Embers Brew -- short non-fictional story of off-grid living on the cold, snowy Dakota prairies

A moment in time years ago ...

December, 2016

The sun has yet to appear over the rolling hills, and I too am yet to peek out of my sleeping bag to greet the cold air inside the strawbale school house at Sacred Stone camp, Standing Rock, ND. Though it's unpleasant to make the first moves to get out of bed I rarely linger for too long as there are fires to start and water to boil, and I pleasure in knowing that the people sleeping next to me will wake to warmth and fresh coffee. My comrades are still laying in a row on the floor looking like human sausage rolls nestled in giant -35F Teton sleeping bags, and it never fails that I find it so endearing to wake up to these people. I attempt to bundle myself without causing a stir, though I lack grace layering with long johns, socks, ski pants, multiple sweaters, and my wool jacket. I never do take off my toque, and my gloves are laying beside my head, so all that is left to accomplish is trying to fit my liners into my boots which had been hung by the fire the night before. Just to go pee requires an inordinate amount of work. A little grunting, some juggling of the flashlight, a heavy sigh, and I am out the door.

The frigid air outside is startling and takes my breath away. Here's to hoping that the walk down the hill will wake my body up enough to go more than just pee. Making the journey to the outhouse is never a pleasure, least of all at this time of day, and being able to accomplish all your business in one go is a reason for celebration. The outhouse is a plywood box in varying degrees of snowed-in, with 2 toilet seats and a large pit that hosts a tower of frozen human compost often threatening to emerge. It's a matter of days until someone is going to have to go on an 'operation melt the poo down' which involves taking a blow torch to it along with a tool to stir with. For now, I care not. The toilet seats have been replaced with styrofoam to prevent frosted butts, and the toilet paper is submerged in snow, per usual. For the third morning in a row, I tell myself I'm going to shovel out all of the snow today. I imagine I won't be the only one to say that to themselves, and I know just as many people will mutter 'why doesn't anyone clean the outhouse out?' One of those jobs at camp that has no glory, but which everyone benefits. Yeah, today I'll do it.

In and Out, not a burger joint but an outhouse technique of removing the least amount of clothes whilst half hovering over ice and snow in a warrior's pose. I have only concerns for getting back to warmth. Hustling up the hill, breath heavy, I slow down and forget for a moment that I am cold. The sun is rising. Stopping at the crest of the hill I really See where I am at, fresh eyes and bushy-tailed and like many mornings before, I sigh with pleasure and greet the coming day with 'You're beautiful!'. The eastern horizon is beginning its colourful dance of oranges, pinks, and purples over snowy hills, and tipis send out tendrils of smoke from those that have woken early to stoke their fires. I see a few of the other usual early birds awake and up to the daily tasks, and I marinate in the quiet of our little village. There is sacredness etched into every rise and fall of this place, and bearing witness to it contrasts the struggles.

I keep all of my layers on to start the fires in the woodstove and rocket mass heater. Starting the fires every day for weeks, I have learned to prepare for the morning the night before with paper, kindling, and wood set in strategic locations so as not to wake anyone up prematurely. It is just as much for me as it is for them; I relish the alone time in the morning, where I can sit watching the fire without the passing of words. There is not a lot of private time when you live, work, and, sleep with the same people every day. If I wake up early enough, I can get the kettle to sing on the stovetop, but otherwise I'm cheating and using the propane stove to boil water.

On the cold cold mornings, it is usual for one of the many fascinating characters at Sacred Stone to come in and find warmth after seeing the welcoming sight of smoke coming from the chimneys. This morning is no exception, and while 8 bodies sleep someone donning a large overcoat, ski goggles, and a face mask wanders in. 'Close the door!' I hiss as quietly as I can as they stand in the doorway, cold air rushing by them as they wait for their eyes to adjust to the dark room.

'HEY good morning! Holy shit it's cold! I've been tending sacred fire all night, I gotta warm my hands! Mind if I smoke? Ooo got any coffee?'

I usher him in to take a squat on one of the tiny orange chairs by the fire, all are welcome.

Bodies stir, someone rises bleary-eyed to see who is making the commotion, and the morning peace makes way for the beginning of another day of the totally unexpected.

When the peoples begin to rise, I see to it that water is constantly on the boil and that everyone who pops in to warm up has something hot to sip on. The 3 french presses are refilled with the organic coffee and yerba mate that were generously donated by faces we'll never know, and looking at the excitement in peoples eyes you know no one takes that for granted. The morning wake up gets more leisure as the winter rolls on, and it is not unusual for the real action of the day to start at 10 or later. I have seen to fulfilling the role of 'mother hen' of this tribe of builders and friends of, and depending on the number of hungry bellies and food prep helpers, breakfast can be an amazing feast of french toast, eggs, fruit, bacon rations, and leftovers from the night before, or a big pot of oatmeal just to tide us over before we all scatter to find 'real breakfast' at one of the community kitchens. Everything is prepared in what I affectionately think of as the outlaw school thug kitchen; never sanctioned to be one (if there were such a thing here), questionable cleanliness at times, but feeding many appreciative mouths all the same.

Dishes are done using a foot pump and five gallon buckets, it is slow and tedious but a welcome improvement to the days prior where going outside to wipe with snow was the norm. At least it feels more hygienic and legit. It's really not unusual to find out someone hasn't washed their personal bowl in weeks. Hygiene in general is a thing to marvel at, but I'll get into that later.

Because

I am ready to ascend the hill. After tending fire, brewing coffee, making breakfast and cleaning up, I am ready for more alone time. I am ready to Pray. It has been hours since the quiet of morning and the village has woken fully, but up on the hill it is silent save for the voice on the loudspeaker at the big camp, Oceti Oyate, a mile away. The Voice sings, and he speaks, and sometimes I can make out his words depending on whether there are low flying helicopters or winds that drown him out. The drums though, they always come through.

The hill gives a full viewing of Sacred Stone, Oceti Oyate, the Vortex, Heyoka, sometimes Nathan Standing Bear's big white van, and the Missouri River. I take to the ground on both knees, this morning in joy though it could be tears all the same, and allow my eyes to take in the fullness of the experience. We are living Magic here.

Facing the sun, I pull out some tobacco from my pouch to make an offering and using numb and fumbling fingers, roll some to smoke. If there were anywhere to commune with her, it would here, right now. Sometimes I sit in silence, and others, like today, a song comes through and I sing for my family below. The work we are doing, the vision we are carrying, and the future that is ah, so..so..hopeful. Coming up here in this way is one of the ways I play an active yet silent role in the community; as important to me as cooking food and chopping wood.

This is a prayer camp, lest we forget.