by Gwagwagwe
A little update from our winter "hunting" grounds. There is only two state parks that allow back-pack camping (hike in, one dollar a day per person); these are Lake Fausse Point and Chicot, but there is plenty on National Forest in the northern part of Louisiana. Well, the wind said "Chicot needs you guys", so off we went. The village site was the most remote place we've been since California, two miles from the car, on a trail that was slippery and steep on the good days. We paid for seven suns in advance, and began packing our village items plus water on the first day, and as approaching storm filled the horizon. The site was a little spit of land jutting out into the Chicot lake, a Louisiana lake, which means a couple open water spots surrounding miles of cypress growing from the deep. The spit was covered in oak, magnolia, and elm spirits, in which the raccoon, woodpecker, wren, sparrow, and deer people lived.
Everything seemed well, and the warning of poor weather did not sink in (we've handled downpours, sleet, light snow, and oppressive humidity, we though nothing of a little rain). Well, as the sun rose out of the bayou we experienced one hand of the gods we hadn't planned for. We heard the whine long before we felt it's fury and before long Gwagwagwe was practically land sailing. Holding onto the tarps as each stake was ripped from the ground, he looked like a proud sailor without the boat, the driving rain stinging his face, as the other tribesman attempt to keep the tent from blowing away. It was a joyous, challenging, and powerful experience. Once we got everything rolled up and staked under a tarp on the ground, we walked out of their just to calm our nerves. We got a hotel room, took a well-deserved shower, and slept like babies for hours. As we awoke the sun was breaking through the clouds, laughing at us for being so bold. A lesson learned, and now the bison carry the wind in our dreams, and we await it's next challenge.
On the way back to the village we checked some drag lines set up by fisherman a couple days back. On the line we found a twelve inch blue catfish person. This was the first live animal-person to offer up its life to us. As I was pulling the fish up onto the bridge I asked for Pen's walking stick, she was under the impression I was going to use it to scoop the fish over the rail. When it hit the pavement two things happened simultaneously. Pen says, "don't drag the poor thing on the pavement, and Gwagwagwe started pounding the fish's head with a stick with all his might. Pen's reaction was shock, mine was joy (she was unaware of my plans to eat the little bugger). It was quite a seen, but after all it was the "dance of the catfish", which we celebrated later by becoming catfish ourselves.
That next day, on the daily trek for water, we noticed our first erotic tree spirit. Their standing sixty feet in the air was a seductress. Her truck confined into hands, she views the world upside down. Thirty feet up was her head, round and proportional to that lean muscular body. Above her head rose the trunk of her body, twisted sideways like she had not quit finished her hand stand. Her leg rose into the sky, each one giving life to thousand of leaves yearly. I can honestly say it was the first time I was "turned on" by a tree spirit. I hope she lives until we return to our winter "hunting" ground.
THIS PLACE is majestic, and it need us, if not the Bison Band then some human, to be a part of THIS PLACE'S FRACTAL. After seven suns in this remote village site, we were ready for some camaraderie, even the single-serving type we expect from most park visitors (seven suns is the second longest period we went without randomly running into other humans, the first being the lake of tranquillity on the Olympic peninsula in that place they call Washington. So the spoonbill people we traveled south to visit.
At the place of spoonbills (Lake Fausse Point S.P.), we paid for seven suns and set up the village near a shallow, murky (in a wonderfully diverse aqueous plant spirit way) bayou. The sun dried out the landscape for six wonderful "suns" at the temperature reached eighty and the skies were cloudless. Here we watched the elms shoot forth their spring flowers, the copperheads arise from their winter sleep, the turtles crowd the fallen logs like takers at a wallyworld blue light special, we listened to the crappie belly flop for insects day and night, we watched the owl swoop down and barely miss a juicy squirrel, we watched the egrets beginning their spring courtship, and fish crows laugh at all the chaos. THIS PLACE, THESE GODS, we thank you for your stories and dance, we promise we will tell others of your need for human companionship (which is why we write these story/prayers). At the end of the seven suns, we received word that our family needed us in those desolate miles of Oklahoma more than the community of life here at the place of the spoonbills, so off we go with the hope that twenty plus "suns" will provide enough opportunity for a slave-wage earning of one thousand of those so called dollar bills (plant spirit incarnations?) to buy us a half of the rasta man's healing and travel money to get back to our summer "hunting" grounds.
This up to the "sun-ray" update brought to you by the "magic" swamp knees (cypress) and "rose" rocks from Lake Draper that have given themselves to the bison for trade. We need majic mary, other "craft" items, and places to stay on our voyage north, please contact us if you are interested, or if you ready to become a bison. Either way, enjoying the evolution of the bison band?
Until next time,
Bison band of the tribe of the crow
A small part of the new tribal revolution, and an integral part of THIS PLACE.
PS. Just for our vanity, can one of you readers ask Quinn about us on his book tour, and has your mind been fucked by A.D.?