When I was on the road for nearly a year back in '81 I stopped at a roadside picnic area at the western edge of the Rosebud res on US 18 in S. Dakota. I ran into several "characters" there. First group was about 4 or 5 natives sitting in a car, drinking beer, and just watching me while I made a hatful of fire and cooked supper. I motioned them to come over and shared the little I had. They offered what they had and we mellowed out and talked.
I was a bit on edge, being whitey and a stranger to boot. One of must've noticed 'cause he told me not to worry, "we don't bother blacks, hippies, or bikers." Tourists, though, were another story! They also told me to watch out for the "crazy Injuns" on the Pine Ridge res.
We finished our little party and they left. About a half hour later I heard the unmistakable "ring-ding-ding" of a small 2 stroke coming from the hills to the south. Some squirrel rode into the rest area on a dirt bike. He had nothing with him except what he had on. Ain't sure if his story was true, but he told me he'd broken jail in New Mexico (I think), and was headin' to Canada.
I gave him a long sleeved shirt, or maybe it was a light jacket, I ain't sure anymore. It was getting down into the 50s at night, and this boy had nothing but a tank top. When some headlights showed on the highway, he fired the popper up and rode into the scrub on the north side of the road. I couldn't see him, but I could hear that 2 stroke for quite a spell.
The car turned out to be some reservation law, and hinted strongly it'd be in my best interest to move on down the highway. Being an easy-going feller, I agreed.
Next stop was the Pine Ridge res. The ol' boys there wondered how I'd fared with those crazy Injuns on the Rosebud!

 

On the road for nearly a year? Can you hear the jealousy?