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It was 8pm that Friday evening when we left Columbia to head for a higher, colder, nobler clime. Standing Rock was calling to us like destiny, our enthusiasm spurred further by how little we knew what to expect. Our chief contact for our insertion into the camp had not been in touch with us, so we headed to our designated location where we would all meet up, then bus out to the protest. Fort Yates, a town in Sioux County, ND, was to be our rally point, so we made a bee-line, ravenous to prove our worth to those we hold dear. The trip would take almost a full day to travel, so if we took turns, we could make it in time to stage our gear, prepare, then get a full night’s rest for our arrival the next day and the events that would follow. It was with stern resolve that we hit the road, once more unto the breach.
Picture this, only one of us is a hippy, the other a shaved ape, in a car, with heat, food, music, y'know fuck it. It wasn't like this at all. But the sentiment was there...
Walid, having been talked down from bringing some of the weapons in his cornucopia of violent instruments, had stuffed his six bags (including a tent) and body armor into the trunk and backseat. I brought my hiking pack and sleeping system, which contained two layered sleeping bags and a waterproof shell. I tend to travel light. When I was backpacking around Nicaragua (See Nicaragua: A Knuckle Dragger’s Guide), my luggage consisted of a book bag… and that’s it. I sometimes get distracted and tend to lose gear, so I keep it simple. But there’s something about the childlike innocence and ridiculous motherly demeanor Walid has managed to hold onto that evokes a smile and headshake, rather than chastisement. I’d think it was adorable if I didn’t know he’d been through a fair amount of shit in his own right.
He’d been especially enthusiastic about taking the first shift of driving, but I knew that trick. I’d been up since 6 AM that day, ready to power through the evening and crash hours later. Plus, I wanted him to drive during the day because this car is relatively new to me. So throughout the night, Walid decided to stay awake and keep me company, the first few hours focused on catching up and comparing moral inventories with music in the background, followed by podcasts, and audiobooks when the conversations waned. We definitely shared similar ideas, similar politics, and similar religious beliefs, but our executions of life are polar opposite.
Case in point: I played music with heavy undertones, sometimes filled with kinetic force, sometimes melancholic and soulful. Nina Simone, Propaghandi, Marvin Gaye, Mastodon, etc.. Music that made you want to go to war or hide in shadows with the rest of your demons. Unfortunately, being bipolar, my mood would switch at random, along with the tempo of the songs. But the war and demons didn’t go anywhere. Whereas Walid preferred music that makes a great day even better, the sort to which you would bake a cake or sing out loud while celebrating a minor victory. We were both equally patient with one another. However, I love irony, so when I wasn’t white-knuckle gripping the wheel, I was smiling and nodding, intrigued, if not totally sold on what he was saying.
Though I only had 3 hours of broken sleep, each slight jerk of the car waking me in a panic, it was still relatively smooth sailing for twenty-one solid hours. No big deal. I’d catch up on sleep soon enough. In the meantime, Walid and I were getting along just fine, no overt issues, no nagging quirks. That’s how two thirds of the trip went, with me driving a few hours, then Walid taking over, both of us stopping at gas stations whenever we reached a half tank or got hungry, all the while the weather had been more than generous, with clear skies and a steady breeze. This boded well.
Blue skies... smiling at me...
Dusk had left us by two hours when the sleet began to fall on our Minnesota highway. I looked down at the temperature gauge nestled between the lines of the speedometer and saw that it was 31 degrees outside. I slowed to 5 miles under the speed limit, most other drivers having met the same conclusion that a frosted road was incredibly dangerous at higher speeds. A slight panic rose up my spine when I realized I hadn’t checked the tire treads before I left. I assumed, then, that most of the other drivers were familiar with this style of weather, so I cautiously stayed in the right line, roughly 20 miles under the speed limit. Though I’d just acquired this car, it being wrecked would be nowhere near as devastating as not making it to our destination. I had confidence that I was being responsible.
That was a big mistake.
At 50 miles an hour, more than fast enough to put a swift end to our journey, the car began to slide sideways. Not to blow sunshine up my own skirt, but I went to a Porsche Sports Driving School in Birmingham and know my way around a slick track. Couple that with Adderall and coffee and I had this. Walid, however, had no idea. Making relative adjustments to turn my tires in the desired direction, I swiveled back and forth four times before regaining my hold on the car’s momentum. I didn’t venture far from my lane of traffic, nor fall off the other side, careening down one of the precipices that occasionally bookmarked the infinite road. But there was Walid, poor bastard, clung to the handle set above the door as though he were going to be sucked out and thrown into the cold pitch through which we were piercing.
At one point, a black SUV came roaring past with a U-haul trailer behind it. I cursed under my breath at not having four wheel drive, but not without a bewilderment at the audacity of driving so quickly under these conditions. But they must know what they’re doing… Twenty minutes later and the graveyard begins. A truck slid off the left side and hit the metal cording cordoning off the road from a giant dip, a couple of cars blended together on the right, another flipped over entirely, and so on. And yes, eventually we drove past a black SUV and warped railing, tied tightly in a knot like a pair of little boy’s shoes, blue and red lights piercing the snowy backdrop. A few hundred meters after that and there was the U-haul.
But we kept going. Nothing would stop us. There was already far too much invested. We only had two hours to go before we arrived at Fort Yates. Make that four, given that I was halving the speed limit. But just to make sure all was fine on their end, we texted the woman put in charge of our admission to this wonderland of social strength and kindness we called Standing Rock. But we got no response. So, now driving thirty miles an hour down a road in the middle of nowhere, with three quarters of a tank of gas, having not seen a filling station in the last two hours, we decide to call her to ensure that those variables that were waiting on us were being handled appropriately. I just wanted some proper sleep. We get no response.
This doesn't work, by the way. I almost lost a thumb...
We drive another hour and I say “Fuck this. Something doesn’t feel right. We have to call someone who’s more in charge.” Walid, not wanting to bother anyone, protested that we would be an unnecessary nuisance. I disagreed with him directly, given everything involved, and eventually convinced him to call the next highest person in charge. Conversing with the man through my interrupting questions, he eventually hung up the phone and spoke, my heart falling down to my guts, a subconscious eyebrow raised at what this massive miscommunication could mean for the future. We were headed to the wrong site. It had been moved from Fort Yates to Eagle Butte, a small reservation town in South Dakota. Our two hour drive just jumped by six hours. There was still snow on the roads, no sign of a gas station or reference in case we needed help, and exhaustion was setting in.
As we began passing through small towns, my heart would light up, thinking “We can refuel! We can get Red Bull or coffee or both!” But every gas station was closed and we were slowly, inexorably reaching an empty tank. Leaving behind those towns, we eventually continued through desolation. There was nothing. Another 60 or so miles and we’d be stranded in the middle of nowhere. That’s when I saw the bears in the middle of the road. They were immense, the size of buildings, brown and purple and about four hundred yards away. But as I kept driving, I never reached them. I was hallucinating from lack of sleep. Thirty minutes later and I saw the sign for Eagle Butte.
We stopped at the beginning of town at a gas station, filled up the car while waves of relief washed over me. As Walid and I were exiting the store, a scantily clad woman approached him, propositioning him with turn of phrase. I thought about all the military gathered at this one location and smiled. Business must be good. Then we got back into the car (sans woman), and tried to find the place that we were told about. “There will be giant orange signs” was what was said. Of course, there were no signs. And the person Walid had spoken to wasn’t answering their phone. So, based off of a side note that the man had casually thrown out, we went in search, at one point stopping a Native American man outside of a pool hall and asking for directions. It was 2 o’clock in the morning. After giving us vague directions, he thanked us for the help and we went on about our search, arriving at the local elementary school twenty minutes later.
As soon as we arrived, we ate like we hadn’t in days, got the rundown of what to expect, and acclimated ourselves to those that had arrived before us.
We were told that we would be woken at 8 in the morning, have breakfast, get the plan of action for the day, then truck off to the Standing Rock Reservation and Sacred Stone Camp. It was 3:30 by the time I laid my head down for the night, weary, but excited to get the rest I needed to hit the ground running. Sure, I was so tired I was hallucinating and sure, four and a half hours of sleep isn’t much, but every bit counts. I’m a Marine, Goddamnit. I’d make it work. I laid down my gear in a gymnasium, along with another 150 other veterans, the giant room echoing the snores and coughs of people from all across the United States. There was a comfort that we all were there for the same reason. I slept well. Until 6AM, when they decided to wake us up to leave in two hours.
One step closer...
No one knew what the plan was, exactly. No one. Everyone had different denominations of idea as to how this would go down, with no communication to speak of. It was mass panic, with people wanting desperately to stick with what they had just been told, only to realize that that plan had changed as well. We didn’t know if we would be shuttled to and from the camp or if we were staying there. We didn’t know what gear to bring because we were only given a vague idea of what to expect. Not a single person in the entirety of this group had a full idea of what was going on. While I was sorting through my gear to make sure I was both efficient and effective, they started piling onto buses, one of which I eventually used to store my gear before climbing into it. As soon as I sat down, they told me I needed to move my car to another building further down the neighborhood, a building whose location I had been to earlier that morning to sign in, before going to the school.
So, knowing that we were all both in a hurry and without an idea of what we were doing, I rushed to my car and left in a manic fury, the insistence of me leaving overriding that I forgot where the building was where my car needed to be placed. Ten minutes of searching later and I arrive back at the school. And the fucking bus had left me. As I sat there, smoking a cigarette because I couldn’t strangle someone, I noticed a line of cars leaving, so I followed them. Luckily, they were going to the same place I needed to be. The same place where the bus was waiting. I left my car in a frantic mess to find the original seat I had taken when I first boarded, felt the bus pull off, and finally took the time relax enough to ensure I’d brought the things I needed. Not that I could get them out of my car but because I needed to know what I would have to get once I got to the camp. I went through the list, checked it twice, and let the sense of relief wash over me.
We’d done it. Everything was taken care of. From here on, though we’d be shot and beaten and gassed and maybe even arrested, by God, we were en route.
We made it to Sacred Stone Camp two hours later.