by the crew, and some logistical discussions, we unfurled our Walk for Wind banners (no small feat in the feisty breeze) and set out for the powwow grounds. En route we passed several modern tribal buildings — from the ambulance and fire center, to the reservation clinic — and the future site of the new tribal center, all of which testify in some measure to the dedication and perseverance of the leaders at White Earth, who have made it their business to see to it that the reservation transcends a lack of funds (there's no casino here, folks)… finding a way to obtain what need, and justice, require. The day was beautiful and sunlit, and the road passed through rippling grassland and by ponds that lie close to the heart of the small town center. It was only a mile or so to the entry to the powwow, and we followed Carly into the circle of booths. The destination of the moment was the White Earth Land Recovery Project's food booth; here (though the most dedicated vegetarians picked out the buffalo meat) everyone partook of either the Project's wild rice or hominy soup, of homemade bread, and watermelon… and most ventured the swamp tea, which like Bad Medicine Lake transcended the label. It was food to swoon over — Michael publicly declared the wild rice soup "the best soup I've ever had" — and in keeping with the Project's general philosophy, was healthier than most offerings in the booths.
White Earth Powwow
Wild rice soup, homemade bread and watermelon
We were in time to see and appreciate the Grand Entry, the opening round of the powwow in which members of all gathered tribes find their way into the central circle and, to the accompaniment of traditional drumming and singing, dance their way around the circle en masse before the crowd that fills the surrounding grandstand. To witness the dancing is a colorful, beautiful, powerful, and often hypnotic experience. All ages, all styles of costume, and a variety of energy levels are present. A special place is given to the honor guard of veterans; in counterpoint, to some degree, is the presence of the smallest dancers, very young children who notwithstanding their tiny stature can be among the most serious and dignified participants. Later in the day, dancing in a more competitive spirit features particular tribal groups, but the Grand Entry speaks to the unity of peoples and to shared traditions and values — and a shared heritage of rhythms that seem to unite earth and spirit. It's uplifting, gentle, and can embody a quality of joy that may be either understated or vigorous depending on the dancer.
I never hear tribal drumming and singing, or observe traditional dancing, without simultaneously feeling both a deep, visceral resonance, and yet a strong sense of how deep is the distinction between those rhythms and the cadences of my own, European-American culture — and how little I understand (with the left brain, at any rate) about the nature of that distinction. Thoreau — no strong advocate for European cultural hegemony — also resonated with Native American ways and means, and running rather remarkably against the tide of his time said "the Indian does well to continue Indian." A century and a half later, Native American life remains uniquely difficult, embedded within a dominant culture that alternately ignores it and romanticizes it, has yet to make more than the most token amends — witness the Bureau of Indian Affairs' stubborn failure to cough up the billions of dollars owed the tribes from oil royalties, grazing fees and the like that should have accrued in trust funds for over a century — for the onslaught it has visited on the First Nations. The dominant culture also has yet to learn the most basic lessons offered by a way of life that, well beyond romanticization, is in fact based in a workable and essentially respectful relationship and interaction with the natural world. Perhaps, in an age of global climate change and the looming implications of our insistence on taking more from nature than nature can possibly bear to give, there will be some reexamination of what the Nations' traditional ways of thinking and living have to offer. The shift does not at this moment appear imminent.
We took the time to stand in line at another booth for the classic, and not particularly healthy, delicacy of all such gatherings, fry bread. (This form of deep-fried dough, for those unfamiliar with the dish, can about equally well be regarded as a main course, or a dessert.) Once fortified, we found our way to our vehicles — retrieved earlier thanks to some shuttle assistance — and headed back to camp. Diversion en route was provided by MPR's coverage of the DFL convention, some of which we'd been able to catch earlier, of particular interest to several of us because of personal and/or professional connections… but why delve into politics in this journal? Back at camp, our attention was quickly drawn to more uplifting matters — in the line of water sports, primarily canoeing and kayaking. Kim and Brian had brought their own canoe, and Michael and I trotted down to the camp store to rent one for ourselves. An aquatic expedition to explore nearby sections of the lake (which is quite large) was formed, and a small local island was circumnavigated. The circumnavigation was interrupted long enough for a bushwhacking adventure to the top of the island's little rise (Brian: "Why are we doing this, again?" Christopher: "Because it's here."). Somewhat scratched and occasionally battered by low-hanging branches, we returned to our respective watercraft and continued on, Brian and Kim to the north, and Michael and I to the south, where we got interestingly close to a solitary loon, thought we might have seen an owl swooping along the shore, and marveled at the crystallike purity of the lake: as we returned to the dock, one of the resort owners was testing for clarity, and reported that the water was clear down to a depth of over 36 feet.
A gargantuan pot borrowed from the owners, and spaghetti purchased at the little store, allowed us to cook a semi-collective dinner on Andrew's stove… while Andrew ventured out to sea with Cesia and Daniela in rented kayaks. Their extended absence had just begun to cause some concern when they reappeared — and Andrew shortly brought forward a tub of homemade strawberry ice cream, and cones. One of the owners appeared on the resort's ubiquitous golf cart, reminding us that they had earlier extended an invitation to join them in the sauna… with swimsuits, please ("It's a family thing")… at the late sunset hour. Several of us hastily changed and trotted off down the slope.
Although I've experienced traditional sweat lodges in the interval, the last actual sauna in which I'd taken part was at a New Year's Eve party in, approximately, 1974. That one featured post-sauna, flying, alcohol-fueled, dangerously abrasive naked dives across an exterior snowbank of a peculiarly granular consistency. Thus the prospect of a sauna followed by the rather gentler, cooling, liquid ministrations of Bad Medicine Lake (which is, as you will recall, very good medicine indeed) was appealing. The experience did not disappoint. We went two rounds with the heat — which at its peak, sitting on the top shelf, was as hot as anything I've experienced, in sauna or sweat lodge — and held out to the end of each, inspired (or embarrassed) by the example of seven-year-old Shelby, one of the family daughters who was trying her first top-shelf experience. The transition into the calm, sky-mirroring, and soothing water of the lake after each bakery session was cathartic. In the last late-evening light the scene everywhere across the water was full of peace.
We dried ourselves off after the second immersion, and headed back up the slope — toward an enormous rising moon — to our campsite. There followed a lengthy session with sticks and s'mores, around a campsite better classified as a conflagration thanks to Brian's enthusiastic ministrations. Baskerville — with whom we had more or less made our peace during daylight hours — was not much in evidence, a fact which significantly relieved some of us. We retired around midnight.
A quiet night might have been hoped to ensue, but for Brian and Kim — bedded down in the back of their truck — it was not to be. At some point, a flying squirrel — presumably, through disorientation, and not deliberate choice — found its way in under the camper cap. Kim (reports Brian; I managed to sleep through this entire episode), hearing or feeling it scrabbling about in the dark, vigorously inquired of her spouse "why [he] put a chipmunk in the truck." "What are you talking about?" he replied. Thereupon he turned on the light, and there was a flying squirrel in the bed. The squirrel, following its own logic of self-preservation, proceeded to climb up and sit on Kim's shoulder — a change of venue evidently not appreciated by its host, who "yelled something like 'I dont want to get rabies!'" Brian, operating in a more clinical and inquisitive vein, called out to Cesia in her tent and invited her to "come over and check out the flying squirrel in the truck." She (his description closes) arose, "came over, bent down to look, and the squirrel, in a mad dash to escape, hopped on Cesia's head and then sailed off into the darkness…" A small message from the universe, possibly wasted on us, but then, at this writing we have had as yet but little time to reflect on deeper meanings.
My own expectations for a restful night were dashed when, during another wee-hours visit to the W.C., a combination of stress on disused muscles during the canoe outing collided with the extreme relaxation yielded by the sauna. Delicately poised on the throne, I suddenly felt my back begin to slip-lock into an excruciating configuration that, I knew, could — if allowed to fully establish itself — leave me virtually immobilized… in the most awkward and embarrassing of positions on the loo. Visions of having to shout out to my fellow-Sierrans for assistance, wakening the entire proximate neighborhood (and, doubtless, little Baskerville) in the process, and enduring the final humiliation of being dragged three-quarters naked into the night for an emergency manipulation and massage, all flashed through my brain. It was all too much to bear. I rejected the injustice of this scenario with my whole being. But what — as the offending muscles contracted toward rigidity — to do? It was then that I remembered the Veronen family's durable, homespun construction of the stalls of the resort's W.C.'s. The doors were wood, not metal, and were framed at top as well as sides with sturdy 2x4s. I looked up, and there in the wan light of my little headlamp loomed my salvation: a bar close enough yet high enough to reach up and hang from. Fellow back-sufferers will understand the thrill of joy which vibrated through me. I struggled to my feet, clasped my hands around that 2x4, and hung for dear life. I hung with vigor and determination, which might seem odd given that the point of the exercise was relaxation, but again, those with similar back dysfunctions will comprehend. And, miraculously, my spine and its associated musculature reconfigured themselves into a semblance of their normal relationship. I staggered out of the little building, back up the slope, and — bending ever-so-gently — into my little tent. And that, mirabile dictu, was the end of the episode.
Sierra Club and Anishinaabeg walk for wind together
Brian and Kim left in the very early morning, but the rest of us arose leisurely at a later hour. There had been talk of our addressing the powwow at noon to talk about wind power and renewable energy in general, and Big Stone II in particular, so we packed up our gear, returned the borrowed pots from last evening and thanked the management for all their kindnesses, pumped an emergency ration of gas into the car Michael and I were driving, and found our way back to White Earth. Our arrival there was theoretically timely, but in fact dilatory: we were at the powwow by twelve, but it took a quarter of an hour to locate the individual who'd suggested we address the assembly, by which time, he felt it was too late. Having experienced similar disconnections at other tribal events, I felt sorry we had missed an opportunity, but was also philosophical about it. More important to our relationship with the people of White Earth, and the larger network of Native American activists, would be what we were now able to do to assist on such issues as the tribal wind turbine and the protection of the wild rice crop… not what we might, in a few minutes on a Sunday midday, say to a relatively small number of tribal members. Indian people have heard a good many words, over several centuries, from their European-derived brethren, and seen only limited constructive action.
We stayed long enough to inhale another ration of fry bread, and then, in our two remaining vehicles, went our separate ways — Cesia and company to explore Lake Itasca and the headwaters of the Mississippi before returning to the Cities, Michael and I back to the metro area by a more direct route (in theory; we won't talk about the "shortcut" south of I-94 that was "supposed" to save time by dodging the Sunday-eve gridlock). As we rode, two circumstances underscored the significance of the weekend's adventures. First, as we passed south of St. Cloud toward Becker, looming up to our right were the stacks of Xcel Energy's coal-fired Sherco power plant, Minnesota's largest (we stopped to take a few digital photos for the files), burning up to 30,000 tons of coal a day and already contributing several times the potential CO2 output of the huge proposed unit at Big Stone… and beyond it the silhouette of the nuclear power plant at Monticello. The second circumstance was awareness that we were hurrying back to Minneapolis, instead of joining the van crew at Itasca, so that Michael could attend an evening showing of Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth, which I'd seen in preview a few nights before.
The images of Sherco and Monticello, and our consciousness of Gore's central message about global climate change and the challenge it poses to human civilization, could only quietly reinforce our thoughts about the vital significance of wind power — and of stopping Big Stone II… and the 139 other proposed coal plants around the country. There is good reason to Walk for Wind, it becomes increasingly clear; and, before we are done, we envision thousands upon thousands — some literally, some symbolically — walking with us.
White Earth - Walk for Wind!