Camp Ettrick

We drove the 41-foot yellow school bus down the winding country road between rows of corn and soy, searching for the dirt driveway that leads to Marv and Janice’s farm. Three dogs greeted us with barks and wagging tails. I shut down the engine beside Zinatala To (“Bluebird” in Lakota), the old blue bus that has carried us across the continent for the past year and half.

I stepped off the bus. Alan and Taavi were wrenching bolts and pulling hoses from a water-damaged fuel injection pump. After a brief greeting the conversation shifted to the task at hand.

“Welcome. We are removing this pump,” Taavi said.

“It disconnects here,” I said pointing to two plates where the gears from the from the engine belt link with gears on the fuel pump.

“We shouldn’t underestimate how much easier a task is when doing it for the second time. You wanna remove the pump?” Taavi asked, knowing I had replaced the pump once before.

“I should say hi to Marv and Janice first,” I replied.

“Yes, of course, go say hello, then take this pump out, and we’ll take it to Madison for repair.”

Tiny needles tickled my scalp as I ducked underneath the low hanging limbs of the big old spruce trees that greet entrants just before the house. There, Marv and Janice waited with their unending smiles. I couldn’t think of a more pleasant place to build another BioTour bus than the on this farm. So I thanked Marv and Janice and walked back to remove the fuel pump.

We chipped away at a long list of tasks. Maggie grabbed a paint roller and took to the rhythm of the music coming from speakers connected to Alan's Ipod while she covered pale brown walls and ceilings with light blue paint. Maggie and Alan later tossed our belongings out the back doorin order to clear workspace to rebuild the interior of Zintala To. With the deliberate steps of a Buddhist monk, Jeremy took his time designing and building the interior of the new bus. He then took on wiring the AC electrical system.

I gave Keith a hand welding storage barrels underneath the rear of the bus that would soon hold recycled vegetable oil. My first interactions with Keith were uneasy. I mistook Keith’s sardonic questions and comments as complaining. I soon learned that with a simple joke, his expression fades into a smile and work went smoothly. After we finished installing the storage barrels, Keith turned the old bus seats into shelves along the walls of both buses.

Nando divided his time between computer work and bus construction. He decided to give metal work a try. Cutting, welding, fastening, he built the new roof rack. As he cut a piece of steel, I commented on how lucky we were to find cheap Mexican labor (we are all volunteers). He smiled and swore at me in Spanish.

I was bouncing around directing the building process, shopping for parts, and lending a hand where needed while waiting for a few key components for the vegetable oil conversion to arrive.

Work days have been long, but at sunset we walk past the faded red barn to the gently rolling hills of freshly harvested hay. From the summit of the first hill we gaze into coulees below where deer graze. While other crewmembers sleep inside the bus, each night Maggie and I pull mattresses, pillows, and sleeping bags into the roof of the bus. Our ceiling is the night sky, the thick bright stripe of the Milky Way and the August shooting stars. Coyotes howl. Deer cry. Tomorrow morning we will wake, our sleeping bags wet with dew, fresh for another long day.