Facing Loneliness and Buffalo

You're almost through! This is the last post about my weekend in the Badlands and the Black Hills in South Dakota. Missed the previous posts? Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

If you want to listen to some music while reading, I recommend the following three songs. They're a part of this post later on.

Fleet Foxes - "The Plains/Bitter Dancer" 

James Vincent McMorrow - "And if My Heart Should Somehow Stop" 

Jimmy Eat World - "Cautioners"

Having spent the previous night on a campground with a young couple plus puppy in a tent close to me and an older couple in an RV farther down on the adjacent parking lot, I was looking for a bit more solitude again for my last night in South Dakota. Therefore, I had decided on exploring the Badlands’ Stronghold Unit this time. Studying the map, I had noticed that, in contrast to the North Unit, this southern part was absolutely empty. While the former is basically only two strips of stunningly beautiful rock formations to the left and right of the Badlands Loop Road plus the Wilderness Area (where, because of the name, I wasn’t so sure I should pitch a tent…), the Stronghold Unit is only tangentially touched by roads. In between, some 300 square miles or so of open land. Which is—say what you will—fascinating.

When I arrived in the small ‘town’ of Scenic (What you see on the photos following this link is basically all there is, minus the people. On a late overcast afternoon, it was eerie.), I followed the Bombing Range Road southward. This ride might have been the first time I ever felt lonely just because of the landscape that surrounded me. The area wasn’t that different from the North Unit that I had seen and camped in two days prior, but something in me turned it into a very different experience. 

Or maybe it was the exterior, the gloomy late afternoon atmosphere due to the cloudy sky, the sheer expanse of land in all directions without any sign of life, and the land’s general barrenness. Still, I was optimistic about parking my car at the White River Visitor Center and then hiking out until dusk to pitch my tent somewhere. That is, somewhere not too low or too high because the weather forecast announced a 50% chance of thunder storms for that night. 

In that case, you don’t wanna camp on a mountaintop and serve as a lightning rod, but you also don’t wanna be wrested away by a flash flood in a low area. Whatever, I would find a good place. So after twenty very long and lonely miles, I arrived at the visitor center which was, as I had read earlier, still closed. But that wasn’t the problem. What made me really grumpy was the sign that read “No Camping Anywhere.”

I suppose this restriction is due to the fact that the Stronghold Unit is situated within the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, but I don’t know for sure. The website clearly stated that camping is allowed anywhere as long as it is at least one mile away from the road. But apparently not here. So grumpy Carlo gets back into the car, drives the overwhelmingly lonely twenty miles back into the eerie ghost town and then turns right onto a thirteen and a half mile gravel road that leads to the Sage Creek Campground in the North Unit. Turns out that this wasn’t so bad after all.

The campground lies in a big open valley that is framed by hills on three sides and opens up to the prairie to the south. And although there were many campers here in RVs and tents, I was okay with the place because it was not much more than a small toilet building and a turning loop in the road. And, to my big surprise, four buffalo stood very close on a slope of the big western hill. This was the first time ever I saw buffalo in their natural habitat. And it was a contradictory presentation of that weighted term ‘wilderness’—I had never imagined the great American bison being as tame as to idle less than two hundred feet away from humans in the open range. I don’t think it’s bad; it’s just another instance where you feel tricked by countless cultural representations that have now been falsified by firsthand experience. Anyway, these four huge black bison were impressive creatures. And they wouldn’t be the last I’d encounter today.

After putting up my tent at what I interpreted as the campground’s periphery (there were no fences or anything, so I just went a little bit farther out than anyone else), I packed lightly and set out for a last little eastward hike through small patches of trees, then crossing the Sage Creek’s South Fork at a shallow spot—the water coppery in color, murky, and milky from the eroded sediments dissolved in it—and then traversing another stretch of prairie where I found hoof prints

bigger than the palm of my hand, pressed deep into the soil by an animal that might weigh up to a ton. I saw dark brown balls of fur shed by another or the very same bison, and I spotted a hole in the ground that probably marked the entrance of a prairie dog tunnel. Further on, I ascended one of the dozens of small hills, its top bare sandstone, torn open mosaic-like by the rain water it had once soaked in that was then drenched out of it again by the sun, making this hill appear like a mound formed of millions of potsherds. I’d planned to sit down and have dinner here, but I spotted another hill which I just had to climb, the highest in the vicinity, and with barely any vegetation on its slopes, looking like a huge pile of sand.

I scrambled up the side and sat down, facing eastward towards a landscape of great beauty. The pictures I took fail badly at recreating the impression that being in the place itself prompted in me. These photographs only hint at the actual extent of the land that stretches for miles in gentle waves of green, spotted with dark patches of shrubs, the bare ground showing through every now and then, until they are broken in the distance by the great sandstone cliff that is the ‘wall’ of the Badlands. 

The photos do not capture the soundscape that is, of course, just as important to the emotional response as the optical stimuli of a place. Imagine the crickets in the grass and the birds in the bushes, especially this one bird close by whose warbling made me look repeatedly for a creek below my feet because it sounded exactly like water dabbling over pebbles or a little fish jumping. (Yes, I was tricked by a bird!) Add to this the occasional bleating of a distant bighorn sheep and the mournful howling of at least three packs of coyotes scattered not too far away somewhere to the north. The only animals visible were the ones that didn’t care about making themselves heard; two small groups of buffalo stood complacently and peacefully in the distant northeastern grasslands. The air odorless and calm all the time.

Having finished the last of my tasty bread for dinner, I decided to go back to camp and read. It was half past seven, twilight was about to break, and the scenery couldn’t get any more beautiful, anyway. Or so I thought. Taking a small detour on my way back in order to avoid a buffalo, I walked along the hill’s ridge this time, and found not only a huge gnawed-off bone, but also a scared porcupine hiding under a conifer’s fallen branches.

I quickly left it in peace and then spotted a lonely camper sitting on a hillside, the tent some feet away, partly hidden in the shrubbery. She was just sitting there overlooking the country, and I considered walking over to say hi, but then decided against it. She probably had a reason for not staying on the campground. So I trudged on through the grass to my tent and, as soon as I was there, knew that I couldn’t turn in yet. There was another high hill to the campground’s northwestern side, and the day was still brighter than I had estimated.

I walked up the slope on grass and debris, carefully avoiding the cacti that grew in spots, and found myself on another hilltop overlooking the surrounding country, the same great sea of rolling green hills that I had marveled at earlier. However, I was not at all expecting the beautiful sunrise I would witness here for the next one and a half hours. It’s of little to no avail to try and describe the sunset in words; all the shades of yellow, rose, orange, and purple that tinged the sky and clouds, the fiery glow of the great sandstone wall on the eastern horizon.

Here, the photos might do a better job than an amateur blogger’s vocabulary. In addition, you should absolutely listen to three of the songs I played then—if you’re not already listening to them as you should. The Fleet Foxes' "The Plains/Bitter Dancer” is fitting for obvious reasons. I think that folk and folky music is generally the best choice for augmenting an experience in nature. One of my all-time favorites on Helplessness Blues (like almost every song on this exceptional album), this particular song has gained a new relevance for me that evening. 

Especially that double track’s second part that begins around 4:08 was the perfect acoustic complement to that scene. Next on our list, James Vincent McMorrow's “And if My Heart Should Somehow Stop.” Another great song on an exceptional album, Early in the Morning. I love the chorus’s “And in the forest I make my home/Lay down my heart on ancient stone.” But it’s more in the chords and harmonies, too elusive to put into words; this piece to me evokes a close connection to, and a longing for nature.

With the last song, it’s purely musical, not related to the content of the lyrics, and thus even harder to explain. “Cautioners” from Jimmy Eat World’s 2001 classic Bleed American, an album I’ve heard over and over again for over a decade by a band I’ve fallen in love with since I first heard said album. “Cautioners” took a little while to get me, but those songs are often the real gems on a record. I don’t exactly know why I chose to play this song sitting on the hill and watching the sunset, but it worked. It might seem odd in the beginning when you just hear that minimalistic drum loop and guitar dominated by the staccato bass (not so slightly reminiscent of the Knight Rider theme!). But when the piano sets in for the chorus and Jim Adkins sings, with his heartbroken voice, these unrelated but heartbreaking words:

You’ll change your mind come Monday

And turn your back on me

You’ll take your steps away with hesitance

And take your steps away from me

you should get it. And then the bridge after the second chorus! Beyond words. Of course, I didn’t listen to music all the time. Silence has to be cherished where it is found.

The sun still painted the clouds that were sailing across the sky’s vast expanse in a thousand shades of pink and rose, giving them a depth that is hidden in normal daylight. Some acquired fantastic shapes, and in one I saw a giant pig running slowly across the sky until it dissolved its form. As the last rays of the sun had disappeared in the west, I descended the hill in the dark and got into my tent, this time for good. A wind had come up that was now rattling and shaking my tent in sudden gusts so that it took me a while to fall asleep.

On Monday morning, I woke up early again. It was around seven, and I had planned nine hours for the way back home, plus an hour for anything unexpected. I packed my belongings, dumped the damp sleeping bag and tent in the trunk, and left the campground, ready to get back on the road. But then, not even half a mile from where I started, right where the gravel road makes a bend around my sunset hill from last night, I had to stop the car. Less than a hundred feet in front of me, a buffalo was blocking my way. It just stood there, right on the road, mocking me with its utter disregard. It didn’t even do anything. It didn’t eat, it didn’t chew, it didn’t observe.

What to do?

I waited, but after some time I realized that this strategy wouldn’t pay off.

I moved the car closer, very slowly, up to fifty feet, so that I finally got a reaction.

It was turning its head to look at me for a moment.

I stopped.

It looked away again into the void, slipping back into buffalo standby.

Should I honk? Would that provoke the creature to start for me and trample the car?

Would that encourage its friend lying in the grass to get up and get mad?

Would my insurance cover buffalo damage?

Didn’t wanna risk it.

So again, a little bit closer.

Revving the engine a bit.

A look, nothing more.

But then! A step to the side!

Not enough yet, still blocking my way.

A bit closer again, now at less than thirty feet.

Another hesitant step to the side made me bold.

Closer, slowly.

Now two steps to the side, but still not quite giving up the road.

Now or never; it looked like I would have enough room between the animal and the car.

I drove by. Slow but steady was the way to go.

The buffalo looked bored.

Later, I passed hundreds of prairie dogs who were standing guard and eating and exploring on the vast grassland to the right of the road. Then, at a scenic outlook, there was a buffalo bull scratching his itchy hindquarters on a pole. Not so majestic.

He seemed embarrassed and slightly irritated when he noticed me. He gave me a look that said I better back off. I thought I’d better do as the bull suggested.

An Early Morning

As you might have read, dear reader, I visited the Badlands National Parks a few weeks ago. The first day of that trip was, in sum, around 9 hours of driving West, then some marveling at the Badlands’ stunning beauty, and then leaving the trodden path to find a quiet place to pitch my tent, a place that was apparently already the home of a bighorn sheep…You can read about that first day, and see some pictures, here.

Waking up the next morning around 7:00 am—the sun had already risen but was still veiled behind a heavy curtain of milky whitish-gray clouds—I got out of my slightly damp sleeping bag and left my tent whose walls were, like everything else around, coated all over with heavy dew. The night had turned the air refreshingly cold, and except all the birds singing from their trees and bushes, the wind, and maybe a chirping cricket or two, there wasn’t a single sound to be heard. It was a beautiful morning. My quadruped neighbor (or should I say host?) from the night had already left, but I decided to walk around a bit before leaving too. Right before the small scrubby plateau where my tent stood lay that seemingly endless ‘wall’ that separates the lower from the upper prairie in this area, a hardly passable steep sandstone slope that winds through the land, forming the countless buttes, ravines, gaps and chasms that are the main reason why Dakota tribes as well as French-Canadian trappers and American pioneers considered this region ‘bad lands.’ And not only this morning did I try to imagine people living here, or passing through, in earlier times, all the centuries before, and the few after the United States’ westward expansion. As much as I tend to romanticize the idea of living close to nature, simply off the land—being exposed to something really close to wilderness for such a short time already relativizes my envy for those who actually do, and it increases the respect I feel towards those people. Still, I hope to get some more chances to go out, hike and camp, leave civilization for some time. I am way too used to all the standards, too comfortable with all the knick-knacks, too accustomed to the routines of the town and the city. Having a bighorn sheep standing right next to your bed gives you at least a little idea of why people started building fences and houses. Yes it is cheesy, but going out, phasing down a bit—it cleanses you. There are cheesy truths.

So this early morning, I really wanted to go somewhere—and why not climb that naked butte (no pun intended) so prominent over there slightly to my left? I slid down a slope and scrambled up the other side, walked atop a narrow ridge, carefully, so as to not lose balance and fall down. One of the advantages of travelling alone is that you can do all the stupid things your friends and loved ones would tell you not to do because they might be dangerous. (I know: the disadvantage is already implied here; no one is there to help you! But relying on your own judgment every now and then is a good thing, too.) After a few minutes of scrambling, balancing, and leaping, I arrived on that butte located in the middle of winding ravines and bluffs, amidst all those colors produced by the different layers of sandstone, by the mutual exclusion of shadow and light. North of this rough and rocky strip of terrain, stretching for miles and miles towards the distant horizon, lay the vast prairie, and a few hundred feet behind me my lonely little tent between the bushes. Less than half a mile behind it, the road and my car. It was time now to pack my things and go. I had made up my mind to drive a bit farther into the Black Hills and see Mount Rushmore today.

Rucksack on my back and sleeping bag in a hand, I left my plateau, back through the bushes, along the side of a small ravine, then climbing up the slope (which was harder than sliding down on it), and along the meadow that leads to the road. There I saw a big bird—either a vulture or a wild turkey—waddling along in the distance, looking for some breakfast I guess. Back at the car I changed, put on some music, rolled down the window, and took off.

Wall Drug Stuffed Animan Hipster

Directly north outside the Badlands, the (apparently very famous) Wall Drug Store is located in the tiny town of Wall, SD, named after the already mentioned sandstone wall that cuts through the prairie here. There’s not to much to tell about it, I think this town’s entire existence today rests upon the store and the attempt to preserve/simulate/create some kind of Wild West atmosphere; Main Street is loaded with weird touristy shops that sell cowboy equipment, merch, and souvenirs. Hats, boots, belts, shirts, key chains, stickers, magnets, mugs, books, and so forth. I came there for the restaurant’s 5 cent coffee (which is, among all the other things advertised as soon as you’re west of the Missouri; hundreds of billboards along the highway) and, of course, just to see it. And it is really kinda weird, but I don’t quite understand all the fuzz about it. Maybe it’s just self created. Wouldn’t be the first one to do that. The coffee was good, and since everything else was pretty overpriced, but I felt stupid sitting in a restaurant just sipping a cup of 5 cent coffee, I ordered the affordable breakfast potatoes. Nothing fancy. I left the consumer bonanza and, after a short time on the highway, had to pass a pretty odd and run down small town out of which I took an unpaved road that went on for miles between the endlessly rolling hills, empty and desolate except for the occasional herd of cattle grazing underneath the deeply hanging clouds. In the distance I could now discern the Black Hills, but it was still more than an hour until I would arrive.

Into the Badlands

When, on a westward journey, you approach the Missouri River on Interstate-90 in South Dakota for the first time, the sudden change of scenery strikes you as stunning, as it promises to set an abrupt end to the hundreds and hundreds of flat Midwestern miles that you were passing for the last four hours or so, a welcome distraction to the endless farms and fields on both sides of the highway. Over millions of years, the river has gouged itself a bed through the relatively soft (so I assume) rock right in the middle of what we today call South Dakota, splitting the state into a bigger western, and a smaller eastern portion. And as the waters have gradually retracted over this incomprehensible period of time, the riverbed has turned into a fluvial valley featuring two long humped and hilly slopes on either side of the smoothly winding stream. Therefore, when you reach that peak on I-90, right at that point where it makes its sudden and unexpected drop into the valley, it is hard to keep your eyes on the road instead of gaping and wondering at this beautiful landscape that has just opened up before you, a veritable gate to the West.

I made up my mind to set out on my first Iowa-based road trip about two weeks ago, but the destination had already been set in the spring semester, when Kirk, teaching assistant in my Editing and Publishing class, had told me about the Badlands National Park in South Dakota. Since I've come to the United States not only to meet people, but also to get away from them, not for the city but for the country, Kirk couldn't have made a better suggestion.

So I checked the Badlands' camping regulations and, hooray!, they allow backcountry camping! Which I'd never done before, except for a couple of summers many years ago with my friends, on the fields outside our home village, where one night, I swear, we'd had a wild hog rummaging in our trash bags right next to our tent. Anyway, that's not quite the 'backcountry' experience I was looking for this time. I ordered a tent and some other essentials that amazon promised would be here until last Thursday, walked out all the way to the Hy-vee (I need some kind of a vehicle! Cedar Falls is just too big) to get some supplies, and rented a car online. Luckily, enterprise has a pick-up service, so I did not have to call a taxi to get to my car. I then got some other tings I still needed--sleeping bag, insect repellent, sun screen, hat, knife, etc.--at Walmart, and left Cedar Falls around 9:30 on Friday, May 23. The ride did not appear as long and dull as I had expected, partly because there is a lot of beauty (often overlooked) even along a dead straight highway like I-90; the hundreds, maybe thousands of black cows grazing placidly on their huge pastures, or the occasional abandoned farm consisting of one or two empty grey little houses and a huge decrepit barn whose immense roof came tumbling down many years ago, and right next to it that small grove of knarly old trees. Also, I listened to Florian Illies' 1913: Der Sommer des Jahrhunderts (1913: The Year Before the Storm; thanks to my buddy Steffen for that!) for about six to seven hours, a very interesting and entertaining account of Europe's cultural (and a bit political) history just before the dawn of World War I, with a huge ensemble of protagonists ranging from Sigmund Freud, Oswald Spengler, and Karl Krauss to Franz Kafka, Thomas and Heinrich Mann, and Else Lasker-Schüler to Pablo Picasso, Oskar Kokoschka, and Alma Mahler, to Josef Stalin, Adolf Hitler, and Franz Ferdinand (the archduke, not the band). Anyway, after crossing the Missouri and looking at the bumpy hills that continue for three or four miles past its western shores, I had to restart listening to the last chapter because I noticed that I hadn't been paying attention at all to what I was hearing. It was easy to focus again because the initially mentioned scenario is tricky in its promise of a change of landscape: after a few miles, you are right back in the typical flatness of the Midwestern fields. And by now, you've kind of gotten used to the pretty cows and romantically shabby farms. Very gradually, however, the rectangular fields and pastures yield to more and more open grasslands, and the dark brown and green planes are replaced by brighter hues of green, stretches of swaying grass, sometimes streaked by a grey or beige hint of sandstone and dotted by small lonely trees; you approach prairie and the Badlands.

After finishing my audiobook, I decided to go full-scale emotional and listen to Eddie Vedder's great soundtrack for Into the Wild. Just then, an impressive sandstone bluff that appeared on the horizon behind that endless stretch of grass to the left of the road finally heralded the vicinity of the Badlands. Gradually, more strange-looking peaks and oddly shaped sandstone formations came into view before I finally reached the Park's eastern entrance. I paid my $11 entry charge (which is good for 7 days!), asked the park ranger if my information on backcountry camping was correct--basically anywhere you wanted as long as it is at least half a mile away from the road--and it was, and then explored the park a bit along the road, getting off at every scenic view parking lot to have a closer look at those weird little--well, mountains (for in this portion of the park's Northern Unit [there is also a Southern Unit in which camping seems to be entirely forbidden, as I was about to learn in two days from now], the formations are very spiky, unlike the more hilly prairie of the western part) that rise out of southwestern South Dakota's prairie. Since the soft sandstone is highly vulnerable to erosion, this landscape changes quickly as it is exposed to constant shifts of weather from thunder storms to dry heat waves to severe winds to cold winters. Some parts look like a desert, or even Mars (if you have a fancy imagination); the sandstone seems to be everywhere, from the deep canyons up to ground level and all the way up to the pointed peaks. In other places, the prairie dominates, and only the sides or tops of hills break through the pallid green sea of grass. As I drove farther along, I continued looking for an area that would allow me to pack up my things and leave the car for the night in order to hike out for a mile or so. Easier said than done; in most portions that have a parking lot, the impassable bluffs and cliffs are so close to the road that I did not see how I could pitch my tent at least half a mile off of it. And all of that as the sun was already close to disappearing behind the western horizon; I think I had about an hour or so left until sunset.

As I eventually spotted an area that looked penetrable, I parked my car, got my backpack, tent, and sleeping bag, and crossed the street northward, walked across a meadow and down a steep slope, squeezed in between some bushes, and found a really nice spot. There I saw that this place was still closer than it had appeared from the road. Not half a mile yet. I went a bit farther until I reached some slopes that I had no way of descending safely, so I decided to stay here and hide behind some bushes in order not to be seen from the road which, although I could not see it from here, I knew was not yet half a mile away. Then, as I was pitching my tent, I heard a kind of hissing, a snarling, or was it the animal's burrowing in the earth?, of something in the bushes, probably the size of a porcupine, a weasel, or a badger. Could have been a bobcat; many animals live in the Badlands, and while most of them are not that dangerous, I've heard a lot of them can be pretty aggressive if you give them a reason. And what did I know of animal reasoning?! I must have invaded someone's territory here, definitely a pretty good reason to be pissed. Well, I waited a few moments as the hissing continued, not quite sure what to do, and then carefully finished putting up my tent, and my neighbor didn't seem to mind all too much anymore; the hissing eventually stopped. We would be on good terms for the rest of the night.

At dusk I sat on top of one of the nearby slopes that granted me a great view on the wide open prairie of the Buffalo Gap National Grassland that stretches all around the Badlands. Next to all the cicadas chirping in the grass, a couple of birds tweeting in the bushes, and some bats flying past, I had a simple but good dinner of water, bread, crackers, and cheese spread, and read a few pages of The House of the Seven Gables. After that, some more reading in the tent, and then lights out before 10; I'd wanted to get up early the next day. Not even 15 minutes later, I heard footsteps. A park ranger fining the hell out of me because I violated park policy? I lay perfectly still, didn't budge an inch, tried to breathe evenly, to calm down my pounding heart. No speaking, no knocking, so nope, wrong. Conclusion: animal. Did not really help against my strongly pounding heart; I did not exactly wanna mess with a bighorn sheep now. Whatever it was, it continued walking around, slowly, now right behind my tent, in the small space between two bushes. It then started picking grass, and later made some noises remotely reminiscent of a sheep's baa, but unlike any sheep or goat I'd heard before (not even like these goats!). Anyway, the eating probably meant the presumed sheep had accepted this big blue thing in her/his dining room. Good for me because after a while, I could not bear lying in this position anymore, I had to roll over. I did, and my new neighbor didn't care. A bit later, s/he lightly kicked against the tent once, but that was the closest we got. I eventually fell asleep with the sheep's occasional soft and melancholy 'baa' in my ears.

My next post will relate the rest of that weekend; I spent the next day and night in the Black Hills, and then returned to another part of the Badlands for the last night.

First Week in Cedar Falls

Seriously, it's about time for a new blog post! So I'll once again resist the urge to finally watch the Game of Thrones episode from last Monday (yes, I'm a bit behind!). Instead, I'll listen to some La Dispute (really good post hardcore reminiscent of At the Drive-In) and try to catch up with last week.

So, what am I doing in Iowa? Through a recommendation of my Editing and Publishing class's teacher Dinty W. Moore, I found an internship at the North American Review. I already told you that, but you might have forgotten. Together with my good Athens friends Sam and Bob, I arrived in Cedar Falls last Wednesday, and the three of us couch surfed that first night. Before going to bed, we went to some bars on Main Street and found this stylish micro brewery that has a thing for bicycles, were invited to a drink and then challenged for some pool and gambling (the latter, we declined) in a cool, more 'townie' bar, and finally had a last beer in the somewhat classy Voodoo Lounge.

The next morning, Sam and Bob dropped me off at another couch surfer's place who'd host me for the next four nights, and then left for Denver, Colorado. Jessica and I had a coffee and talked for an hour or so, and then I had my first day at the NAR. I met some of my colleagues and could already get started reading texts on Submittable, the online submisssions database that the NAR uses. After work, two colleagues took me to a garage sale. Big mistake. I had no intention of buying anything, but then they had this deal where you could take anything you wanted for just $5. Big mistake. Have you heard of Isaac Asimov's Foundation trilogy? I had only scarcely, and then I read the blurb, and I wanted the entire boxed set. Then I saw even more Asimov books with the eponymous "Foundation" in the title. Turns out there is one novel that precedes the trilogy and three that come after it! And yes, I took all six of them. And no, I will probably not read all of them. I'm almost through the first novel of the original trilogy, it was pretty cool in the beginning but then somehow drags along...And, just as a side note (but a striking one!), there is not a single female character on the first 150 pages or so. Out of 200! Then, two women are briefly introduced (one even gets to speak!), but only for the sole reason to wear---yes, jewelry!!! Aside from that, from what I see in Foundation, I would claim that George Lucas got at least some of its inspiration for the Star Wars universe from Asimov. Even tough, oddly enough for space science fiction, Foundation offers not a single non-human alien...

Anyway, I also got a copy of Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle and Steinbeck's Cannery Row. I think that puts my summer reading...bulk at 26 books. Impossible, but I'll find a way to select. I didn't even buy all of these books myself. At least two were presents, some others I got for free, others were too cheap not to buy. You see, it's not easy!

That night, my colleague's very talented daughters Amelia and Melina were playing a show at the Hub. Great voices and lyrics, their entirely acoustic songs not unlike First Aid Kit, or probably early Tegan and Sara.

Back home, Jessica's black cat, Belle, and I had already became bffs. (It seems like every second American I meet has cats!) From the second night onward, she jumped on my couch/me and then curled up next to me or on my tummy and purred as I fondled and tickled her. Even though she woke me up more than once in the middle of the night by jumping up and down, I enjoyed that quite a bit. 

On Saturday, my colleague Jordan and I sold some of the NAR's latest issues at the Hearst Center for the Arts. James Hearst was a local 'farmer poet,' pretty well known, and friends with Robert Frost. What I read of his poetry is really good. 

Since I had the entire Sunday off, I decided to go out a bit. Cedar Falls is a small town, but it is an American town, so it sprawls. It took me almost an hour to get from Jessica's place all the way North to the Cedar River, and that was only the point where 'nature' starts. Island Park already features a small but pretty dense patch of wood, a kinda marshy area. And I have a thing for marshes; the dead still water, like oil, like a thick black mirror from which the tall and obstinate trees protrude, bearing their bright green foliage that prevents most of the sunlight to reach beneath the treetops. Another two and a half miles to Black Hawk Park into even denser woods and marshes. This did not look at all like the Iowa that pop culture shows us every once in a while! 

On my way back, I found the best reading spot in Iowa (arguably), a beautiful meadow that leads right to a miniature bluff along one of the many small side streams of the Cedar River. On the opposite shore and in the stream, fallen trees from previous floods. And almost nothing to hear but birds. But, alas!, since I am not yet prepared for a life in the woods, I went back into town, passed the historical Ice House and Cedar Falls's tiny first school building, and then met Jordan at Cup of Joe's. We discussed favorite bands and got nostalgic over video games, then picked up Hannah, and drove to the bowling alley where Tanner joined us. Well, I did not lose. Neither did I win, but that's okay. After that, a good Mexican dinner, and back home.

On Monday, I moved to my new apartment and met my roommates. Our house is in really good condition. Maybe that's why it lacks the soul, character, and beauty of my house in Athens. However, after two and a half weeks--good weeks!--on other people's couches, it's good to have my own room again.

For the weekend, I've planned my first road trip that I'll do all by myself. 9 hours out West, then some hiking and camping in southwestern South Dakota's Badlands. Got a nice little tent and some gear, so I'm good to go.