I'm your Host Johnny Lovebus.

our intention for this podcast is to celebrate our love for Adventure Travel Aboard the Historic Green Tortoise Adventure Bus.

Here at Lovebus Studios,

For those of you who aren't in the know, there exists a real life Hippie Adventure Bus called the Green Tortoise. The legendary "Hippie Greyhound," had a "Shuffle Your Feet Lose Your Seat Policy," with no reserved seating, offering bunk beds and communal mattresses for sleeping through the night. The Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Company based in San Francisco has offered low cost adventure tours to international backpackers and the general public since 1973. The infamous "Bus with NO SEATS" still exists today in 2025, but the company just announced that this will be their last year in operation.

FOMO still have time

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Please, believe me when I assure you that my intentions are pure and honest.

hat takes groups of backpackers to national parks

As you can imagine, the first time I rode the Green Tortoise I was hooked. I earned my bus name Johnny Lovebus because I literally loved the bus.

Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Company

The legendary "Hippie Greyhound" also known as

I assure you my intentions are pure.

the "Infamous Bus with no Seats,

The Lovebus Podcast is a celebration of our Love for Adventure Travel Bus.

for Adventure, Romance & National Parks aboard .

intended to share

shared by a wide

for everything related to the Legendary Lovebus.

As my bus name suggests I literally Love the Bus.

minded people have for the Lovebus

I drove cross country national parks trips for

I love the bus

Have you heard about the

Green Tortoise Adventure Travel

This podcast is intended to spread the Love

a celebration of the the Legendary Hippie Greyhound - The Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Bus

What lays in store for you in this podcast is epic!

For those of you who aren't in the know, there exists a real-life Hippie Adventure Bus called the Green Tortoise. The legendary "Hippie Greyhound," has a "Shuffle Your Feet Lose Your Seat Policy," with no reserved seating, offering bunk beds and communal mattresses for sleeping through the night.

The infamous "Bus with NO SEATS" still exists today in 2026, but the company just announced that this will be their last year in operation.

But, it’s not too late; you haven’t missed out.

I am a former Green Tortoise Bus Driver who can take you there.

I have saved the experience.

The only way to tell a story this big is to take you there, on a Green Tortoise adventure, to give you the experience of being there yourself.

One thing every Green Tortoise passenger always says is that it changed their life forever.

So, I knew I couldn’t tell this story without creating an experience that would CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOREVER.

So, I have laid out a series of stories designed to introduce you to these people, backpackers from around the world, my friends, my family.

These passengers changed my life; and this podcast promises to change yours.

My novel, the Adventures of Johnny Lovebus takes you on the journey of a lifetime; on a 10-day cross country trip with 25 international backpackers; on an adventure tour on a hippie bus; to National parks across America; to the rims of canyons, for hiking, whitewater rafting and skinny-dipping; the most fabulous road trip you could ever imagine there being; with gourmet food twice a day.

As one might imagine, the road was full of stories.

The Adventures of Johnny Lovebus is a collection of true stories told in the oral tradition, derived from experiences with passengers from around the world over a six-year period from 1992 to 1998.

Pact for the Parks Teaser Reel,

In the Early 1990’s MTV took a film crew on a cross country trip aboard the Green Tortoise Adventure Travel Bus, intending on making the world’s first reality TV show. When MTV’s producers realized that they could not film inside the bus, because it was too confined, loud, and windy, they decided to make “Road Rules” instead.

I believe that my novel, The Adventures of Johnny Lovebus, captures the true experience MTV failed to capture, taking the reader on the adventure of a lifetime aboard the world-famous "Hippie Greyhound."

The Adventures of Johnny Lovebus is now for sale on the bookshelves of the Counterculture Museum, on Haight Ashbury in San Francisco, California.

My books are also available on Amazon.com, Audible, and Kindle. Links are available in the podcast show notes.

If you like what you hear in this podcast please subscribe and leave a review.

I ASSURE YOU THAT MY INTENTIONS ARE TRUE.

In my philosophy you just lean towards LOVE like a sailboat and like the wind LOVE will take you where you need to go.

Welcome to Lovebus!

Clouds coated the Boston sky like cataracts in the eyes of an insane old dog. The wonderful blue that had once shined behind the clouds seemed lost forever on the hounded features of the city. As my father fifty-fived his Oldsmobile up Route 93 toward the Boston skyline, raindrops crocodiled down the windshield like tears, distorting the foreboding pillars of capitalism, concrete, glass, and steel. With tear warped vision I imagined myself working in one of the countless office buildings, doing the same thing every day for the rest of my life. I wanted no part of that mindless routine. I had just turned twenty-two a month after graduating from college with a degree in sixties literature.

You see, I was finished waiting. I was finished waiting for the movie to begin, for the rest of my life to get started. I was finished waiting for somebody to really discover America. I was ready to wail. I was ready to go On the Road to discover my own America. I was not going to sit back and wait for a renaissance of wonder. With great resolve, I bought a one-way ticket to San Francisco on the Green Tortoise Adventure Bus for a ten-day tour of the northern United States.

My father parked his car on the corner of Essex and Atlantic Streets near Boston’s South Station. We sat silently waiting with my mother on the cold leather seats of his Oldsmobile. “I don’t love what you’re doing,” he told me in the rearview mirror, “but I will always love you.” My reflection nodded acknowledgement. My mother had been prodding him to apologize before I left. That was as good an apology as I was ever going to get.

It had been a rough few months at home, ever since I told him I was moving to San Francisco. He wanted me to have a job lined up before I left, but that did not happen. Fighting with him the previous year had soured me on the world. I had lost that quintessential sense of wonder I had always felt as a child, but I aimed to get it back.

Through the misty rain-streaked windows, the only person I could see outside was an overweight Hippie wearing blue denim overalls, sitting on a suitcase under the overhang near the door to South Station. He looked like a Hippie, almost cool, but I could not tell if the pile of bags next to him was his luggage or the worldly possessions of a street person. I could not stand the silence in the car, so I offered to get my parents coffee. They declined, so I went inside the train station to see what I could find.

The second I opened the door I could smell marijuana, so I shut the door quickly and crossed the street. The man in blue overalls held a pipe to his lips and blew smoke out his nostrils as I approached. The massive man was as solemn as a lone Buffalo atop a treeless plateau. Except for the smoke billowing out his nostrils he remained motionless until we made eye contact. I lifted my chin and he did the same. For an instant I saw myself in his eyes, as if I was him seeing me walk past. I was just a kid. I could not help but imagine myself in his position, whatever that may be.

Back in the car I was sipping burned coffee when my father looked in the mirror and said, “That looks like your bus behind us.”

“Oh, my goodness!” my mother reacted in the side view mirror. “What an interesting bus!”

I turned and looked out the rear window at the face of the ancient Tortoise bus. In the destination window the words “COAST to COAST” were written with magic marker on white cardboard. I had secretly hoped that the marquee would read “Further,” like the Merry Prankster’s bus, but “COAST to COAST” in a rainbow of colors was even better. The rain had stopped, so I rolled down my window.

Inside the bus, Driver Chris had taken off his shirt and he was sitting at the dinette table reading from a business ledger. An incredibly attractive girl with flowing brown hair sat on the mattress close behind him massaging his shoulders. His red-bearded face exuded joy. There was a look in his eyes like that of a wise older person, like travel had taught him much about life. I longed to experience that kind of joy myself, to gain such wisdom and to learn about life on the road.

The huge man I had seen standing by the station door took up the rest of the bench next to him. He was setting up plastic pieces on a tattered chessboard. There was a pack of playing cards on the table next to him. It was a dirty deck of cards made in the seventies with a different half-naked woman on the face of each card.

The guy with the acoustic guitar had removed his leather jacket and was now sitting across the table from the man-mountain chess player. They introduced themselves to each other. “I’m Johnny from England,” he said in a British accent.

“My name is Dave,” said the big man in an incredibly slow, deep, and mellow voice. They shook hands. “Do you play chess?” he asked.

“Yes, but I’m crap,” answered the Brit.

“Do you play to win, or do you play to play?” Dave intoned. His hairy jowls, massive body and broad shoulders reminded me of a buffalo.

“Err... to play,” he responded.

“Then we can play,” resolved the big man.

The black-haired guy who called himself Chicken Jim sat around playing songs on his guitar while the driver sold tickets. “So, you work here?” I asked him as I took a seat across the aisle.

He answered in a hipster voice. “Correctamundo,” he said pointing his guitar pick at me with a nod. “I’m training to be a driver.”

“That’s awesome bro! I would love to be a driver. Do you get paid for training?” I asked him bluntly.

He kept using his hipster voice. “It’s a labor of love bro!” He began plucking the chords to Ticket to Ride.

A cute American girl with light-brown hair came up the steps out of breath holding two reusable shopping bags and a soccer ball under one arm. She stopped before the top step and smiled at the huge blond-bearded driver. She was sporty and cute with an endearing sparkle in her hazel eyes. “Is this the bus to California?” she asked.

“Indeed, it is,” the driver answered gregariously. “Welcome to the Green Tortoise.”

“Wicked!” she said enthusiastically, looking inside the funky old bus. She gestured with her chin to her shoulder lifting her thumb under the strap of her bag. “Where do I put these?”

“Jimbo!” the relaxed driver called out. “Help this young lady with her luggage. Will you please?”

“I have more bags outside,” she told the reclined helper, but he did not move.

A young kid wearing a San Francisco Giants baseball cap rushed up to the Bostonian and shouted, “Awesome! I love soccer!” He tried to grab the ball under her arm, but she turned away out of reflex. When he jumped for the ball, she raised it high above his head. “Awe! Come on!” he complained. She put down her bags so she could hold the ball in both hands.

A woman that appeared to be his mother scolded him. “Josh! Leave that nice girl alone.” She had been combing her hair with a brush and a handheld mirror. She seemed annoyed at the interruption.

“It’s okay.” The soccer player softened. “As long as you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied.

She gave the ball to the boy.

“What do you say, Josh?” his mother prodded.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He winced when he licked his severely chapped lips. He tossed the ball in the air to himself, dropped it to the floor and kicked it down the aisle. He seemed overjoyed by such a little thing. Chicken Jim kicked it back and forth with him while the Bostonian stood there watching.

While driving west of Boston through the woodland hills of Massachusetts, I sat behind Driver Brian listening to him speak with the soccer player from Boston. “Where did you live when you were a kid?” she asked him earnestly.

“In a cooperative,” he informed her.

“Is that like a commune?” she asked.

“Ha!” he laughed. “I should hope not.” His eyes lit up with his smile. “A cooperative is a place you live with other people, typically in a place you could never afford yourself, but instead of owning your digs, you share the whole property. It’s a bit like rent control.”

“Like a condo?” she questioned.

“Not really,” he informed her. “We were all about sharing resources with our neighbors. We lived in a yurt on a communal farm in Cupertino.

“Hell yeah,” said the soccer player. “That’s so cool.” She had an athletic spirit to match her build. Just like Sporty Spice from the Spice Girls, she was a kickass brunette with an empowered attitude. She was smart and fun altogether.

“There are several types of co-ops in the Bay Area,” Driver Brian explained. “Some are just apartment buildings, but there’s almost always a monthly fee. In ours we could not sell our share when we left. We loved it there, but someone else started paying the fee and we lost our right to go back. The fees are stupid expensive in the bay area.”

“Wicked!” I said. “I wish I grew up in a place like that.”

“It was great,” he gushed. “I would still be living there now if I could.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Sporty Spice.

“There was a parting of ways between people living in the woods and the established people living in more permanent structures,” he explained. “So, my parents fought against them, and we eventually moved away. They wanted everyone to pay the same fee regardless of where you were living. It was totally unfair. It did not make sense to pay the same money as someone in a house with running water and electricity, and heat for that matter. Some of the old-growth Hippies were still living in lean-tos and tents, sometimes just a hammock.”

“I love the term Old-Growth-Hippies. I never heard that before this trip,” I told him.

“They’re still out there,” he said. “There’s no shortage of old-school tie-dyed-in-the-wool folks from the sixties in San Francisco.”

“We walk among you in disguise,” the boy’s Mother Michelle suddenly interjected. She had a cool way about her. “We don’t get the respect we deserve for trying to save the world,” she opined. “The word Hippie isn’t even capitalized in our language.”

“It should be,” voiced the Bostonian.

“I’m going to start capitalizing it,” I told them.

“It’s sad,” observed Mother Michelle. “Many of your generation have lost sight of us Old-Growth Hippies and what we stood for. We fought for women’s rights, we fought against the war, we were idealists, anti-materialistic and very much seeking out innovative ideas. We had a sense of purpose, like we were doing something good with our lives,” she told us. “All that remains is a terribly commercialized relic of what was once a pristine and beautiful thing. Young people see us as desperately conventional because we value frugal living and buying wholefoods in bulk, instead of paying a premium for individual servings of frozen microwavable kale. That shit produces a shit-ton of waste.” As she took a breath, the two women looked at each other and nodded in solidarity. She concluded, “If your rice comes in a box, you’re definitely not an Old-Growth Hippie.”

“That’s funny,” observed the Bostonian, “but I see your point.”

“The kids today only love themselves,” spat Michelle. “It’s all about me, me, me.”

About fifteen minutes after the rest stop, the bus pulled off the highway onto a two-lane country road lined with tall pine trees somewhere west of Hartford. Less than a mile later at a nondescript break in the tree-line we turned onto a primitive single-lane dirt road that ended in an open field at the foot of a hill. The bus listed severely on the grassy slope as our driver turned the bus around, throwing passengers side to side and back again as he made a three-point-turn. The bus came to a halt facing the direction we had come, and Driver Chris set the air brake with a pop and hiss.

The bus parked on a dead-end dirt road within sight of the highway. Pine trees populated a hillside between the highway and the pond, muffling the roar of engines and car horns, creating an oasis yards away from the motorized mayhem.

Driver Chris stood up next to the driver’s seat to make a brief announcement. He bent down a little and pointed out the window. “The swim-hole is down the path over there. Just follow that trail. You can’t miss it.” He sat back down and stroked his red beard and tucked his long hair back behind his ears. “This place is completely private and we’re only going to be here for about an hour. So, you do not need to waste any time digging out your bathing suits and towels or stuff like that. There’s no place on the bus to hang wet clothes to dry.” He reached over and opened the noisy door with a screech. “We will blow the horn when it’s time to go.” As an afterthought he advised, “Don’t worry about the sunken car. It’s been there forever.”

“Sunken car!” shouted Little Josh enthusiastically. “Yay!” He pulled his mother’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

The brunette soccer player from Boston remained seated while everyone else exited the bus. I sat across from her to put my boots on and asked, “Are you going to swim?”

“No,” she answered abruptly. “I’m all set. My swimsuit is buried under the floor in the back, and there is no way in a million years I am going skinny-dipping. That’s just nuts.”

“I could help you find your bag,” I offered.

“No, it’s fine,” she replied. “I’m good.” She was so sweet, demure, and unassuming, with an assertive self-determination that told me she was trying to manifest independence.

I had to agree with her. Having grown up in Rhode Island, skinny-dipping in Connecticut sounded crazy, but I had to go along with it. I was swept-up in the excitement and swimming in the oppressive heat sounded great, suit or no suit. So, I said, “Stay cool,” and stepped outside to join the others. The sky was a clear New England summer of blue. The heat of August in New England pressed down upon us, baking our hair and skin.

Chicken Jim led the charge, skipping like a stone down the path to the pond, taking off his shirt as he ran. Driver Brian walked with Mother Michelle and her son, followed by the other driver’s French girlfriend and six of the new passengers. The footpath was well-worn and easy to follow, but it was obvious we would have this hidden sanctuary entirely to ourselves.

At the edge of the pond, we all stood around for a minute, not knowing what to think or where to begin. A blanket of thick orange pollen covered the surface of the water. Chicken Jim was already standing knee-deep in the water with his blinding white butt-cheeks displayed for all to see. A rusty old antique car that looked like it had been there for a generation sat submerged up to its missing windshield on the opposite bank about fifty feet away.

The big, old, American gas-guzzler had come through the pine forest on the hillside without hitting a single tree. It had careened down the hill off the highway, probably the result of an accident. The passengers speculated as to whether or not anyone had been hurt, or if the car had been stolen and was pushed down the hill to hide the evidence.

When the Green Tortoise bus rolled down Broadway the citizens of New York took notice. As the antique bus maneuvered through traffic, horns beeped, and arms waved enthusiastically through open car windows. Cabbies leaned out waving and truckers blew air-horns. Pedestrians on the sidewalks stopped in their tracks, lining up along the curb as the bus rolled past, cheering, and waving like the bus was a big green float in the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

One passerby yelled excitedly, “The Hippies are back!” A young woman shouted affectionately, “I love your bus!” Someone asked loudly, “What’s a Green Tortoise?” The passengers joined in the fun, shouting, and waving to fans. Much to his mother’s chagrin, the little kid, Josh, pulled his shorts down and stuck his bare ass out an open window. The passersby cheered. Then, this hilarious guy on the sidewalk shouted, “Lord Jesus, I’m having a flashback.” He held his hand to his chest, staggering backwards like Redd Foxx calling to Elizabeth on Sanford and Son. It was comical.

As the bus circled the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal, we turned the second corner and saw flames under the bridge where street people and indigents in dirty clothing were drinking and smoking around a fire barrel. I noticed one of the dark figures shaking his head furiously in disbelief, as if the green bus rekindled a memory of some unfulfilled promise made in the Sixties. Driver Chris turned the bus onto the side street below the towering stack of iron decking leading to the massive bridge. A line of taxicabs and shiny limousines waited at the curb of the bus station across the street, ready to escape the city.

As the bus pulled into a loading zone on Fort Washington Avenue, a group of men with squeegees surrounded the bus and started washing the windshield and windows. The passengers quickly started closing the windows to stop the spray from getting everything wet. The old metal school bus style windows were hard to close. This created a commotion throughout the bus as passengers got sprayed as they struggled with the metal latches.

Driver Chris slid the driver’s window open and hung his head outside. “We don’t want our windows washed,” he told the man at the windshield, waving him off with his hand. “We can’t pay you,” he shouted, shaking his head emphatically.

“We wash your windows and you pay us, yes?” the guy shouted in broken English. He sprayed the windshield with a bottle. “We do a respectable job.”

“No,” our driver shouted persistently, “we’re not paying you.” He waved the guy off again with his huge hand. “We don’t want our windows washed.” He slowed down his words. “We’re not going to give you money!” The squeegee man kept spraying and swiping the rubber blade on the glass. When he tried pulling on the wiper blade, expecting it to lift off the windshield, Driver Chris yelled, “Stop!” Then, he drew his head back inside and removed his seatbelt. He was clearly upset. “Mother fucker’s going to break our damn wipers and they’ll still want money.”

I stood up from the buddy seat and let him pass.

“If you refuse to pay, they threaten to smash your windshield,” he told me, like a shot he was out the door.

Chicken Jim had been sitting up front, strumming his guitar. He tossed the instrument on the seat and followed the red-haired driver off the bus. Together they engaged in an intense argument with the squeegee man while the others continued to wash the side windows. After arguing for several minutes, the squeegee team finally backed down. He called his men with a loud two-fingered whistle and they disappeared.

The engine was silent when I woke up, but I could feel the bus swaying slightly as passengers moved around below. I felt well-rested despite the bumpy roads and being kept awake by British Sue’s wind-blown hair touching my face. The dinette table had been converted to a bed on which Michelle and Josh were now sleeping. I peeked over the edge of the bunk, trying to get a look out the windshield. Driver Brian was asleep in the driver’s seat. Sometime in the night, the Miracle Conversion had transformed the couches on the front platform into a sleeping area. I observed the row of bodies in sleeping bags, trying to figure out who was who.

The South American guy was awake. He had his arm around the Canadian girl with the bright red lipstick. She was sleeping soundly with her head on his chest. He made eye contact with me, looked at the girl sleeping on his chest and his cheeks dimpled into a grin. I gave him a wide-eyed nod of admiration. His eyes closed blissfully.

An attractive couple in their late twenties sat-upright with their backs against the windows reading the Tortoise brochure. The young woman waved to me with a bent wrist and I smiled. She was quite pretty with upturned corners of her mouth and sculpted cheekbones that gave her a pleasant appearance. She wore a tan headscarf with a green tribal pattern over shoulder length brown hair tied up in a bun.

The guy next to her, who I presumed to be her boyfriend, lifted his chin to say hello and I did the same. A pair of sunglasses rested on top of his short, curly, black hair, and he wore a yellow soccer jersey with a green emblem on the front reading, South Africa. I could tell from his smile and body language that he was both educated and congenial. The way he affectionately leaned in reading over his partner’s shoulder spoke to a deep connection.

I felt the bus shift as Driver Chris came up the steps. After some deliberation, he selected a cassette tape from the case on the dashboard. He put his hand on his sleeping partner’s shoulder. It could not have been comfortable sleeping in the driver’s seat, but the big blond driver awoke in a pleasant mood seeming rested. “Hey brother,” he said to his friend. “I got us here.”

“Great job,” said the red-bearded driver. “I’ve already got breakfast started. It’s time to wake the troops.” He handed him the cassette.

He read the label and said, “Nice!” He pushed a cassette into the stereo and raised the volume slowly as a song began to play. The Latin sounds of wooden claves, shakers and tambourines rose to a crescendo as The Who’s Magic Bus played on every speaker. Roger Daltrey sang the lyrics, “Thank you, driver, for getting me here.”

Driver Chris looked at me with a knowing look. He smiled, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere. I wondered if his brother was still alive. He stood there for a while with one knee on the buddy seat, holding the support bar, waiting for passengers to show signs of life. Eventually, he persuaded the sleeping passengers to wake up in a creeping deep voice. “It’s time to wake up,” he urged. “It’s time for breakfast. We need to start cooking now, or else we will not have time to swim in Lake Erie after breakfast. If you do not want to get up now, you can help clean up. Everyone needs to either cook or clean. Especially the guys. Don’t you dare let the ladies do all the work.”

This left me feeling somewhat offended because I have always done my share in the kitchen. I consider myself a feminist, so I was glad when someone spoke up.

“Hey now!” Jewels objected with attitude. “You’re just reinforcing the stereotype. I hope you don’t think cooking and cleaning is ‘women’s work, because I won’t lift a finger.”

While the rest of us used the bathrooms one last time, Driver Brian went to sleep in the driver’s cabin and Driver Chris changed into a pair of red lifeguard shorts and a stained grey t-shirt with the words, ‘I am Made of Meat’ half hidden behind his copious facial hair. The beautiful brown-skinned teacher from New York was sitting on the buddy seat with her back leaning against his shoulder, so I sat on the first seat across the aisle next to Mother Michelle. She was telling the Irish Twins all about her previous cross-country trip.

Apparently, PAC-MAN had only brought one change of clothes with him, so Driver Chris reluctantly allowed him to hang his wet garments on the dashboard handrail. While it seemed odd to bring no clothes on a ten-day adventure trip, I found his tiger-print underwear even more disturbing. I was not the only one who noticed either. Chicken Jim called him out on it as soon as he hung them up to dry. “Are those yours,” he questioned with a laugh.

The Chinese man grew defensive. “Why yes,” he stammered. “What’s your problem?”

“I’ve just never seen underwear split down the sides like that before,” marveled the Pennsylvanian. “They look like something my grandmother would wear.”

“They are very comfortable,” he defended.

Is that polyester?” asked the rookie.

“It’s silk,” he explained.

I felt bad for the guy, but I had to admit, his underwear was snazzy. I had never seen anything like them before. Although, this was my first experience seeing an Asian man’s underwear.

“Leave him alone, Jimbo!” Driver Chris admonished. Then he shouted, “Buddy check!”

“Buddy check!” I shouted. Several others repeated the call. I spotted my buddies, Guitar Johnny, Big Dave, Mother Michelle, Little Josh, British Sue, and English Tessa. They were all present. I counted twenty-one passengers not including Chicken Jim. The buddy check calls trailed-off and the bus grew quiet. “Everyone’s here,” I told the red-bearded driver.

“Great,” he responded. He attached a pen to his logbook, tossed it onto the dashboard and started the engine.

Jewels asked him, “Where are we headed?”

As he turned the bus around in the parking lot he spoke in a distracted manner. “Our first stop is Toledo, unless there’s a good place to stop along the highway. I’d rather not go into the city unless we have to. I need to call for an update on my brother. There’s a Greyhound Station there in case I need to go home.”

“Goddess forbid,” said Jewels.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d hate to have to put you guys on a Greyhound. Once you’ve experienced the Tortoise, you can’t go back. Greyhound can be a twisted nightmare of back spasms. Hopefully, the news is good at home.”

“You must be beside yourself with worry.” Jewels spoke soulfully. “I’m here for you if you need anything; I’m your girl.” She was so empathetic and wonderful. Her mere presence made you feel better even if nothing was wrong. “Did you find out how the accident happened?” she asked.

“It may not have been an accident at all.” He took on a serious expression. “Our best guess is that he was mugged,” he spoke with emotion in his voice.

Jewels’ face went blank and her whole body froze.

“Oh my God,” that’s terrible cried Yülia. “Did they catch the guy?”

“No. It’s not like that. It’s just a theory,” he informed us. “The police were never called.” He stroked his beard as if he was anxious and kept hold of the wheel with one hand. “The important thing is he survived.”

“How is he doing?” Jewels wanted to know.

At some point on the two-hour drive into Chicago I had drank enough beer to necessitate the use of the pee funnel for the first time. After the laughter ebbed, I stood up in the stairwell and scowled at the Chicago skyline to the west. It all seemed grey to me, the sky, the buildings, the fate of millions of souls bound together in such proximity. When the bus pulled off the highway at the exit for the University of Illinois at Chicago, the abundance of neon lights made things much more colorful, and all the hype about the Chicago Blues started to make more sense. The sidewalks were crowded with young people headed in all directions. Big groups, small groups, pretty girls, hot guys, black people, white people, Asian people, crazy people, you name it. This was clearly a multicultural hub with an amazing nightlife.

Driver Chris parked in the designated spot near the Chicago Greyhound station on South Halsted Street a few minutes after nine o’clock. Big Dave claimed to know the owner of the best blues club in the area. He had worked there as a bouncer back in the day, so we agreed to go with him to check it out.

Several of the girls tried to convince Flip-flop to come with us, but she insisted on staying behind because she could not afford it. A few of us guys offered to buy her drinks, but she said she did not want to owe us any favors. So, we said our goodbyes to Flip-flop.

Before we left Peruvian Ursula spoke to her traveling companion in Cantonese. Driver Chris assured her that he would be fine. She handed him the baseball cap, and we headed out as a group to the clubs on the campus of UIC. The short Chinese man walked behind me in front of Peruvian Ursula. Jewels and Yülia walked and talked with him the entire time. They asked him the standard questions, if he liked America. Of course, he did. How long he had been here? Three weeks. Have you been to Chicago before? He had performed at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.

They talked about the places he visited around the world, of which there were many. When they asked about his family, he revealed that his wife and two sons were waiting for him in San Francisco. His English was fair at best, so they ended up doing the majority of the talking. He was friendly enough with hello how are kind of interactions, but I could tell much of the details of American English were lost on him, not to mention Yülia’s English with a German accent. He asked Yülia a few questions about Germany, like where she was from. She was from Dusseldorf. He asked her what she was studying in college. She was going for biotechnology.

Juliano strutted like a rock star walking with a hot Irish twin on each arm. Mountain Girl was not talking to him anymore, because he was such a flirt and he seemed otherwise enthralled with the Peruvian girl.

We stopped to listen to a trio of street performers playing the blues for tips at the entrance to a schoolyard. The leader fingered his way through the three-bar blues with amazing skill on an electric guitar plugged into a small battery-operated PA. The other front man played a harmonica with both hands wrapped around a mic amplified on the same PA. This created a heavily distorted mix of old-school blues. Behind them sat the one-man rhythm section banging on a pair of five-gallon bucket drums. Our group dropped some change and a few dollars into the open guitar case and moved on with Big Dave in the lead.

We walked past several bars with live music, occasionally stopping to listen from the sidewalk. Some of our passengers wanted to go inside one of the clubs. The place was hopping with a line out the door. A bouncer was checking IDs behind a velvet rope. We found out there was a show, but the cover was outrageous, so we kept moving. Big Dave reassured us that there would be no cover at his friend’s bar where he was leading us.

I woke up a few minutes after sunrise. Little Josh had gotten up nice and early, making sure that his mother paid heavily for her night out drinking. She held her head as if it were a drippy eggshell. “Wake up mom, we’re crossing the Mississippi River!” Mother Michelle tried to rise from her bed to see the water, but the yolk was dripping off the shell. She lowered her broken head with care; she was down for the count. Thanks to British Sue’s premature evacuation from the Blues club, our eggs were intact.

I looked down the length of my body when someone touched my foot. English Tessa had one leg hanging off the bunk and she slipped down onto the back platform out of sight.

I watched British Sue lying there breathing softly, cuddled up with her head on my shoulder and her hand against my cheek. She opened her eyes and caught me looking. I brushed her hair from her brow with two fingers and kissed her softly on the forehead. She closed her eyes to go back to sleep and I left her with a sigh.

I felt surprisingly well-rested, so I went up to sit on the buddy seat next to Driver Brian. We had traveled across the entire state of Wisconsin in the middle of the night. Claiming to be “Experienced in ‘matters of the bladder,’” the big blond driver pulled off I-90, near La Crescent Minnesota. “Hangovers prefer porcelain,” he taught me. Many of the passengers were suffering from the Chicago Blues, and the Minnesota Welcome Center had running water and flushable toilets. It was encouraging the way he was always trying to help me learn how to be a good Green Tortoise Driver, even though I knew the chances of that happening were slim to none.

Deutsche Mark and I met up in the men’s room in front of the mirror while brushing our teeth. He addressed me with a good-natured wink and a foamy smile. He stopped brushing to say, “I’m so psyched. Chris just told me that we’re going to Wounded Knee.” He continued brushing.

“What’s Wounded Knee?” I asked after I spit.

The Dutchman stopped brushing abruptly and stared at me in the glass. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Wounded Knee,” he marveled. “I thought everyone knew about Wounded Knee.” He had an incredulous look on his face. “It’s where the US troops massacred the Indians.” He went on with a tone, trying to spark my memory. “One-hundred-fifty women and children were murdered with Gatling guns and cannon fire. They were torn to shreds with fifty caliber bullets.”

“I remember now,” I said in astonishment. “That’s in the Badlands, right?”

“Right!” he confirmed.

“That’s how Crazy Horse got famous,” I postulated.

“So, you do know about it,” he rejoiced. He took a swig of water, gargled and spit. “Chris gave me this cool book to read.”

“Black Elk Speaks,” I broke in, finishing his thought.

“Yes!” he confirmed. “You know it?”

“Not really,” I confessed. “Chris was telling me about it the other day.”

Deutsche Mark spoke with enthusiasm. “It tells the story of the fall of the Red Man from the eyes of one of the holy people. Pretty cool stuff. You should read it, man.”

“I’ll take it after you,” I suggested.

“Absolutely,” he enthused.

My interest was piqued. “My cousin wrote a children’s book about Crazy Horse,” I told him. “It’s the story of the sculptor, the guy who is carving the mountain into the giant sculpture of Crazy Horse. The sculpture won’t be finished in our lifetimes, or our children’s lifetimes. It’s already the largest sculpture in human history.”

“Dude! We’re going there on this trip. I’m so psyched we get to see it.”

When I woke up, we were in the parking lot of a liquor store somewhere in the middle of the Great Plains. Other than the grocery store across the street, there really wasn’t anything else around for miles. Driver Chris stood up, holding the safety bar by the door with one knee on the buddy seat. “Listen up guys. We are in Albert Lea, Minnesota. We’re stopping here for one hour to stock up on supplies. There’s a grocery store across the street where we’ll be doing a little food shopping. They have a snack bar, but don’t eat too much because we’ll be stopping for dinner in a couple hours at a gorgeous lake.” He waited for some chatter to subside. “The lake is super beautiful. So, you’ll have a chance to swim there. After dinner we’ll be driving through the night to Badlands National Park in South Dakota.

Tomorrow night we will be camping on an Indian reservation. Alcohol is hard to find in Indian country. The Indians do not allow liquor stores on the reservation, so we will be buying supplies for the party here. This will be our last chance to stock up on alcohol for the next few days, so everybody might want to contribute. Chicken Jim will be collecting money and taking orders, although you are welcome to do your own shopping if you prefer.”

There was more chatter before he continued. “The eastbound Green Tortoise cross country bus will be meeting us in the Badlands tomorrow night for a camp-out party. It’s a Tortoise tradition to compete to see which bus has the most fun. Ever since I first teamed up with Brian our bus has won every time, so I’d like to keep our winning streak alive.”

“What do we win?” Little Josh cried out.

Driver Chris contemplated this over the din. “You get to have a wonderful time,” he answered. “I know you guys won’t let me down, but I want to encourage you to be as wild and crazy as you can possibly be, so we’re guaranteed to win. So, get psyched and get whatever you need to show the other bus what it means to have a good time.”

The passengers cheered with a bunch of yips and yahoos. Berndt Toast made an Indian war whoop by patting his mouth repeatedly. Judging from how many of the Green Tortoise passengers made the same sound, people all over the world must have made Native American war whoops as children. We were simply excited to be heading into Native American country that’s all. Our white-man war whoops were performed in ignorance for sure, but not with any intentional disrespect or malice toward Native Americans.

The popularization of this patting of the mouth phenomenon is a product of television, historical fear mongering and the inability of most white people to make ululating mouth sounds. It should come as no surprise that Native American warriors never made such sounds in battle. Rather, this was our failed attempt at mimicking the ululating sound rare Native American women make in celebration when warriors return from battle. Our excitement for Native American culture would culminate in a celebration on sacred land in the days to come.

A small rectangle of bright green manicured grass graced the otherwise featureless parking lot just outside the bus door. This seemed completely out of place amidst the fallow fields of Minnesota. The sprinklers at the liquor store had recently run, leaving the long blades of grass ashimmer with dew. The Irish girls ran out first, followed closely by Fräulein Vera. Their squeals of joy made obvious the pleasurable feeling of hot bare feet on wet grass. All the passengers piled off the bus in similar fashion.

There was a strip mall across the street with a supermarket. Several people were craving meat, so they planned to find food together. Peruvian Ursula asked Driver Chris, “Is there any where around here to buy a bathing suit?”

In the darkness before dawn, the Green Tortoise Adventure Bus crawled to a halt along the curb of a dark empty parking lot in Badlands National Park. With the last breath of the engine came a profound silence. I arose from the back platform where British Sue and I had been sleeping. I gingerly tiptoed over the people on the front platform. Driver Brian was asleep with his arms resting on the steering wheel. Jewels had fallen asleep on the Buddy Seat leaning against his shoulder. He stirred briefly as I cranked the noisy swing-arm to open the door. I embraced the cool night.

The atmosphere of this strange new world stood perfectly still. Neither cricket chirps nor cicada songs desecrated this altar of silence. It was an alien environment entirely devoid of sound, like the ticking hands of time had paused mid stroke. I felt like I had fallen into the space between the notes on the sheet music of natural history, listening instead to a symphony of silence in the vast amphitheater of vapid space.

No light of human populations polluted the perfect pitch. No headlights haunted the horizon, no streetlights lit the landscape, no bulbs burned on buildings, no towns twinkled in tungsten, there was no synthetic light anywhere. I felt alone in the universe, like I was bearing witness to the primordial Earth at the dawn of time before the first random event started evolution.

The stars lit up the sky like the glow of a celestial city that stretched from horizon to horizon. With wide-eyed wonder, I followed the path of the Milky Way across the moonless night. The brilliant starlight illuminated a menagerie of giant white formations, peaking a hundred feet above me against a silhouette of stars. A short walk away at the edge of the parking lot, a metal handrail blocked the edge of a huge canyon of similar formations, stretching out below like a kingdom of white sandcastles.

There was so much light from the stars, that I easily found my way to a clump of desert bushes. My imagination explored the parapets one castle at a time. The mountain shaped fortresses in this strange old world appeared soft at the edges as if formed by a child’s playful finger. I happily imagined myself on a foreign planet and that the Green Tortoise bus was my moon buggy. I returned to the comfort of my sleeping bag and snuggled up next to British Sue. In my dreams I ascended towers of sand in an alien world.

A vision softly-creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping. On a lonely hilltop I stood face to face with my child-self. I had been trying desperately to recapture my youth and here I was face to face with a vision of my younger self. A combination of abuse and growing up too quickly had left me feeling empty inside. I felt disconnected from who I knew myself to be when I was young. In the yawning hours of my gentle child’s dream, everything seemed clear in the light of this astral vision.

As the sun began to rise, I lingered in bed, relaxing. I felt young and not at fault. I knew my eyes would open with a new world for me to explore. I thought, the sun will rise tomorrow, but I might not. I got up slowly as not to wake British Sue. I walked outside into the dawn and let the landscape flow through me.

The long angles of sunlight I witnessed that morning had the power to change my life and inspire me forever. The vast array of delicately colored layers that had built up over the eons, layer upon layer, color on top of color, were waking up from their slumber of shadowy night. The rays of sunlight illuminated the pinkish reds, purples, browns, yellows, oranges, tans, and grays like the layers of a geological layer cake. I was waking up too. I imagined myself returning to this place throughout my life. How could I not.

The passengers on the front platform were sitting with their heads close to the open windows trying to get some relief from the heat. Guitar Johnny strummed and sang softly, putting in the least amount of effort possible. After a while he started taking requests and reluctantly increased both his volume and effort. He had to wipe the beads of sweat off his nose to keep his guitar dry.

British Sue reached her arm out the window and rested it against the dark green skin of the Tortoise. “Ouch!” she winced. “The bloody thing’s as hot as a tea keddy!” Her English friend took her by the hand and inspected the red mark on her forearm. “Let’s get some cream for that,” she recommended.

I took a seat next to Mountain Girl at the dinette. She was playing rummy with Big Dave using the big man’s deck of naked lady playing cards. Mountain Girl took a break from the game to recoat her lips with her bright red lipstick. She looked simply delightful in the afternoon light. She certainly did not need makeup. She must have known I was looking because out of nowhere she said, “Everyone’s been complaining about dry lips, but mine are perfect, eh.” She asked me, “Are your lips chapped?”

“Yes,” I told her nodding. “It’s awful. I’ve been using Chapstick, but it’s not getting any better.”

She jokingly offered me her lipstick and said, “This stuff works wonders, eh.”

I declined with a smile and a wave of my hand.

Across from her Little Josh hung his head out the window panting like a dog with his tongue out.

Mountain Girl warned him, “That hot wind just gonna make your lips worse. Then you’ll be miserable, eh. Now, get your head in here, please.”

Josh yelled into the wind. “It’s fun!”

“Trust me, eh. If you keep your head out there long enough, you’ll wish you hadn’t,” advised the Canadian. Having realized it was useless, under her breath she said, “Don’t blame me, eh.”

To rub her nose in it and make things worse, the boy knelt on the seat so he could get his shoulders through the window and stuck half his body out.

Little Josh was often disrespectful to his mother and he frequently disregarded her advice, so many of the passengers tried to help her reel him in. After she tried once, it was understandable that Mountain Girl could not be bothered to keep trying. She turned in her seat so that her legs were in the aisle and whistled a tune.

Ten minutes later, Little Josh removed his head from the window and sat back in his seat looking distraught. I nudged Mountain Girl and motioned toward the boy so she would look. “Is something wrong?” she asked the boy with concern.

He was holding his hands over his face, “Nothing’s wrong.” He removed his hands and winced in pain as he touched his lips with his fingers. His lips looked seriously chapped and his cheeks were bright red.

“How are your lips, eh?” the Canadian asked.

“My lips hurt,” he said quietly. “How could they get chapped so fast?”

“It appears that you-know-who was right,” I commented.

He sneered and touched his lips again and squeaked in pain.

Like the evil Nurse Ratched in the Cuckoo’s Nest, Mountain Girl offered help to the wounded boy. “I have something that will help you moisturize your lips, eh. If you want to try it, eh?”

“Yes please.”

“Here, let me put it on for you. I’ll be gentle, eh.”

“Sure,” he said.

When I saw her pull the red lipstick out of her pocket I gasped, breathing in quickly through my nose. I closed my eyes and held my breath for a second.

Part of the magic and intensity of the Green Tortoise adventure travel experience in the Badlands involves eating dinner prepared by a pair of gregarious Lakota Sioux women at a place called Cuny Cafe. The cafe building doubles as their home on land that bears their family name. Cuny Table is located near Buffalo Gap on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. After eating dinner, the Green Tortoise is permitted to camp on this gorgeous piece of private land under special agreement with the Cuny family. The Green Tortoise has enjoyed a decades-long friendship with the Cuny family fostered by the owner of the Green Tortoise, Gardner Kent since 1972.

From Scenic we drove south and then west toward Buffalo Gap into the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. On the vast treeless wilderness south of Badlands National Park, a small group of farm buildings sits at the end of a long dirt driveway. The word “CAFE” was painted in big white letters on the side of a simple square house, painted red with white trim. Two picnic tables sat under a shingled awning jutting out from the building, providing shelter from the sun. A doublewide trailer was attached to one end of the building. A stockade fence corralled the area between the house and a matching red barn. A pair of junk cars and some dilapidated farm equipment sat baking in the sun. Two wooden outhouses, one red and one blue, stood off to the side of the driveway some fifty feet from the house.

Two Indian children were running around in the dirt parking lot. Driver Chris slowed the bus down to a crawl as he pulled over to park on the side of the driveway. The white screen door on the side of the house opened with a bang. A grandmother Indian emerged, wearing a checkered apron, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

The two Indian children ran to her sides as she walked happily toward the bus. Driver Chris pushed the air brake button and opened the door to greet her. “Hello, Mrs. Cuny,” he said smiling. She was clearly a dignified lady.

“Hello Chris,” she said as she grabbed the handrail and pulled herself up the first step of the bus into the stairwell. “You don’t need to be calling me Mrs. Cuny young man. Just because you haven’t been around for a while doesn’t mean you’re not part of the family.” She struggled up another step and waved to everyone inside. Where she lacked in fine motor skill, she more than made up for in spirit and determination. “Where have you been?” she questioned. “It’s been months since you came through.”

“This is my first trip north this season.” He nodded. “I see you’re still as sharp as ever Nellie. How’ve you been?”

“I’m trying to take it all in stride,” she said. “How’s this old bus holding up?” she asked gregariously.

“Four million miles and going strong,” Driver Chris spoke the legend.

“That’s how I feel myself some days,” she said with a smile. “Thanks for letting us know it’s a smaller group than normal. I just need a count of vegetarians.”

“Only six vegetarians,” he told her.

“Only six,” she questioned. “It’s such a small group,” she remarked.

“I’ve got some sad news,” he told her to the side. “My brother is in the hospital with a severe head injury.”

“My heart goes out to you,” she told him. “I’m sure Freida will say the same.”

“I’ll tell you more later inside. I would like to use your phone to make a collect call home if you would be so kind,” he requested.

“You’re welcome to it,” she told him. “Some of your friends passed through last week, but they didn’t stop for dinner,” she informed him. “Kevin and David, if I remember right.”

“Quick and Palmore,” he confirmed the other driver’s identities. “They probably forgot to call.”

“No worries,” she said. “We weren’t put out none. We just do not want to lose your business. We depend on it.”

The moment I arrived at Sheep Mountain Table I was overcome by a profound sense of awe. Dozens of passengers from both buses staggered with me to the edge of the cliff overlooking the entirety of Badlands National Park. The light-colored sandstone reflected the sunlight, making it a very bright place even at twilight. Off to the east a group of surrealistically shaped sandstone pinnacles and peaks were glowing in the orange-tinted light of the summer evening. With the sun close to the horizon, all the colors were morphing, and the shadows were growing. The sky was a dome of deep blue that did not fade until the edges of the world, making the visibility seem endless.

A creeping miasma of haze floated above the canyon floor where herds of Buffalo mottled fields of green grass. Beyond the fields a vast patchwork of jagged sawtooth sandstone formations stretched out to the north east for over thirty miles. I turned around to get a better sense of our position on top of the grassy plateau. The fields of forever blanketed the earth as far as the eye could see in a landscape barren of trees. Over the edge of the cliff lay our own private canyon, featuring a menagerie of bright gray and sand-colored formations. The vertical walls were etched like otherworldly sculptures while the milder slopes were as smooth as sandcastles.

Deutsche Mark and Guitar Johnny stood by my side taking-in the majestic view in solemn reverence. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Jewels skipping toward us in a flowing sundress that caught the light. She greeted the three of us with a joyous smile.

“A vision of l... l... loveliness,” remarked Guitar Johnny.

Jewels put her arm around him. “This place is so wonderful, Johnny. Don’t you feel it? I feel so connected to the earth, this land and everything around us.”

“W... w... w... well, I’m feeling something, but I don’t know fuck all about that.”

Yülia came running up behind us and startled Guitar Johnny with her hand on his back. “Wunderbar! Wunderbar!” She put her arm around him on the opposite side of Jewels next to Deutsche Mark.

“I’m a bit n... n... nervous about falling off the edge of this b... b... bloody cliff.” We all laughed a little as we looked over the edge into the canyon. It was quite a drop. I gave Guitar Johnny a knowing look.

“I feel so connected here,” Jewels continued. “My spirit feels so free.”

“This one view is worth the whole trip,” Deutsche Mark commented.

“Wunderbar! Wunderbar!” exclaimed Yülia.

Guitar Johnny rolled a cigarette in the pouch of tobacco in his waist-pack. Before he finished Deutsche Mark said, “The Indians smoke tobacco in ceremonies. It seems appropriate here.” He watched the Englishman lick the paper and motioned with his head. Guitar Johnny passed him the cigarette without hesitation and started rolling another.

“I’ll take one too, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“Bloody hell! Anyone else?” he asked snidely. The girls both declined.

“Thanks, man,” I said.

It was too windy to light cigarettes even with a cupped hand, so Guitar Johnny showed us a trick where he put his head inside his shirt to light the first one and we jump started the others.

While we stood there unceremoniously smoking our cigarettes, Jewels told Yülia, “I’m going to smoke weed later if you want to try it.”

“I’d love to try it,” the German girl answered cutely. “I smoked hash once before when I was young,” she revealed, “but I never tried smoking the flowers.” We all laughed.

“Is that what you call it in Germany?” I asked with a smile.

“No,” she said innocently. “We call it grass, but grass is the flowers, right?”

[Whistle of wind, faint drums and Indians chanting.]

Nature called me awake in the darkness before dawn on Sheep Mountain Table in the Badlands of South Dakota. I wiggled my way out of my sleeping bag and rose to my feet. I stretched my spine and took a deep breath. The cool moist air startled me. I turned and surveyed the hillside. A veil of fog was moving over the land, billowing down from above my head, covering the downslope of the plateau. I breathed again with a rush of appreciation for the forces of nature.

I walked barefooted past the prone bodies of my friends, around the smoldering embers of the campfire, through the gap between the two Tortoise buses, to the edge of the highest cliff in the Badlands. Carried by a steady wind curling up the lip of the wide plateau, a fog bank rolled up out of the canyon like a vertical wave until it broke far above my head in the prevailing wind.

As if falling into a dream, I had stepped into a pocket of clear-air below a twenty-foot-high wall of windborne fog. The tumultuous force of moisture flowing up out of the canyon churned as it crashed in the upper reaches, spreading out above Sheep Mountain Table like frothy water cast upon a beach. The fog settled to the ground ten yards from the edge of the cliff where it thinned out down the slope of the hill like water sinking into sand as it retreated into the sea.

I strode effortlessly alongside the mystical wall of fog in rapt amazement, following the lip of the cliff toward the East. As I walked in the pocket of clear air, I felt like a surfer riding in the tube of a wave. I peeled off a dozen yards away and stood to make water with my back to the wall of fog.

I felt a presence in my chest. Then I looked up, I got the unsettling feeling that I was not alone. I peered into the fog. Someone or something was out there. I could feel it. I was inexplicably drawn forward without fear to the edge of the clear air where the fog started falling back to the ground.

I recognized the shape of a Buffalo partially obscured in the broiling mist. It was standing perfectly still on the hillside facing the cliff farther down along the edge of the canyon. The lone Buffalo stood on the slightly downward slope of Cuny Table with hooves planted in the ancestral earth. I felt compelled to step closer through the zephyr of mist. The fog thinned as I drew near, revealing the broad head and silhouette of a female Buffalo, identical and no less formidable than a full-sized male. She faced into the wind breathing billowing clouds of breath from her nostrils. Her eyes were open, but she did not so much as blink. The Buffalo appeared to be sleeping with her eyes open.

It was still dark in the distance, but I had crossed the veil into a brighter world where celestial light penetrated the atmosphere, as if a new sunrise had breached the horizon of the stratosphere. The other eye had gone partially out of view with the proximity to the Buffalo’s massive head, still some twenty feet off.

“Oh my God!” I spoke out-loud, doubting my own sight. “No way!” Beyond the Buffalo at the center of my vision, another Buffalo stood shrouded in the veil of mist. I fell forward a few more steps, letting my eyes adjust in the distance. The deeper into the fog I walked, the more shapes I could see obscured in the light haze on the hillside below. Spaced at twenty-foot intervals, a pattern of massive Buffalo stood facing North into the wind, spread out across the entire plateau down the slope of Sheep Mountain Table. Visibility was better along the ground farther downhill, partially obscuring Buffalo a hundred strong. All remained motionless, except for the billowing plumes of visible breath wafting in the wind. Somehow, I understood there to be a great herd standing out there in the fog beyond the boundary of my perception.

A whiff of campfire smoke awakened me from my astral slumber high atop Sheep Mountain Table, in the Badlands of South Dakota. I lay awake for several minutes, alone on the communal mattresses encircling the smoldering bonfire. The morning air was cool and refreshing. The sun had already risen above the horizon, so I got out of my sleeping bag to avoid overheating. I lay there for a while watching and listening to the sounds of Green Tortoise camp. Passengers were moving about in all directions, busy with breakfast tasks, packing gear, seeking privacy with shovels, loading mattresses on the bus, sipping Cowboy Coffee, collecting trash, and conversing happily. The orange juice looked especially appealing.

I heard Little Josh yell, “I got it!” He was playing Frisbee along the cliff with a couple of passengers from the other bus. The other players were playing keep away from him because he sucked at throwing. He kept running from side to side trying to catch the Frisbee, shouting, and pushing the other players as they snatched it away from him.

I stood up, stretched my arms over my head, and took a deep breath. Only a few passengers remained on the massive circle of mattresses surrounding the smoldering bonfire. Juliano was still in bed but he was not sleeping. To my dismay, he was making love with one of the girls from the other bus in plain sight of more than fifty people. The South American stud was really going at it, grunting, and huffing like a snorting bull pawing the earth. One of the other girls Juliano had been entertaining the night before lay beside them less than three feet away, resting on a bent elbow, watching them intently.

I looked around to see who else might be watching. The Irish girls, Fräulein Vera, and Flip-flop were staring right at them, casually sipping tea while they enjoyed the show. Judging from the telltale strings dangling over the rims of their mugs, they were drinking Ireland’s finest. Their relaxed postures and jovial conversation made it clear that the shock had already worn off on them. Apparently, Juliano and present company had been going at it for quite some time.

An errant throw floated the Frisbee into the camp kitchen where it skipped across the food table on which people were cutting fruit salad with sharp knives. There was a burst of laughter, but no one seemed to mind. Little Josh tore into the crowded kitchen area at top speed, bumping into people and creating a stir. Driver Chris picked up the Frisbee and gave Little Josh an unspoken look. He threw the Frisbee so far that the game moved away. He was aware of the South American’s fireside free show, and he had been watching the boy to make sure he remained unaware of the double backed beast.

The girls drinking tea giggled as Mountain Girl walked straight up to them. She picked up a sleeping bag and draped it over them, and shouted, “Get a room!” Juliano lifted his head with his back arched in surprise. The girl beneath him looked horrified. She glanced at Mountain Girl, then her voyeuristic friend, then she pulled Juliano back down on top of her and hid beneath the blanket. The teetotalers held their bellies laughing and Driver Chris guffawed.

I stepped off the mattress onto the cool dusty ground close to the still-smoldering embers in the fire pit. I was conscious of the Earth beneath me, as if my bare feet penetrated the soil, rooting me into the land. The fine dust between my toes was like a conduit of heightened awareness. I could sense my place on the earth like I was looking at myself from space. I was standing on the same land where the hooves of Buffalo and the feet of Indians had certainly passed. It was then I recalled my vision. I had seen myself out of the eyes of a Buffalo.

In a remote corner of Badlands National Park, there is a little swimming hole hidden behind a clump of trees across the street from the White River Visitor Center. The bus passed through a small gate, down a dirt road, and parked in a field beneath two massive oaks. Past the trees, through a row of thick bushes to the left, we could see a shallow and slow-moving river about twenty feet wide. Behind the row of thick bushes to the right, a muddy creek joined with the little river, creating a delta full of grey mud. The mud had collected in the creek bed, covering an area about ten feet wide by forty feet long.

It was hot and everyone was excited to swim. When we got to the edge of the mud, no one really knew what to do. As he started to undress, Chicken Jim informed us, “This is the best mud in the whole country, right there. It’s mostly volcanic ash and sediment that erodes out of the Badlands when it rains.” Berndt Toast took a seat on the rock and started removing his prosthetic limb. Little Josh, Mother Michelle, Australian Sheila, and Chicken Jim all wore bathing suits, but everyone else got naked.

We all stood sheepishly by the edge of the mud for several minutes and no one had the guts to go in. Our drivers knew just how to break the ice. They both came running through the bushes naked, yelling and yahooing, and they jumped right into the mud, feet first, landing like bombs, throwing handfuls of mud as our group scattered. After testing the depth of the mud in several places, the two drivers found spots they liked and began wiping mud all over their bodies. Driver Brian made ape sounds and painted lines on his face like war paint. Driver Chris dropped into a seated position making a loud squishy sound with his ass. It looked fun. Soon passengers began jumping in, and I followed suit.

Out of the bushes we heard another thundering roar. “MOOOO!” To my amazement it was Buffalo Dave. He came thundering like a mad bull out of the bushes bent over at the waist with fingers pointing in the air like horns. “I’m a Buffalo!” he shouted. “MOOOO!”

“Look! It’s Buffalo Dave!” I yelled.

Passengers darted out of the way to clear a path as he arrived. As the massive man’s body came to a halt at the edge of the mudhole, his feet slipped in the mud sending him careening down the bank of the creek like a Buffalo on water skis. He stayed upright all the way off the lip of the foot-high embankment. His feet kicked out from beneath him as he launched off the wall. Time seemed to suspend itself as we stood there naked watching his giant form land like a hairy bomb in the wettest part of the mud hole. His ass explosively threw mud in every direction for twenty feet. Mud splattered the bystanders like shrapnel, freckling naked forms with flecks of grey. There was a universal cringe and a groan of communal pain. Considering the force of the explosion, the massive man’s ass must have been jam-packed with mud.

Silence befell both tribes as we held our collective breath like a parent after hearing a disturbing thud at the bottom of the stairs. Hardly anyone knew about his spinal injury, but it was obvious he was feeble and limited in his ability to walk. A moment later, Maid Marian rushed to his side and urgently asked, “Are you alright?”

Driver Chris asked too. “Are you okay, big guy?”

The Old-Growth-Hippie checked himself. He wiggled his toes. He straightened his back. “I seem fine,” he intoned.

There was a big cheer. “Woohoo!”

“Hey Chicken Jim,” Little Josh called out. “We have a new bus name over here. He’s Buffalo Dave!”

“Well, that name’s gonna stick,” Buffalo Dave bellowed with laughter.

“Ya!” Shouted Fräulein Vera. “You will call him Buffalo Dave.”

“Get him!” shouted Yülia.

“Get him!” shouted Jewels.