However, he wasn't all talk. There was the mountain climbing rope he made from wild plant fibers and the buried trench fires that we slept upon to keep warm at night. He taught me a number of tricks, such as how to make fire by friction in damp conditions and novel ways to use grass and cattail down for insulation.
As with me, Federico found that wherever he went, natives had similar core cultures, clan structures, and traditions of honor and respect. Other than utilizing different materials, they employed the same skills. And no matter what the language, most natives merely called themselves "the people."
As with Grandmother, I didn't know who Federico's people were, and I had no desire to ask. Once I realized he had Grandmother's character, I knew who he was. Like Grandmother, he quietly demonstrated how the Great Mother graciously provided all her children's needs, right in their immediate area. He was content with that, showing no desire to have something else or be somewhere else, so I felt as at-home with him as I did with Grandmother.
After my time with Federico, I knew I could feel at home anywhere. So I chose nowhere. I thought it was time to listen -- time for this wandering Zen seeker to do some inner wandering -- and to do that I needed to be away from scurrying people, the all-pervasive media, and materialist culture.
Deep in the forest south of Lake Superior I found an isolated cabin hermitage. Its only amenities were stately pines, beaver ponds, and being immersed in the heartbeat of life. And yet all I could hear was my inner turmoil. Something was wrong, something was missing, and I had to find it.
Makwa Giizis, an Ojibwe medicine man, accepted my petition and met me at the base of the mountain, where he guided me through the ritual preparation for my Fast. Before I could catch my breath I was left alone on a ridge half way up the mountain. I was in the alone of alones: nothing existed but my emptiness and my clear sense of presence.
But not for long. My guide had barely disappeared down the trail when voices came on the wind and the sky turned prophetic. I had prepared for a quiet fast and instead was given a Feast of Feasts that sent me spinning with a narcotic mix of fear and ecstasy.
Hitching down the road from Makwa Giizis's was like drifting through a fairytale. It didn't matter that I was on a lonely road in North Dakota, as all roads were the same path. The old man in the faded 1942 Plymouth coupe was putting along up the road so slow that I didn't know whether he was intending to stop for me or not.
His clothing bore the same frumpy look as his car, but not so his eyes. Were it not for their sharp, knowing glance, I wouldn't have hopped in. There was no "Where are you going?" or "Are you having good luck getting rides?" We traveled mostly in silence for 15 miles or so, and then he pulled off to the side, apparently to let me out. He then putted back in the direction from which he came.
Five minutes later, he reappeared. I walked up to the car.
"My name is Red Elk; I heard you calling me to come back."
And that I did. Remembering Andy's lesson about how asking can get in the way, I said nothing in the car. Instead, I sat down beside the road and envisioned spending time with that Elder who drove up out of the past.
At the kitchen table (classic 40’sFormica), Red Elk poured me a coke and continued to work on his son’s dance regalia.
"I’m Mormon," he said, out of nowhere.
"How can you be Mormon and Lakota?" I replied. "They stole your babies to brainwash them!"
"There is no disagreement," he responded without looking up. "Who we are is our relationships, not what it says we are on paper."
I drank the coke, something I hadn't done in years.