The Written Word

    I was packing film and cameras, leaving for an assignment with Outlaw Biker magazine when the editor called. He was planning a special issue about the Indian Motorcycle and wanted as many shoots of Indian bikes that I could find. I had no idea that this was the spark ignited something that would be with me for the rest of my life.
    While walking down the streets of Sturgis, South Dakota looking for the many different sights to shoot, all which were potential images for the magazine, I saw a cherry red Indian motorcycle, driven by one of the most interesting looking characters I had seen. I put my camera on him as he passed and got a few shoots as his gray hair blew back with the wind.
    When covering Sturgis I always stayed at to the Buffalo Chip campground. This was the wildest place to be and never short of interesting shots, or experiences. I have had more tits and ass, of all sizes and shapes, flashed in my face at the "Chip" then anywhere I've been. The nights are wild, filled with live music and a anything-goes-attitude that I jumped into without hesitation, but that is another story.
    One late afternoon I was skirting the outer edges of the Chip and came across a small encampment of Native Americans. Their camp consisted of a small circle of teepees with Harley Davidson motorcycles parked beside them. These men, woman and children were bikers, but they were also traditionalists. They believed in the old way of their people and were living it, just mixing in the biker culture. As I came closer to their camp I saw the red, Indian motorcycle that I had photographed on the street earlier, and the same gray haired biker standing beside it. I made the universal motion with my camera, asking permission for a photograph. He nodded approval and as I went down on one knee another, younger Native American stepped into the frame next to him. I composed the shot getting them, the bike and the sacred Bear Mountain in the back ground. After I had the shot approached them, introduced myself, shuck their hands and thanked them for letting me intrude into their lives. When I was grasping the scared and callused hand of Guro, the owner of the Indian bike I felt a weird power from him. I recorded it in my mind; broke the grip and I went on my way. The photograph was published as a two page spread in the special issue on Indian motorcycles.
    The next year when I was back at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally I found their camp again and walked in to visit with them. I felt like they knew me, remembered me, but I'm sure that they didn't. I was greeted and welcomed. Bo and Mary seemed to be the ringleaders if I was to put a label on anyone, but there were others in camp, including children and Guro. There was also another man sitting on a Harley Davidson motorcycle that was not just chromed, but also had some phenomenal bead work decorating it. With him was a very exotic, beautiful Native American woman sitting quietly on his bike. I kept looking at him. I knew him, I just could not place him, or where that I had met him before. The look of puzzlement must have been obvious on my face, because Bo's young son came up to me and said, "Dances with Wolves." With these simple words everything came into prospective. It was Rodney Grant sitting on the bike. I was introduced and found him to be a very nice man, but also, like the warrior he played in the movie, a man of very few words.
    As I visited with Bo I asked if he had seen the photograph of the Indian bike that was published. As I asked this question Guro walked up to us. "It was you, it was you," he said, putting his hands together and giving me a slight bow. I smiled and nodded back, but had no idea what the photograph had done. Guro was not a Lakota Sioux, or Cheyenne like everyone else inhabiting the small encampment of lodges were, he was Japanese. Every year he came to South Dakota to stay with his Native American friends, go to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally and take part of the sacred Sun Dance. The scars on his chest, partly hidden under his black leathers, revealed this without question. He was an artist, working in silver with hands that I think were badly burnt in some type of fire. I was never sure of just how they were scared, as Guro spoke with a heavy Japanese brogue, and having been taught English from his Native American brothers made his dialect not the easiest to understand.  Not to mention that he spoke very few words. Words were not that important anyway, just being in the presence of the spiritual man was enough.
    I spent a week in Sturgis that year and everyday I would go to their camp and sit with them. We would visit, but always it was all done with few words. I spoke with Bo and Mary more than anyone, but a lot of the time was passed just sitting with few words ever being exchanged.  The day I was living I went back to say my farewells to everyone and thank them for the time spent with them. Guro, on his knees working on something, saw me and started digging into a leather poach. Standing he walking up to me holding his arms out as if he was going to place a Hawaiian lath around my neck. In his hands was a silver feather and medicine wheel hanging from a piece of leather. I bent slightly and he placed it around my neck, but rather than stepping back his arms came down and he embraced me with a hug.
    The entire camp went quite and everyone there watched this man honor me, and what I had done for him. I had no idea the year before when I shot the image of Guro and his Indian motorcycle in front of Bear Mountain, and the image being printed in a magazine had honored him so, but I had. A simple moment and a photograph, together capturing such power.
    I have only ever seen one other feather that I wear so proudly. It is hanging around the neck of Mary. Bo does not even have one and he has known Guro for many years. Guro makes these feathers, as a means of an income, but the ones he sells are just have the size of the ones he gives to others for reasons only known to him. I felt the power of this gift then, the camp recognized it and today it still holds the same power for me. It is a moment in my life that will never be forgotten.
    The power of this gift proved to be stronger after I left Sturgis. Traveling home through the Big Horns I stopped at the Great Medicine Wheel. It is a sacred sight to the Native Americans and even today is used for prayer and offerings. The only one there, I slowly walked around the area taking in all that was there, not to just see, but to feel. Something came over me. I could feel the power of this sacred place. The feather I was wearing started to radiate a power that was to me and for me. At that moment I knew there was something more out there. There is another life and we do have a great creator. It was the beginning of my own spirituality.
    The silver feather is a symbol for the eagle, sacred because it flies closer to the creator than anything else. The medicine wheel depicts the four directions; East, South, West and North hold fixed positions on the great circle around which life moves in a clockwise direction. The East is the home of the sun and the morning star, both sources of wisdom and understanding. The South is the source of knowledge and power regarding life and destiny. The West is associated with purifying water. It is the home of the Thunder Beings. The North is the source of knowledge regarding health and control.
    This silver feather and medicine wheel are my symbol of spirituality. It is the power that makes me believe and to not fear the next level. It is my token for the inner peace I strive for. I never take it off and I never wear it where it cannot be seen. It has become a symbol for who I am and what I believe. Forever displayed with pride and honor.