At the conference in Jackson, I had connected with G. and her husband, based in Pennsylvania but who come back to the Dakota lands for the summer. She grew up here, Lakota on her mother's side, and I hope to connect as I continue north through the Black Hills.
"You must drive through Wounded Knee," she had told me. I know she has history there. I know some of what happened there. I scan the map, choose my route to travel across central Wyoming, then north from Chadron, Nebraska, and through Pine Ridge to stop in Wounded Knee on the Lakota Pine Ridge Reservation on my way to Badlands National Park.
South Dakota:
Lakota and the Black Hills
I choose not to take my camera--Wounded Knee is not a roadside attraction. From that pinnacle of what makes the human race so remarkable, so compassionate, so generous, my gut fills with singular tears, the same tears that slosh along the edges of what makes the human race so horrific. Massacre. Holocaust. Genocide. Aggression.
History's weight hangs heavy in the air, and I start my walk up the dirt path from the road. I mostly want to pay my respects for this tragedy of 1890— of innocent victims killed for no reason—to acknowledge the shame and pain lingering about my white history. Nearing the top of the hill, the arched entrance to this Native cemetery, Raymond, perhaps eight or maybe nine, skips up behind me.
"Hi. My name is Raymond, and I live near here."
"Hi, I'm Gail." He reaches out to shake my hand, and I accept it with a smile.
"Our electricity was shut off this morning and we don't have the money to get it turned back on. Would you be interested in buying one of these leather pouches?" he asks.
I brought nothing up with me but my apologies.
"I don't have any money on me right now, but if you are still around when I get back to my truck, I'd love to buy one," I say.
But he skips back down to the white car waiting along the road for him, and they drive off. It's hard to tell if his story is true. I don't even know if it matters. Poverty is everywhere as I have driven north through Pine Ridge. I also know about the depression, mental illness, alcoholism and drug addition. Selling crafts seems like a band-aid on a larger wound. G. told me that when crafts are sold, unless the circumstances are personally known, the money could go to buy drugs or alcohol. She also told me that poverty is a social issue, not just a Native one. She worked hard, got an education, got out.
Strips of colored cloth are knotted along the fence's links, frayed and beaten from time and weather. Necklaces of beads, sage bundles, and plastic flowers have been threaded through the links as well. The mass grave of dry bones is not large, but exudes thick silence concentrated from grandiose atrocity. There is nothing I can say, so, I just stand in the silence and whisper that I am sorry. I also hold hope that someday the huge divide surrounding poverty and dignity will even out against the elite. But I also feel a sense of hopelessness that we are not there yet. I close my eyes against the deep sadness I feel for our humanity.
Between French fur trappers, European homesteaders, miners, cattle farmers and soldiers, the Lakota lands were replaced by reservations, wheat fields and eventually motorized vehicles. The bison were almost eradicated, leaving the Lakota without their usual resources and confining them to a farming subsistence. The banded cathedral peaks of Badlands National Park funnel drivers along the Park road, remind us of the gift of nearby grasslands. Yet, within this stark setting, some evolved in the wild thrive: bison, prairie dogs, elk, snakes, pronghorn, and bighorn sheep. Like those bauble toys from my childhood, prairie dogs roll up from their munch, balance on their hinds, and worship the sun. Like some meditative chi practice, their skinny front legs create a static pose, all intention on soaking in the healing rays of the sun. Vocalizations ring through Prairie Dog Town as heads pop out of volcano-like holes to see what's about the ruckus. Golds and rusts skim the hill's folds as the sun, tired from beating out the heat, hands the baton over to the night.
In the morning, coyote songsters sing their sunny round; plaintive wails ring around the hills, over the grasses, float by grazing mule deer in the ravine below my tenting spot. Birds chirp their chorus, and I take out my Native flute I had placed in the backpack mesh pocket. We harmonize. We blend. We connect. We are all one with the wild fighting tooth and nail to stay wild. Once the dew lingering on my tent fly has evaporated into the heat of the day's start, I pack it up and hike back up the hill to the trailhead and my truck. Sometimes time within a raw terrain need not be long. It just needs to be enough.
The Lakota Emergence Story
Before the Earth was ready for the humans, they lived in the "spirit lodge"—underground—and waited. But an evil spirit played a trick by telling the underground spirits that the surface was ready. Some stayed and some decided to go up. Those who surfaced were taught how to hunt and use the animals for hides and meat. Once the Creator found out, he punished them for not waiting and turned them into bison. This was the first bison herd which would roam the Plains. Once the people were allowed to come through the hole onto the Earth's surface, they were instructed to follow the bison from which they could get food, clothes, tools, and shelter. Once out, the Creator shrunk the size of the hole, as a reminder so people would never forget where they came from. The way out of the spirit lodge was where the earth "breathes inside".....today known as Wind Cave.
Spirit Lodge
In 1903, Wind Cave became the seventh National Park. Found in 1881 by the Bingham brothers, by chance, one heard a whistling sound and saw the hole. A wind blew out of the hole with such force that it blew the hat off of one of the brothers. Many didn't believe the brothers and filed into the hills to find the blowing hole.
Then, in 1890, young Alvin McDonald crawled through the hole with a candle and began his exploration of the underground cave system while keeping journals of the tunnels and findings. Once news got out, the McDonald family blasted a hole and offered tours.
Like brick and mortar with the brick dissolved, the calcite "mortar" caught and hardened around eroding rock remains in a lace-like "boxwood" speleogen (having formed before the cave itself existed). As our guided tour follows the CCC built concrete stairs and walkways, light shines on "vugs" (pockets in the walls lined with crystals, "moonmilk" (looks like cottage cheese slathered on a wall section), and "popcorn" (described as petrified cave sweat).
It has been named the third longest tunnel system in the US and sixth in the world. Some areas, in reference to to Alvin's journals, have not yet been found. Being dry, some cave features found, for example, in Carlsbad Caverns and Mammoth Cave, don't exist here. The main phenomenon is the boxwork, over 95% of known boxwork is supposedly found in Wind Cave.
5.
$12 Bacon with a Side of Too Much Popcorn
"If you think Wind Cave is amazing, Jewel Cave National Monument down the road is even more interesting," our Park Ranger and tour guide tells us. "But they sell out by late morning, so if you decide to go, go early."
Well, I may be hitting all the "cave" National Parks this trip--Mammoth Cave, Carlsbad Caverns, Wind Cave, and now I'm being seduced by the "jewel" in Jewel Cave. I imagine walking inside a geode, those points reaching out to catch light, each a prism of delight.
I find myself a stealth spot to sleep along a nearby forest road, and crash early for the early rise. I'm up at 6:30, in line behind eight vehicles by 7:30, and in the gate which opens at 8. Then I stand in line for a ticket: $12 for the "Scenic Tour". Wind Cave was $12 as well, and although the boxwork was interesting, Carlsbad Caverns is my top choice for formations, without a parade of people herded in a tour. I remember walking around the main cavern room, my own pace, going around a second time. Oh well, here I am ready to be bejeweled in the first tour of the day at 8:30.
Our young SCA (Student Conservation Association) intern meets us at the elevator and welcomes us in. Long brown hair lands on the shelf of his shoulders from under his SCA baseball cap. He adjusts the sleeves of his SCA long sleeve pullover shirt. Hanging from his belt is a flashlight in a holder. He starts his initial speech about safety, no food or large bags. "Stay with the group."
While trying to re-set his contact lens, he giggles, "New contacts. Sorry about this....Ah, better."
Through a yawn, he tells us how tired he is, and pushes the elevator button. A couple from Missouri offers to be the "caboose", and I linger near them to avoid being in the center of the parade. And once all down into the cave tour entrance point, our young intern offers us part two of his memorized speech about what we will see in the cave and asks us not to touch the rock faces.
"This is a dry cave, so you won't see stalactites for example. I'll point out some special features as we go," he says through another yawn. "I'm actually pretty tired," he tells us again. The Missouri couple tries not to let our trusty intern hear their laughter. I roll my eyes so only they can see.
Still having trouble with his contacts, he just takes them out. I wonder how well he can see, and how many times he's done this tour so far this season. If something happens to the light, would he be able to guide us out? Another couple near us look a bit worried about the lack of contacts.
"I bet he's really knowledgeable about geology," I say. "I bet he's here for the geology part."
The Missouri couple chime in, "I bet by the end of the summer internship, he'll have the social skill set down a bit better."
We are all patient, and as our tour continues, he spews out info on geological formations and what most likely happened to cause the phenomenon, answers tricky rock questions from kids, and if still giggling, we at the back end cannot hear him.
I've started to wonder if my $12 ticket was worth buying. I'm just not sure this cave is indeed "more interesting" than Wind Cave. Until—yes—the "bacon". Near the end of the tour, our yawning, Sunday morning intern flips on a special light.
"Whoa," breathes the group almost in unison. There it is—a long striped curly strip attached to the rock wall. Never saw one of those in the fancy New Mexico Carlsbad Cavern room. Nothing like that at Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. And Wind Cave didn't have one of these babies either. Alright, enduring all that "popcorn" was worth it.
Our info session from our nearsighted guide comes to a close with some history. He's clearly memorized the bits that are part of the tour, but the geology was his passion for sure. As with other caves, chance found its way to the tourist trade, then preservation (in this case, 1908, by proclamation from Teddy Roosevelt), then continued exploration—Herb and Jan Conn, rock climbers, volunteered to explore tunnels not previously excavated. Miles of tunnels. On their own time and dime until they were too old to keep going. Kudos to the adventurous!
Postcards From the Edge of..........
.....the vehicle parade. Summer vacation over a holiday weekend. But here I am in western South Dakota. The Black Hills. Rock faces—literally. I drive back east from Jewel Cave towards more well known sights--Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse.
Screechhhhhh! I pull over off the road and see the Crazy Horse profile looming up to the right, then scan the entrance road, several ticket booths, and the line of cars. I am not doing this, I think. This is one of the many reasons I bought the new camera last December. More Zoom—30x. I get out of the truck, zoom that baby in and snap a few. From the distance, I couldn't tell the profile was still being worked, but with the zoom, the snapped photo reveals lots of staging still set up, and a couple of cranes parked below. The entrance road foretells the future perhaps—The Avenue of the Chiefs.
Crazy Horse, most likely born near the Belle Fourche River in South Dakota, became a great leader defending his people against the aggression of white soldiers and settlers. Crazy Horse eventually joined Sitting Bull to defend the Black Hills, their home, until his need to surrender, and his death, in 1877.
On Thunderhead Mountain, considered sacred by the Oglala Lakota, the ongoing sculpture of Crazy Horse, riding a horse and pointing into the distance, continues on through the family of original sculptor, Korczak Ziolkowski. Working within the ideals of the project's creator, Chief Henry Standing Bear, the monument was started in 1948, and Korczak worked in behalf of the Lakota until his death in 1882. At no time did he take funding from the US Government in fear of interference in the project as well as the educational and cultural center that would become attached. Crazy Horse's head now towers at 87 feet high, as compared to the four Rushmore presidents at 60 feet high each (Ziolkowski had worked on the Rushmore sculptures under Gutzon Borglum previously). Korczak is now buried in a cave of stone blasted out at the base of the mountain.
I turn right onto Rt 244 towards Rushmore. As I turn the bend, I strain to read the sign about the parking concessionaire fee: $10. I scan up to the left, and there they are, all four of them. They can't open their mouths to speak, but in their stone cold eyes, I hear them loud and clear, "Get out while you can."
I let go of the peakbag, and look for faces in the rock spires and crags and boulders high above the trail. Dark clouds blow in, and I take my cue to turn around. As soon as I return to the truck, light drops pin prick my arms, and I climb into the cab just as a downpour deluges onto the Black Elk Wilderness in the Black Hills National Forest.
Crossing Over to North Dakota
Enchantment
Along the 32 mile stretch banding itself between the towns of Regent and Gladstone, larger than life metal sculptures loom above the ribbony pavement. Red soil pulloffs with picnic tables and donations boxes offer drivers the chance to walk amongst these metal giants.
I had learned about the Atlas Obscura when staying with E., my tango hostess, in Helena, Montana. Available also online, I had typed in "North Dakota" in their search box. The Enchanted Highway, in southwest North Dakota was within my general route north towards the Theodore Roosevelt National Park units.
Through the endless farms and ranches, I pass through tiny towns with populations of 201 (Reva, SD), 163 (Reeder, ND), and 171 (Regent, ND). I speed past countless herds of cattle, yellow fields of genetically modified canola, disintegrating ranch houses, and strewn polka-dot rounds of hay and straw.
July fourth has closed down the gift shop/ice cream parlor in Regent, seemingly the only commercial establishment available near the intersection of SD-21 and my ticket into enchantment. I take the left hand turn and head north into delight.
Featuring a handful of some of the world’s largest scrap metal sculptures, this "highway" includes “Geese in Flight” (currently listed in the Guinness World Book of Records as the "Largest Scrap Metal Sculpture in the entire world!" according to the website). Hotel owner and artist Gary Greff hails from Regent, and created this folk art installation to save his dwindling hometown. Seven sculptures and a maze currently dot the highway, but I hear rumors that he's aiming for ten.
Presidential Solace
Out of the endless prairies and grasslands, the North Dakota badlands lump themselves along a rocky spine. Drought sucks the green out of the grasses just slightly slower than the wildlife can sustain themselves.
With tags wagging and grunts guttural, heavy-headed bison lumber across the tar to reach greener grasses. They nudge their young, blocking the roads, until they can safely paw the dusty soil on the other side.
Teddy Roosevelt first came to this vast, layered landscape of desolate, grim beauty surrounding the Little Missouri River in 1883 to hunt bison. After losing his wife during childbirth, and his mother to typhoid on the same day, he returned to find solace from these tragedies. He ranched cattle, explored the badlands, and found in himself a newly shaped character that led him into ground-breaking conservation efforts.
As president (1901-1909), he established the US Forest Service, and signed the 1906 Antiquities Act, under which, he proclaimed 18 national monuments. With Congress, he worked to create five national parks, 150 national forests, and dozens of preserves. In his honor, this land of his healing and heart was penned in protection as a national park in 1947. |
Wild horses gather in protected grassy fields, prairie dog towns dot barren soil, and deer graze. Hiking trails wind their way through the striped buttes and thick sage. However, the 102 degree heat of the baking sun's rays prohibit me from my love of walking in the wilderness here. This is a land of extremes—the low's to forty below zero in the winter, and the high's up in the hundreds.
I drive north to find the entrance of the North Unit of the National Park, but the heat bears down even hotter. I drive the fourteen mile Park road in search of overlook views of the Little Missouri.
With the crossover into the Central Time Zone, the sun now hangs high in the sky until late. I continue my mission towards cool and shade at the picnic area near the Park campground where I bought a site tonight. Several picnic tables rest in the shade of some cottonwoods, and I find breezy rest there as well. I sip water. I write.
A pick up truck passes behind me, I notice, but then I return to typing. As it comes around the looped circle, he opens his window.
"Excuse me, but a buffalo is headed your way."
I look over to my right to see a grass chomping bison lumbering in the direction of my picnic oasis.
"Thank you," I respond, pick up my things, and slowly back away towards my truck and get in. It's way too hot to get trampled by a solitary bison today.
"It's really quiet here, even when it's busy," the campground host tells me. This is his fourth year of summer hosting. "But, every once in awhile, some event happens. We just had one a few days ago."
He tells me about the experienced hiker out in the long day of heat. He tells me how the young trail enthusiast walked too close.
"Did the bison get spooked by surprise?" I ask.
"No, not at all. The hiker didn't give the animal enough territorial room. His left thigh got gored. We got him to the hospital, and he'll be okay."
"Wow," I respond. "I guess he won't do that again."
Returning to my site to ready for the hot night, I leave the truck cap open and clip my tent netting over the opening—there are some biting flies about tonight. I open the cap windows to expose as much cross-ventilation as possible and hunker into the late light to try to sleep, naked but sweaty, on top of my flannel bag liner. Every now and then, a slight breeze picks up under the waxing prairie moon, and I try to talk it into sticking around longer in the cottonwood trees nearby. In the background, I head a car door slam in between low growls and grunts down along the campground loop road. Yep, a bison is in the camp. Hopefully, no goring will happen tonight.