Frank is Emptiness

March 31st, 2018

We blew the radiator on the Nissan. That happened only a mile away from Hays. Jeremiah noticed smoke when he looked in the rearview mirror. Then he saw that the temperature gauge was pegged on hot. We pulled over.

A tribal cop pulled up behind us. We popped open the hood. Steam billowed out as I lifted it up. The cop looked inside, and said, “Oh yeah, you blew the radiator. Hopefully, you didn’t fry the engine.”

All the other vehicles were already parked up at the high school. Jeremiah got a ride there, and I stayed with the car and the cop. We had time on our hands, so we started a conversation.

Somehow or another, we began talking about the military. I told the officer about Hans’ experiences in Iraq. The cop had been deployed there too. I told the guy how Hans had been changed by his wartime experiences. Hans had come home comfortable with violence.

The cop nodded. He told me,

“I came back an asshole. I would go looking for violence, because I missed it. I would go to bars and steal away girls from their boyfriends, just so I could fight them.”

That sounded about right. Hans came back looking for the adrenalin rush. He used to go skydiving, and he rode a Kawasaki crotch rocket for a while. Hans was no stranger to dangerous activities. Soldiers come home from our wars, and they have no way to readjust to civilian life. In some ways they never readjust.

I rode in the squad car with the cop. I told him what Hans told me about fighting drugged out Iraqis, how he would empty an entire thirty round magazine into some guy and the Iraqi wouldn’t even slow down his attack. The cop told me an almost identical story. In a way I was relieved to know that Hans was telling me the truth, but the story was still appalling. The policeman told me some other horrendous tales. They were fascinating in a twisted sort of way. I didn’t doubt any of them.

I told the cop that Hans does everything to excess: he drinks too much, smokes too much, and works too much. The cop smiled and told me that he already had one hundred hours logged in his current, two week pay period. He said to me,

“I always answer a call. Some guys won’t answer a call. Some will say no. I always go in to work.”

That sounds like Hans. He worked eighty hours a week ago.

Hans starts his day with a Red Bull and a Pall Mall. The cop does the same thing. In fact, he was smoking and chugging a Monster while we were conversing.

I am meeting a lot of veterans as I visit different reservations. They all remind me of our redneck son.

 

 

 

 

 

March 31st, 2018

We currently only have eight people on the Longest Walk 5.3. I have been told that previous iterations of the walk had significantly more participants. Perhaps there were more walkers because the other walks took more southerly routes across the United States. We are traveling along the northern edge of the U.S., and it’s not always pleasant.

We walked yesterday after we arrived in Hays. Hays is a village near the southern end of the Fort Belknap rez. We had originally planned to walk five miles or more on the way to Hays. It is just as well that we didn’t do that. The weather did not cooperate with our efforts.

We were supposed to meet up with members of the local community at 6:00 PM at a crossroads approximately one mile from the high school. We were going to walk to the high school, carrying our staffs and flags. Horsemen were to accompany us. Once we arrived at the school, the people from Hays were going to give us a potluck dinner of epic proportions.

The temperature dropped significantly before we started the walk. The wind picked up and it began to snow. We got into cars and trucks to go to the crossroads. When we got there,  visibility was nearly zero and the snow was falling sideways.

We didn’t take any flags on this march. Bobby and Chief took the eagle staffs. Kid carried the chanupa (peace pipe). Tyler carried the carved wooden staff rom the Yakima tribe. Jeremiah drummed and sang. I just trudged along near the rear of our small contingent.

There was one local kid who walked with us. He was only wearing a wind breaker. No gloves. No hat. That boy was freezing. A young woman took off her own winter coat and draped it around his shoulders.

I was cold. I come from Wisconsin, so I am no stranger to frigid weather, but this storm was nasty. I could feel my beard begin to frost up. I started to grow snot-cicles around my mouth and nose. Everybody else to feeling it too. It was a short walk, but a also a brutal one.

Tony was taking photos as we walked toward the school. He looked at me, as the wind was whipping my beard around my face. Tony laughed and yelled, “Viking! Frank, say something in Viking!”. Sadly, I don’t know any Nordic languages, but  I could have made some heartfelt comments in German.

We arrived at the high school, frozen through and through. The hot food was very welcome.

I walked again this morning on my own. The mountains and hill’s were covered with snow. Cattle grazed on a hillside near the school. I could see my breath as I walked. It’s still cold, really cold.

I don’t expect us to get any new walkers for a while. I think that we will remain a small, tightknit group until spring comes to the north country.

 

 

 

March 31st, 2018

Native Americans love to share their food with guests. I never thought that there would be a chance of me gaining weight while participating in the Longest Walk, but it might happen. Every meal is a feast. I’m not sure why that is. It seems like the Indians count the number of guests, and then they cook for double that population. Perhaps, it is because they know what is like to be hungry, and they want to make sure nobody else has that experience.

I am not a fussy eater. I eat whatever is placed in front of me. It seems rude to me to refuse food of any kind. I understand that some people have particular dietary requirements. I don’t. I am basically omnivorous.

Last night the folks here at the Fort Belknap reservation had a potluck meal for us. There was buffalo meat in a variety of forms. I tried the tongue and the liver with onions. Somebody brought in a mountain of fry bread. Fry bread is excellent; it is kind of like eating an unsweetened doughnut. There were different soups. There were trays of boiled potatoes with oníons and carrots. There was roast turkey. We drank water or coffee with the food.

As far as I can see, the Indians don’t do salads. Actually, except for the potatoes, there were no vegetables on the table last night. I have not been to enough reservations to generalize, but greens do not seem to be priority in the Native American diet.

Tony was telling me a funny story about a young man from New York who was part of the walk while I was gone. This guy would always ask if the meal being served was vegan. It never was. If a person shares a meal with Native Americans, it is almost guaranteed that meat or dairy will be part of the menu. That’s just how it is.

It goes back to the culture. These people have traditionally been hunters and fishermen. They hunt deer and elk for food. They eat buffalo in this part of America. When we were in the Pacific Northwest, the people ate salmon. It’s who they are.

 

March 30th, 2018

The Amtrak station in Havre, Montana, is underwhelming. It is only open from 10:15 AM until 6:15 PM. The station consists of one small waiting room, with a tiny adjoining office. The waiting room contains several uncomfortable benches, some sickly plants, three vending machines (one of which is inoperable), and a variety of outdated magazines.  When I arrived at the station, there was one woman working in the office. She was accompanied by two small children. Apparently, she doesn’t need daycare. She lets her son and daughter run wild as she attends to her infrequent customers. Only two trains come into Havre each day: the Empire Builder as it rolls west to Seattle, and the Empire Builder that runs east toward Chicago.

I had been on the westbound Empire Builder for twenty-four hours. I was tired and paranoid. I had been texting Tony concerning my arrival time in this godforsaken Montana town, but he had not been responding. That bothered me. When I got off the train, there was no one there to greet me. My immediate reaction was to silently swear, “You fuckers.” I knew that the Longest Walkers were at the nearby Rocky Boy rez, and they knew that I was on my way to join them. So, where were these guys?

I made some calls. Bobby answered, and he told me that Tony was on his way. I relaxed a bit. I went outside of the station and I could feel the bite of the cold wind. I began to regret my decision to rejoin this ragtag group that was wandering from reservation to reservation.

Havre looked uninviting. The was plenty of snow and dirt, and a statue of some forgotten pioneer stood in front of the train station. It’s one of those western towns were every business establishment also doubles as a casino.

I saw a car pull up. It was Jeremiah’s Nissan, but Jeremiah wasn’t driving it. Some other guy was behind the wheel. I recognized Ferdinand (aka Fern) in the passenger seat. Fern saw me and they parked in front of the station. I threw my sleeping bag and other gear into the back of the car. The driver was Tyler, an acupuncture student/carpenter from San Francisco. He had joined the walk the day after I went home. The two of them were on their way to a local Indian craft store. Then they were going to pick up laundry.

I found out from Fern and Tyler that the group had just finished a massive walk/run with about three hundred school children. It was a rousing success, and it had gone on longer than expected. I was relieved that they hadn’t just forgotten about me. I was sorry that I missed that walk. It sounded very cool.

Rocky Boy is a Chippewa Cree reservation not far from the Canadian border. It is about a forty-five minute drive from Havre. The land is hilly with deep creek beds. In the distance are the Bear Paws mountains. The Bear Paws actually look like a bear reclining on the earth, with his head and paws facing to the west. The mountains are partially tree-covered. The rest of the rez is not.

There is a college campus on the reservation. It is called “Stone Child”. The name made me think of Jim Hendrix. I think I was conflating “Stone Free” with “Voodoo Child”. Hey, I hadn’t slept much. Rocky Boy and Stone Child are both translations of the same Indian name. We were staying in a common room in a part of the college building. Another night of sleeping bags on the floor. I was good with that.

The tribe had a party going on that evening in the school gymnasium next to the college. They were planning to honor their outstanding students and school athletes. I met the other walkers at the gym. We quickly caught up on recent events. I had been gone for nearly a month, so I had missed their journey from Puget Sound to central Montana. They had already covered a lot of miles, and they had visited eight more reservations in my absence.

The tribal members started drumming in a circle in the middle of the gym. They sang their traditional songs. People left the bleachers to join together for a round dance. I got up too. I am generally not a dancer, but this was pretty simple. We all joined hands and kind of shuffled around the drummers. There were old people dancing, and little kids, and everybody from the ages in between. Lots of smiles. The children were laughing. It was fun.

The tribe recognized the kids from the school. They also mentioned our visit to their land. Bobby made sure that surveys went out to collect data on drug abuse and domestic violence. Then we all ate fried chicken and noodle salad.

I walked outside just before sunset. The sun was shining on Bear Paws, and making the bear’s head glow gold and green. The western sky was bright orange. The sun dipped below the horizon, and I could just make out the evening star. The mountains still shown in the twilight. The trees were too dark to see, but the white patches of snow were visible. Then the stars came out.

 

 

 

 

March 26th, 2018

I have to pack a couple bags. I have to run a couple errands too. My train leaves Milwaukee at 3:52 PM, in theory. We are talking about Amtrak, so all times are negotiable. Between now and then, I have to get my stuff together so that I can hook up with the Longest Walk 5.3 again. The walkers are somewhere in the middle of Montana, and I plan on finding them.

I had hoped to leave home with everything organized and settled. I dislike loose ends. I like to have it all neat and tidy upon my departure.

Not.

The sad fact is that there are always loose ends. Always. There is always something forgotten, or something unforeseen. There is never a perfect time to start a new adventure. A person who waits for the perfect conditions never actually begins anything.

Karin and I visited our loved one yesterday afternoon. She had previously told me about her anxiety attacks. She always seems to find something to worry about, as do I. I think it is a genetic thing. It is a hereditary obsession. The mind never stops troubleshooting, so the person never starts living in the moment.

I am just going to go. Karin will drop me off, and I will sever the connection, at least somewhat. I am not capable of completely separating myself from the people back home. Perhaps that is a good thing. I don’t know. It just is.

I heard that it is cold in Montana.

 

 

March 20th, 2018

Hans has a hard job. He has always had difficult jobs. Every place he has ever worked has been physically and mentally demanding: the mail room at the Eagle newspaper, the Army, the oilfields, and now a concrete company. He has always had to push himself to the edge. It shows.

Hans drives a big pump truck for the concrete company. It has a 42 meter boom for the pipe. Hans transfers the concrete from the mixer trucks to the place where the finishers lay the slab. Sometimes he pours seventy yards of concrete for a house slab. Sometimes he pours a couple hundred yards for a larger project. He has to make sure that the work goes fast enough that the concrete doesn’t begin to set up in the pipes on his truck. The clean up at the end of his shift is always arduous. It is not unusual for him to have chip pieces of concrete from in his hopper.

Hans doesn’t have a start time. He is on call every day. He might have to go in at 6:00 AM, or he might need to show up at one in the morning. He might only work eight hours or he might have to work sixteen. He never knows. One day his dispatcher had him working for twenty-two hours straight. Even the corporate management thought that was a bit excessive.

Hans comes back from work dog tired and dirty. He typically slumps into a chair on his patio and lights up a Pall Mall. He cracks open a Lime-a-rita, and he sits there, staring into the distance. Gabby generally leaves him alone for at least half an hour. That’s a wise move.

Overall, Hans likes his work. He has always been good with his hands. He likes machinery; big or fast, or both. He prefers to work outdoors. So, construction is good fit for him. It just takes a lot out of him.

While Karin and I were visiting, Hans would light up and start talking. Usually, work is the initial topic of discussion. Later, he might talk about guns, or the Army, or cars, or those damn liberals. After a few drinks, Hans sometimes tells stories from Iraq. Some of those are funny. Some are very disturbing. He always tells his tales in the same matter-of-fact kind of monotone. He talks about driving a tank in the same tone as he talks about shooting a guy dead. It is like he is remembering things from a distance; as an observer, rather than as an active participant. He often would not look at us as he was speaking. He would look at something far away. Maybe he has to remember things that way.

At some point the dogs come out to the yard. Hans plays with his puppy. Hans smokes one cigarette after another. Fatigue sets in. I can see his shoulders sag. He becomes even quieter than usual. He gets a text regarding the next day’s assignment. He finishes up his last beer, and then goes to bed.

He needs to be up early.

 

 

 

March 20th, 2018

Karin and I saw some bluebonnets growing while we were driving through the Texas countryside. They are just starting to bloom. More often we saw fields of Indian paint brushes. The dogwoods were blooming too. Once in a while, we saw the bright lilac- colored flowers of a red bud tree. The live oaks were just getting their first leaves. Springtime in Texas can be beautiful.

Eastern Texas generally has only two types of weather. Either it is insanely hot with high humidity, or the land is scourged by wicked thunderstorms. The storms are torrential downpours. I have never seen a light rain in Texas. It’s either a sauna or a monsoon.

Being mid-March, the temperatures were not yet extreme. We had a couple days up in the 80’s. Those were like summertime conditions for Karin and myself. We could sit out in Hans’ patio, and watch the dogs chase each other on the ragged remains of his lawn.

Hans and Gabby have three dogs. Gabby owns two of them. She has male German shepherds, named George and Elvis, Hans has a pit bull terrier puppy named Hank. Hank is white with a couple black patches. His eyes don’t match. One eye looks brown and the other is sky blue. (It reminds me a little of David Bowie). Hank does puppy things. He demands attention, runs around like crazy, and he pees and poops everywhere. Hans asked Gabby if she wants a baby. She replied, “Not any time soon.”

Hans is good with dogs, and dogs are good for him. He is considerably more relaxed when he has his puppy with him. He cuddles and plays with Hank. Hans occasionally cleans up after the dog, usually at Gabby’s urging. Dogs are good for unconditional love and affection. God knows that Hans needs that sometimes.

 

 

 

March 19th, 2018

Karin and I saw a shirt in a store window when we were wandering around Navasota, Texas. It was a woman’s t-shirt, almost long enough to be a dress. There was writing all over the front of the shirt. At the very top, it said: “In the South, we…”. Below that phase was a long list of things that people do in the South. There are as follows:

“We praise Jesus.”

Oh yeah. Churches litter the landscape in Dixie. Most of them are some kind of Evangelical denomination. The region has an intensely Calvinist vibe. Even the Catholic churches, rare though they are, seem to have incorporated this kind of single-minded, vocal devotion to Christ. There is nothing wrong with this, although I can see how the religious atmosphere would be disconcerting to non-Christians. I’m cool with praising the Lord, but I don’t expect other people to share my fervor.

“We own guns.”

That is God’s truth. It seems like damn near everybody owns a weapon, or several. I have heard people explain to me why they own guns. Their reasons tend to be unconvincing to me. The fact is that many of the folks just love guns. It’s not a logical thing. It is a visceral connection with firearms. It isn’t necessarily good or bad. It just is.

“We sweeten tea,”

Yes, absolutely. Especially in Texas.

“We wave at strangers.”

True. It’s a little weird, but it is kind of cool.

“We fly the flag.”

Definitely. The question here is which flag. The Stars and Stripes fly almost everywhere you look. However, you can also see the Stars and Bars quite often. The Confederate flag is all over the place, especially in the countryside. To be fair, I have seen the rebel flag up North too, but its home is down here.

“We fry chicken.”

Yes, and they do it quite well.

“We say, ‘Hi, y’all’.”

I love that.

“We drive trucks.”

So do those damn Yankees.

“We say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’.”

I like that too.

“We respect our elders.”

Right on, bro.

“We wear pearls.”

Can’t relate to that one.

There was more written on the shirt, but this is all that I can remember for now.

Karin looked at the shirt and said, “I would sooooo wear that.” then she laughed.

 

 

 

March 18th, 2018

Hans and I were sitting on his patio, sipping beer, and looking at his backyard.

Hans said, “Look at the fence. See that squirrel there?”

“What squirrel?”

“The squirrel on the fence, on the white fence.”

I looked. There was a grey squirrel lying motionless on top of a wooden fence. He was staring at us.

“Hans, that squirrel is giving you the eye.”

Hans took a drag off his cigarette. “I know. I was attacked by one like that.”

“A squirrel assault?”

Hans nodded and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.

He said, “Yep. I was with my buddy hunting. I was walking through the woods when this squirrel jumped from a tree on to my shoulder. I must have pissed him off somehow. He was fast.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah! It was like if I was dead drunk fighting Chuck Norris. I couldn’t get hold of the thing. He was biting me and scratching my head and shoulders.”

Hans went on, “My buddy wanted to shoot the squirrel. I told him, ‘No! You’ll hit me!’ “. Finally, I grabbed on to the squirrel’s tail and I flung him into the woods like a bag of potatoes. He bounced and rolled a couple times. He didn’t come back.”

Hans continued, “The worst part was going to the hospital after that. I told my buddy that I was fine, but he insisted that I go to the ER. The rabies shot hurt worse than all the scratches and bites.”

Hans didn’t say anything more. He just kept watching the squirrel lying on the fence.

 

 

 

 

March 17th, 2018

There isn’t much in Snook, Texas. It is a farming community outside of Bryan/College Station. There are level fields with rust red dirt and the first green shoots of the spring crops. A few working oil wells dot the landscape.

There is a shooting range in Snook. It’s called “Gunsmoke”. Hans had been to the place years ago, when he used to go skeet shooting. The range is at the end of a dusty, gravel road. There are actually four ranges there: a skeet range, a pistol range, and two rifle ranges (one with targets at 100 yards and one with them at 25 yards).

Four of us were going shooting. It was Hans, Karin, myself, and Hans’ fiancée, Gabi. Hans wanted to zero his new MSR-15. He also brought along his bolt action, hunting rifle and his 1911 semiautomatic .45. Gabi wanted to try the .45 pistol. I was willing to shoot any of the weapons. Karin was planning to observe. She had never seen Hans fire a gun, and she wanted to know what that was like.

We walked into the shack that served as the administrative building for the ranges. We all had to show our drivers licenses. Maybe they do a very quick background check. I don’t know. All I know is that I signed a waver that said the people running the range were not to be held responsible for anything. Fair enough.

The two guys working in the shack were obviously former military. They had full beards and shaggy haircuts, but they had that well-muscled, hard ass look. One man had a t-shirt that said  “USNA”. I asked him if he had been at the Naval Academy. He told me that he had been a Marine weapons instructor, and he had been at Annapolis temporarily to teach the midshipmen how to shoot. I was not surprised at all.

We went to the 100 yard rifle range first. We all put in our earplugs. Karin was not aware of how loud firearms can be. We put up a couple targets. Hans tried to zero the assault rifle. The sight was too far out of adjustment for him to get an accurate shot at that distance. He couldn’t hit the target, so he couldn’t tell how to move the front sight on the rifle. We took out the hunting rifle. Hans and I both shot a few rounds. I am not sure what I hit. I never used a scope before, so I couldn’t get steady. Hans nailed the targets.

The other rifle range was busy, so we stopped at the pistol range. Hans shot the .45 first. He did well, as expected. I shot nine rounds at maybe twenty yards. I had a couple good hits, but I didn’t have very tight shot group. Gabi went to shoot with Hans. It was her first time with the pistol. She had told us that the boys in her family had all learned to shoot, but the girls never had the opportunity. Hans patiently showed her how to aim and fire. He seems like a good instructor.

Karin went up to shoot. It was the first time that Karin had fired a weapon in her life. Hans put only one bullet into the magazine.  He told her how to hold the pistol, and how to aim it. Karin fired off the round, and then she was done. Karin doesn’t like guns, and I doubt that she ever will. However, I think it was good for her to at least try it once.

I talked with Gabi about how she felt with the gun.

Gabi said, “It was okay, but I only hit the target once.”

I told her, “With a .45, you only need to hit your target once.”

From the pistol range we went to the 25 yard rifle range. We set up a target. Hans got out the AR and started to zero it. He initially kept hitting the target low and to the right. He adjusted the front site repeatedly. He asked Karin,

“Mom, do have a pin or something?”

Karin piped up, “I have a knitting needle! Will that help?”

Hans shook his head. “Never mind.”

As we watched Hans carefully aim his weapon, I told Gabi,

“I like to see a professional at work.”

Gabi smiled and nodded.

Karin laughed and said, “You don’t watch me like that when I knit!”

True.

Hans got the AR sighted to his satisfaction. He fired off some rounds and hit the bulls eye with consistency. Then he looked at Gabi and said,

“Ready?”

She replied, “I don’t want to shoot that!”

Hans laughed. “Come on… it’s calling to you.”

“No.”

Hans shrugged. “Okay…”

Hans handed the gun to me. I used up the rounds left in the magazine. I had a good shot group, but it was a little low and to the left. Oh well, I only shoot when we visit Hans. It’s just as well. I like it, but shooting is an expensive hobby.

I don’t own any guns. I don’t want any.

But I had fun.