My first cell phone...and white slavery

I remember my first cell phone... No, it's not something I wax sentimental about. In fact, I got it under duress in preparation for a solo backpacking and camping trip in South Dakota's Black Hills and Badlands.

Friends were already concerned about my choice to "go it alone" in the harsh environment of the Badlands, but when Jenni noted that my trip coincided with the end of the yearly motorcycle rally in Sturgis, ND, she insisted I buy a cell phone. (And pepper spray, but that's another story.)

Me. A cell phone. Riiiiight.



I had recently taken a leave of absence from my graduate program at the University of Minnesota, where I was studying in the St. Paul campus' Rhetoric and Scientific and Technical Communication Department. As sometimes happens with graduate students, my life had taken some pretty bad turns, mostly because of my inattention to anything outside of my studies. My marriage had failed. My finances were in a shambles. And I was spiritually and emotionally exhausted.

And apparently I needed a cell phone so I could drive out to the Badlands and lose myself a little in the wilderness there. (Or, at least, the national parks and monuments.)

This was 10 years ago, and cell phones weren't quite at the appendage-at-the-end-of-the-arm stage yet. Yes, the techno-geeks were using them, as was a select few of the general population. But, to me, a poor (until-recently) graduate student, a cell phone seemed an embarrassing luxury. Still, I complied, to the great relief of my other friends and my family.

Jenni had one more demand: I needed to call the Sturgis police department and see if the motorcycle rally coincided with any rise in the number of rapes, murders, and incidences of --

"Excuse me? I didn't catch that last one."

"You heard me: white slavery!"

"Jenni, I'm not going to call and --"

"Just do it!"

In Jenni's defense, there seemed to be a rash of disappearances involving young, blonde girls in that area of the country. Granted, it'd been a while since I could be seriously described as young, and I haven't been blonde since I was about five years old...

But I did it. I called the Sturgis police department and asked.

"Sturgis Police Department."

"Uh...hi. I'm going to be backpacking alone in the Badlands in South Dakota in about a week, and I have a friend who's concerned about the close proximity of the motorcycle rally in your city and the place where I plan to backpack. My friend...uh...asked me to call and see if you had any statistics linking the motorcycle rally to crimes like rape, murder, and wtphmbhry."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't catch that last one."

<sigh>

"White slavery."

<pause>

"One moment. I'll connect you with the dispatcher."

I had to say the words again, to the dispatcher, who suggested I talk with the Chief of Police, as he would likely have better access to those statistics on an historical basis than she would.

After a somewhat lengthy hold, I was transferred to his phone. I repeated my spiel -- yet again! -- and on the other end of the line...

A chorus of laughter. And it occurred to me:

"You have me on speaker phone, don't you."

"Uhm, yeah. Sorry. But the story traveled kind of fast about your call, and the guys wanted to hear it. So there's a bunch of them in my office."

"Of course. So...rape? Murder? White slavery?"

The Chief assured me that there was no significant rise in the first two and that statistics on that last one were pretty much nil anyway. I assured him I wasn't personally worried about any of it -- the park rangers had already reassured me that most rapists and murderers were too lazy to venture out into the backcountry -- but that my friends were worried, so I needed to ask.

"You know how you get a cough, and you know it's going to go away in a week or two because you get the same cough every year, but the folks around you insist you see a doctor because they don't know it's the same cough you get every year, so you go and see the doctor, who confirms it's the same cough and that it'll go away in a week or two?"

"Sure."

"OK," I told him. "You're the doctor, and white slavery is kind of the cough. Sort of. Except it doesn't happen to me every year."

The Chief laughed. "Well, take lots of water with you because it's very dry out there this time of year -- and call me if you have enough time to visit this part of town. I'd love to sit and talk with a woman who's gutsy enough to take backpacking trips alone. And it'd be even more interesting to talk to a woman who's gutsy enough to call a police station and make a fool outta herself asking about white slavery. I'll even buy you dinner."

Sadly, I didn't make it to Sturgis (again: another story for another time), and I never met the chief of police there.

Oh, and about the phone: It didn't work. No signal in the Badlands and Black Hills. Apparently, the old Qwest network didn't have a map for that.