Busby, Mont.: Vacation home
Chicago writer gives up some cash -- and precious free time -- to help build straw bale house on Montana Indian reservation
BUSBY, Mont. -- As the deafening hail pummeled my tent, I lay there spread eagle, pressing my weight onto the floor in a desperate effort to anchor myself to the ground.
I quickly did the math: Four pounds of 2-millimeter thick nylon sheltering me from 80-mph winds, relentless rain and hail ... carry the one ... I'm 154 pounds ... I was a goner.
(AP)
So this is how it ends, I thought. In a barren field in southeast Montana, on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation. In a storm that a local resident would later call "by far the worst" he had ever seen.
A fury of final thoughts raced through my mind as a roll of thunder shook the very ground to which I was trying to cling: I should have worked less. I should have watched more television. I should have taken more cabs.
Kaboom!
Most people don't really travel to Busby; they pass through it, on the way to somewhere else.
History buffs might be headed 23 miles west to Little Bighorn Battlefield, site of Custer's defeat. Fly fishermen might be traveling 70 miles southwest to Fort Smith, at the base of Bighorn Canyon. Still others might find themselves a bit lost and enjoying the open road, the mammoth Montana sky coaxing them toward an unattainable horizon.
I was here on vacation. Actually, a working vacation. I had signed up to be a volunteer with the nonprofit Red Feather Development Group to build a straw bale home on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation.
I would be working alongside 30 volunteers during the fourth and final week of building a home for a man I knew by name only: Winfield Russell. I would work 10-hour days (punctuated by ample breaks), survive Level I hurricane-like winds and have no access to running water or flush toilets. And it would end up being one of my most memorable and rewarding vacations ever.
As one of five Northern Cheyenne Indian villages, Busby seems lost and forgotten. There's no discernible economy. Travel 15 miles in any direction, and you won't find a store, restaurant or coffee shop. Not even a pop machine.
Since there was no motel within 30 miles, Red Feather told me to bring my own tent and a 5-gallon water bag that would serve as a drip-drip shower. I also was told to bring evening entertainment; Nerf football was my contribution. And I was asked to bring tools -- something that doesn't usually make it onto most people's vacation packing lists.
And this certainly wasn't most people's idea of a vacation, dishing out several hundred dollars in fees and travel costs to spend your precious free time performing physical labor for someone you've never met in a harsh, physical environment.
Admittedly, it's not for everyone. Consider first what the experience is not: It is not restful. It is not physically comfortable. You won't find a pool or even a TV. Alcohol isn't allowed. It's a dearth of vacation amenities, yet Red Feather makes no apologies. And its volunteers don't seem to mind, either. They're here for other reasons than to perfect their tan, although you can get pretty golden working under Montana's summer sun.
A modest sign from the state highway led me down an unpaved trail littered with jagged rocks. After less than a mile, in the middle of a 40-acre parcel of land, stood a trailer where Russell lived. For a hundred yards or so in every direction was a Grateful Dead concert parking lot-like assortment of tents, trailers, tarps, and even one tepee, a ragtag display that included a fire pit, several portable toilets, a tool trailer (amply stocked by corporate sponsors), food trailer and dining canopy.
Red Feather, founded in 1993 by a former clothing company executive and his wife, is about improving the lives of Native Americans by teaching them affordable, sustainable ways to build much-needed homes. They use straw bale, for example, because it's abundant in Montana, has excellent insulation properties and is very forgiving -- an important trait when houses are being built by volunteers.
Out of a population of more than 2 million, "there are more than 300,000 people on reservations in need of homes," said Robert Young, Red Feather's founder. "They have no running water, no electricity ... it's an enormous problem."
Working closely with tribal leaders, the organization has built and rehabbed dozens of homes in Native American communities. Current projects are targeted at Hopi and Northern Cheyenne tribes.
"Red Feather doesn't offer solutions. We look to the experts, the people who live there," Young said. "They know exactly how they want to see homes on the ground ... and we chose [Hopi and Cheyenne] because they have the leadership, ability and will to change things."
My volunteer group was a diverse one, made up of college students, families, singles, couples, retirees and at least a dozen Native Americans. In fact, all Red Feather volunteers work side-by-side with tribal residents, including the soon-to-be-homeowner.
"If we overload our program with non-natives, there's no cultural exchange," Young said. "At the end of the day, that's a huge benefit ... as people are willing to cross cultural boundaries, we have an exchange going on that's long overdue."
Some of the best parts of my trip resulted from these kinds of cultural exchanges. Just a day into the project, a local Cheyenne resident invited all volunteers to take part in a traditional sweat lodge experience.
Fifteen of us crouched around a shallow fire pit covered by a patchwork of tarps and blankets. Preheated rocks were deposited into the pit. As a wool blanket filtered out the last traces of daylight, an elderly Cheyenne presided over a ceremony that included prayer and song. As he intermittently poured water onto the hot rocks, the temperature climbed so high, the majority of us -- including yours truly -- didn't make it through the six rigorous sessions.
While the sweat was a planned introduction to Cheyenne culture, there were spontaneous moments, too.
The evening before the anniversary of the Battle of Little Bighorn, I was enjoying a snack under our dining canopy when 40 Sioux Indians came charging over the nearby mountains on horseback. They had traveled from South Dakota to take part in festivities at Little Bighorn and spent the night on a neighboring tract of land.
Watching their traditional, uninhibited celebrations that evening was surreal. (I've come to believe something great usually happens when munching on Twizzlers.)
Each workday started with the ringing of a bell at 7 a.m. Anyone who wasn't already gathered under the large dining canopy staggered over for a hearty alfresco, cafeteria-style breakfast. A semi-trailer served as a makeshift kitchen complete enough to offer culinary options limited only by the creativity of those on kitchen duty.
Three generous meals a day plus twice-daily snacks kept me plenty fortified. I rarely needed to dip into my cooler of bulk warehouse snacks thanks to Red Feather's association with Costco, a corporate sponsor.
Volunteers were expected to work from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., but uncooperative weather during the build's first few weeks meant we sometimes kept going after the sun went down.
In between meals, snacks and home-building, people typically gathered under the dining canopy to socialize, play board games and huddle close to those with guitar- or banjo-playing skills.
As someone who needs to study Lego assembly instructions, it's safe to say my carpentry skills are near the bottom of the bell curve. It didn't matter because Red Feather's staff was impossibly patient, supportive and encouraging.
Each morning, a supervisor went over the goals for the day. Volunteers joined tasks commensurate with their skill level. While this meant I never stepped foot on a roof, stripped electrical wire or soldered pipes (whatever that means), I was comfortable digging trenches, staining boards and scrubbing floors.
For much of the week, I worked alongside a local man from Busby who seemed shy and withdrawn. We carried loads of wood together and painted walls together, but he never acknowledged me personally, not even when I greeted him each morning.
His distance was in stark contrast to the warm handshake I got from Winfield Russell, who stood in his new home and delivered a tearful, heartfelt speech to all the volunteers.
As I said my emotional goodbyes to the volunteers and Red Feather staff, I gave a silent nod to my quiet, occasional work partner.
No one was more surprised than I was when he walked up, embraced me tightly and muttered the first words I'd heard him speak all week.
"Thank you, Jerry," he said.
As I lay in my tent on that stormy June night, the fierce winds shaking my shelter like a bear trying to overpower its prey, my thoughts flashed quickly to Chicago. I miss my couch. I miss my remote controls. I miss "The King of Queens." Basically, though, I miss my apartment -- especially its walls and ceiling.
For a few minutes, I understood the fear that goes along with lacking one of life's most basic necessities.
Living without running water and electricity for a week were modest inconveniences that paled in comparison to the vulnerability I felt without a secure roof over my head. The storm was a reminder of the importance of Red Feather and its mission.
I certainly hadn't changed the world in helping to build one home. But like every Red Feather house, you start with a solid foundation. Everything else follows.
Jerry Soverinsky is a Chicago-based free-lance writer.