You're almost through! This is the last post about my weekend in the Badlands and the Black Hills in South Dakota. Missed the previous posts? Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.
If you want to listen to some music while reading, I recommend the following three songs. They're a part of this post later on.
Having
spent the previous night on a campground with a young couple plus puppy in a
tent close to me and an older couple in an RV farther down on the adjacent parking
lot, I was looking for a bit more solitude again for my last night in South
Dakota. Therefore, I had decided on exploring the Badlands’ Stronghold
Unit this time. Studying the map,
I had noticed that, in contrast to the North Unit, this southern part was
absolutely empty. While the former is
basically only two strips of stunningly beautiful rock formations to the left
and right of the Badlands Loop Road plus the Wilderness Area (where, because of
the name, I wasn’t so sure I should pitch a tent…), the Stronghold Unit is only
tangentially touched by roads. In between, some 300 square miles or so of open
land. Which is—say what you will—fascinating.
When I arrived in the small
‘town’ of Scenic
(What you see on the photos following this link is basically all there is, minus
the people. On a late overcast afternoon, it was eerie.), I followed the
Bombing Range Road southward. This ride might have been the first time I ever
felt lonely just because of the landscape that surrounded me. The area
wasn’t that different from the North Unit that I had seen and camped in two
days prior, but something in me turned it into a very different experience.
Or
maybe it was the exterior, the gloomy late afternoon atmosphere due to the
cloudy sky, the sheer expanse of land in all directions without any sign of
life, and the land’s general barrenness. Still, I was optimistic about parking
my car at the White River Visitor Center and then hiking out until dusk
to pitch my tent somewhere. That is, somewhere not too low or too high because
the weather forecast announced a 50% chance of thunder storms for that
night.
In that case, you don’t wanna camp on a mountaintop and serve as a
lightning rod, but you also don’t wanna be wrested away by a flash flood in a
low area. Whatever, I would find a good place. So after twenty very long and
lonely miles, I arrived at the visitor center which was, as I had read earlier,
still closed. But that wasn’t the problem. What made me really grumpy was the
sign that read “No Camping Anywhere.”
I suppose this restriction is due
to the fact that the Stronghold Unit is situated within the Pine Ridge
Indian Reservation, but I don’t know for sure. The website clearly stated
that camping is allowed anywhere as long as it is at least one mile away from
the road. But apparently not here. So grumpy Carlo gets back into the car,
drives the overwhelmingly lonely twenty miles back into the eerie ghost town
and then turns right onto a thirteen and a half mile gravel road that leads to
the Sage Creek Campground in the North Unit. Turns out that this wasn’t
so bad after all.
The campground lies in a big
open valley that is framed by hills on three sides and opens up to the prairie
to the south. And although there were many campers here in RVs and tents, I was
okay with the place because it was not much more than a small toilet building
and a turning loop in the road. And, to my big surprise, four buffalo stood
very close on a slope of the big western hill. This was the first time ever I
saw buffalo in their natural habitat. And it was a contradictory presentation
of that weighted term ‘wilderness’—I had never imagined the great
American bison being as tame as to idle less than two hundred feet away from
humans in the open range. I don’t think it’s bad; it’s just another instance
where you feel tricked by countless cultural representations that have now been
falsified by firsthand experience. Anyway, these four huge black bison were
impressive creatures. And they wouldn’t be the last I’d encounter today.
After putting up my tent at
what I interpreted as the campground’s periphery (there were no fences or
anything, so I just went a little bit farther out than anyone else), I packed
lightly and set out for a last little eastward hike through small patches of
trees, then crossing the Sage Creek’s South Fork at a shallow spot—the water coppery
in color, murky, and milky from the eroded sediments dissolved in it—and then traversing
another stretch of prairie where I found hoof prints
bigger than the palm of
my hand, pressed deep into the soil by an animal that might weigh up to a ton. I saw dark brown balls of fur shed by another or the very same bison, and I
spotted a hole in the ground that probably marked the entrance of a prairie dog
tunnel. Further on, I ascended one of the dozens of small hills, its top bare
sandstone, torn open mosaic-like by the rain water it had once soaked in that
was then drenched out of it again by the sun, making this hill appear like a
mound formed of millions of potsherds. I’d planned to sit down and have dinner
here, but I spotted another hill which I just had to climb, the highest in the vicinity, and with barely any
vegetation on its slopes, looking like a huge pile of sand.
I scrambled up the side and
sat down, facing eastward towards a landscape of great beauty. The pictures I
took fail badly at recreating the impression that being in the place itself
prompted in me. These photographs only hint at the actual extent of the land
that stretches for miles in gentle waves of green, spotted with dark patches of
shrubs, the bare ground showing through every now and then, until they are
broken in the distance by the great sandstone cliff that is the ‘wall’ of the
Badlands.
The photos do not capture the soundscape that is, of course, just as
important to the emotional response as the optical stimuli of a place. Imagine the crickets in the grass and the
birds in the bushes, especially this one bird close by whose warbling made me
look repeatedly for a creek below my feet because it sounded exactly like water
dabbling over pebbles or a little fish jumping. (Yes, I was tricked by a bird!) Add to this the occasional
bleating of a distant bighorn sheep and the mournful howling of at least three
packs of coyotes scattered not too far away somewhere to the north. The only
animals visible were the ones that didn’t care about making themselves heard;
two small groups of buffalo stood complacently and peacefully in the distant northeastern
grasslands. The air odorless and calm all the time.
Having finished the last of
my tasty bread for dinner, I decided to go back to camp and read. It was half
past seven, twilight was about to break, and the scenery couldn’t get any more
beautiful, anyway. Or so I thought. Taking a small detour on my way back in
order to avoid a buffalo, I walked along the hill’s ridge this time, and found
not only a huge gnawed-off bone, but also a scared porcupine hiding under
a conifer’s fallen branches.
I quickly left it in peace and then spotted a
lonely camper sitting on a hillside, the tent some feet away, partly hidden in
the shrubbery. She was just sitting there overlooking the country, and I
considered walking over to say hi, but then decided against it. She probably
had a reason for not staying on the campground. So I trudged on through the
grass to my tent and, as soon as I was there, knew that I couldn’t turn in yet.
There was another high hill to the campground’s northwestern side, and the
day was still brighter than I had estimated.
I walked up the slope on grass and
debris, carefully avoiding the cacti that grew in spots, and found myself on
another hilltop overlooking the surrounding country, the same great sea of
rolling green hills that I had marveled at earlier. However, I was not at all
expecting the beautiful sunrise I would witness here for the next one and a
half hours. It’s of little to no avail to try and describe the sunset in words;
all the shades of yellow, rose, orange, and purple that tinged the sky and
clouds, the fiery glow of the great sandstone wall on the eastern horizon.
Here, the photos might do a
better job than an amateur blogger’s vocabulary. In addition, you should
absolutely listen to three of the songs I played then—if you’re not already
listening to them as you should. The Fleet Foxes' "The Plains/Bitter Dancer”
is fitting for obvious reasons. I think that folk and folky music is generally
the best choice for augmenting an experience in nature. One of my all-time favorites
on Helplessness Blues (like almost
every song on this exceptional album), this particular song has gained a new
relevance for me that evening.
Especially that double track’s second part that
begins around 4:08 was the perfect acoustic complement to that scene. Next on
our list, James Vincent McMorrow's “And if My Heart Should Somehow Stop.”
Another great song on an exceptional album, Early in the Morning. I love the chorus’s “And in the forest I
make my home/Lay down my heart on ancient stone.” But it’s more in the chords
and harmonies, too elusive to put into words; this piece to me evokes a close connection
to, and a longing for nature.
With the last song, it’s purely musical, not
related to the content of the lyrics, and thus even harder to explain. “Cautioners”
from Jimmy Eat World’s 2001 classic Bleed American, an album I’ve heard over and over again for over
a decade by a band I’ve fallen in love with since I first heard said album. “Cautioners”
took a little while to get me, but those songs are often the real gems on a
record. I don’t exactly know why I chose to play this song sitting on the hill
and watching the sunset, but it worked. It might seem odd in the beginning when
you just hear that minimalistic drum loop and guitar dominated by the staccato bass
(not so slightly reminiscent of the Knight Rider theme!). But when the piano sets in
for the chorus and Jim Adkins sings, with his heartbroken voice, these unrelated but heartbreaking words:
You’ll change your mind come
Monday
And turn your back on me
You’ll take your steps away
with hesitance
And take your steps away
from me
you
should get it. And then the bridge after the second chorus! Beyond words. Of course,
I didn’t listen to music all the time. Silence has to be cherished where it is
found.
The sun still painted the clouds
that were sailing across the sky’s vast expanse in a thousand shades of pink
and rose, giving them a depth that is hidden in normal daylight. Some acquired
fantastic shapes, and in one I saw a giant pig running slowly across the
sky until it dissolved its form. As the last rays of the sun had disappeared in
the west, I descended the hill in the dark and got into my tent, this time for
good. A wind had come up that was now rattling and shaking my tent in sudden
gusts so that it took me a while to fall asleep.
On Monday morning, I woke up
early again. It was around seven, and I had planned nine hours for the way back
home, plus an hour for anything unexpected. I packed my belongings, dumped the
damp sleeping bag and tent in the trunk, and left the campground, ready to get
back on the road. But then, not even half a mile from where I started, right where
the gravel road makes a bend around my sunset hill from last night, I had to
stop the car. Less than a hundred feet in front of me, a buffalo was
blocking my way. It just stood there, right on the road, mocking me with its utter disregard. It didn’t even do anything. It didn’t eat, it didn’t chew, it didn’t observe.
What to do?
I waited, but after some
time I realized that this strategy wouldn’t pay off.
I moved the car closer, very
slowly, up to fifty feet, so that I finally got a reaction.
It was turning its head to
look at me for a moment.
I stopped.
It looked away again into
the void, slipping back into buffalo standby.
Should I honk? Would that
provoke the creature to start for me and trample the car?
Would that encourage its
friend lying in the grass to get up and get mad?
Would my insurance cover buffalo
damage?
Didn’t wanna risk it.
So again, a little bit
closer.
Revving the engine a bit.
A look, nothing more.
But then! A step to the
side!
Not enough yet, still
blocking my way.
A bit closer again, now at
less than thirty feet.
Another hesitant step to the
side made me bold.
Closer, slowly.
Now two steps to the side,
but still not quite giving up the road.
Now or never; it looked like
I would have enough room between the animal and the car.
I drove by. Slow but steady
was the way to go.
The buffalo looked bored.
Later,
I passed hundreds of prairie dogs who were standing guard and eating and
exploring on the vast grassland to the right of the road. Then, at a scenic
outlook, there was a buffalo bull scratching his itchy hindquarters on a pole. Not
so majestic.
He seemed embarrassed and slightly irritated when he noticed me. He gave me a look that said I better back off. I
thought I’d better do as the bull suggested.
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