West Bend

There are times we have instinctual responses to circumstances, we take action and afterward wonder where it all comes from. What forms our subconscious I find fascinating and mysterious, influences may go way, as in millennia way, back.

The road atlas shows a campground on the West Bend of the Missouri River near Pierre, South Dakota. I take the turn off the main road and head south into vast open prairie, the road is dirt and heavily washboarded and there’s six miles of it. I gas the truck. At this speed I’m essentially airborne, skipping along the tops of the ridges. Control of the truck is greatly compromised and the suspension takes a beating, but the ride is smoother and I want to get it over with. Stones fly up and ping and snap as they ricochet off the underbody and exhaust. A big rolling plume of dust billows up behind me.

The road dips and I come to the river. There are trees and the air is softer. Sites near the water are all taken. RV’s sit in rows, their generators thrum, fans in AC units blow and the blank eyes of satellite dishes stare and search for tiny emitters so far away. Men and women with bellies sit in folding chairs under awnings and drink beer. Most setups have little signs posted informing stoppers by with a starting point, such as, “The Gustav’s, Estelle and Dick, Toledo, Ohio.” I drive around the area to find a site with some privacy. On a back loop I find a hollow in among low hills forested with scrub oak. I back the truck into a site and settle in. It is quiet and I have the place to myself.

After the ritual of setting up the camp stove, cooking and eating dinner and cleaning up I sit at the sturdy picnic table and write in my journal. The light is failing so I set a flame to the old hurricane lamp. Time goes by and my focus is such I don’t even notice it’s dark. The oil lamp casts a small warm ring of light. It is all I need.

The thought “it is time to get in the truck,” floods my mind, the odd part being I am not particularly tired, the wind isn’t blowing a gale, bugs are not eating me alive. The night is warm and still. Nonetheless the message is clear. I heed it, gather my things and get in the truck. The screened windows are open and I close the tailgate. It was then at least a half dozen coyote voices from all around broke into song, “Yi-yi-yi… Yip, yip!” The chorus went on for minutes and suddenly stopped. It was as still as before.

They must have been all around me for some time, just far enough into the dark, watching me. Quiet, quiet. And something in their presence unseen and unheard spoke to me.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Rebecca Richardson