MUDDY CREEK, NORTHERN CHEYENNE RESERVATION, MT
I leapt from my chair at the sound of the first few drops splattering on the canopy under which I sat working. I dashed to the tool trailer for a screw gun as the rain began to fall. The "old hands" know this drill all too well, and the new volunteers followed suit. As the light drizzle turned to a steady rain, tarps were unfurled and pulled up and over the exposed straw bale walls. I bent down to screw in tack bars to keep the tarp in place. Wet curls fell around my face, extra screws dangling from my lips. Workers moved frantically around the house, up and down ladders, until every last inch of straw was covered. Cold shirtsleeves clung to my shoulders, and a shiver ran through me as I worked, nothing but adrenaline to keep me warm. We had been tempting fate all morning, working under the shadow of dark clouds, trying to get as much done as possible before the rains fell. Keeping the straw bales dry during the building process is imperative.
A week has passed now since our frantic tarping exercise, and not another drop has fallen. The house now has it's own roof to keep the bales dry, and in the coming days will be coated in stucco, sealing the bales against moisture in the future.
The house and our nearby tents are swathed in the smoke from nearby forest fires, and while building a house with one family in desperate need of quality affordable housing, I am acutely aware of the impact of the loss of 60 homes in nearby Ashland.
With a solid roof, the rising temperatures, and flames on the horizon, I'm crossing all of my fingers that the rain begins to fall again.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
1152 Miles Behind Me and 110 to Go
SHERIDAN, WY
I woke up at the crack of dawn on Thursday to the sound of my niece giggling. My tiny nephew had the good sense to still be sleeping at six a.m. After everybody was dressed and fed, and strapped into carseats, I waved goodbye to my sister and nephew and niece (who proclaimed me magical as she waved goodbye, which I think is just about the best compliment one can get). I packed up my laundry and my bike, and headed west.
I drove over the rolling hills of Wisconsin and past the small dairy farms before crossing the mighty Mississippi into Minnesota. Too far south for the pines and lakes that endeared me to Minnesota in the past, endless rolling hills stretch out before me, these lower and more sparsely populated than Wisconsin. Late afternoon clouds brought a brief rain shower, just enough to wash the dust from my car and bike, but not quite enough to clean my bug spattered windshield. The rain cleared and I was left with the loveliest of sunsets, silhouetting barns and wind turbines, slate blue clouds hanging low above the horizon. I crossed the border into South Dakota, pulling into Sioux Falls just before darkness fell. Parked in a less than scenic campground, I drifted off to sleep in the glow of the streetlights to the distant sound of semis on the interstate.
On Friday morning, my campground neighbors packed up their tent and peeled their young children off the swings, promising plenty of stops along the way as they headed towards the Badlands and Mt. Rushmore. I headed off instead to the doctor's office for an annual check-up, hardly the activity of the usual tourist. While filling out paper work, I explained to the friendly woman behind the counter exactly why I'm attending a clinic in Sioux Falls while I "live" in Chicago. Not long after, I found myself wrapping gifts in a drugstore parking lot before swinging by the post office. One more stop at the nearest internet cafe (aka Starbucks) to pay my phone bill, and finally I am Wyoming-bound. Somewhere around the time that I propped my computer on top of my truck in the post office parking lot to look up an address, it strikes me that this is not the sort of day most people have on cross-country roadtrips. Well then, I suppose we've already established that I'm not most people. Just as soon as the U.S. Federal Government starts issuing drivers license, I'll be able to let go of this myth that I live anywhere other than out of a suitcase or the back of my truck, depending on the season.
The late start getting out of Sioux Falls made for a grueling day of driving. When the late afternoon sun blazed through the window in the middle of South Dakota, I had only traveled a few hours. I stopped only for a dose of caffeine, and then cursed my heavy eyelids as I headed West alongside an army of RV's. The heat of the afternoon was stifling, and my air conditioner could hardly keep up. The scenery of central South Dakota is lacking, endless stretches of flat grasslands with hardly a tree. Cows huddled in the corners of pasture, desperate for the shade that doesn't exist. At some point just east of the badlands, I crested a small hill and suddenly before me, there are the hills and buttes that had been lacking for the last several hundred miles. The Badlands came and went, and I cruised on through Rapid City. Crossing into Wyoming, most signs of human civilization fell away, each exit marked "No Services 26 Miles." Finally I pulled into Gillette for the night.
Today's driving was short, a mere 90 minutes here to Sheridan, and about as many ahead of me. I am making my way to the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Southeast Montana to work on another straw bale construction project with Red Feather Development Group. I'm looking forward to parking the truck for a bit and getting to work.
I woke up at the crack of dawn on Thursday to the sound of my niece giggling. My tiny nephew had the good sense to still be sleeping at six a.m. After everybody was dressed and fed, and strapped into carseats, I waved goodbye to my sister and nephew and niece (who proclaimed me magical as she waved goodbye, which I think is just about the best compliment one can get). I packed up my laundry and my bike, and headed west.
I drove over the rolling hills of Wisconsin and past the small dairy farms before crossing the mighty Mississippi into Minnesota. Too far south for the pines and lakes that endeared me to Minnesota in the past, endless rolling hills stretch out before me, these lower and more sparsely populated than Wisconsin. Late afternoon clouds brought a brief rain shower, just enough to wash the dust from my car and bike, but not quite enough to clean my bug spattered windshield. The rain cleared and I was left with the loveliest of sunsets, silhouetting barns and wind turbines, slate blue clouds hanging low above the horizon. I crossed the border into South Dakota, pulling into Sioux Falls just before darkness fell. Parked in a less than scenic campground, I drifted off to sleep in the glow of the streetlights to the distant sound of semis on the interstate.
On Friday morning, my campground neighbors packed up their tent and peeled their young children off the swings, promising plenty of stops along the way as they headed towards the Badlands and Mt. Rushmore. I headed off instead to the doctor's office for an annual check-up, hardly the activity of the usual tourist. While filling out paper work, I explained to the friendly woman behind the counter exactly why I'm attending a clinic in Sioux Falls while I "live" in Chicago. Not long after, I found myself wrapping gifts in a drugstore parking lot before swinging by the post office. One more stop at the nearest internet cafe (aka Starbucks) to pay my phone bill, and finally I am Wyoming-bound. Somewhere around the time that I propped my computer on top of my truck in the post office parking lot to look up an address, it strikes me that this is not the sort of day most people have on cross-country roadtrips. Well then, I suppose we've already established that I'm not most people. Just as soon as the U.S. Federal Government starts issuing drivers license, I'll be able to let go of this myth that I live anywhere other than out of a suitcase or the back of my truck, depending on the season.
The late start getting out of Sioux Falls made for a grueling day of driving. When the late afternoon sun blazed through the window in the middle of South Dakota, I had only traveled a few hours. I stopped only for a dose of caffeine, and then cursed my heavy eyelids as I headed West alongside an army of RV's. The heat of the afternoon was stifling, and my air conditioner could hardly keep up. The scenery of central South Dakota is lacking, endless stretches of flat grasslands with hardly a tree. Cows huddled in the corners of pasture, desperate for the shade that doesn't exist. At some point just east of the badlands, I crested a small hill and suddenly before me, there are the hills and buttes that had been lacking for the last several hundred miles. The Badlands came and went, and I cruised on through Rapid City. Crossing into Wyoming, most signs of human civilization fell away, each exit marked "No Services 26 Miles." Finally I pulled into Gillette for the night.
Today's driving was short, a mere 90 minutes here to Sheridan, and about as many ahead of me. I am making my way to the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Southeast Montana to work on another straw bale construction project with Red Feather Development Group. I'm looking forward to parking the truck for a bit and getting to work.
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