Black Hills National Forest, South Dakota

This is part 3 of my trip into the Badlands and the Black Hills. Missed part 1 or part 2?

Shortly after entering the Black Hills National Forest, a billboard reminded me of the Crazy Horse Memorial which is—like my initial goal, Mount Rushmore—also located right in these hills. So I modified my plans and drove a bit further to see the monument that might become the world’s largest sculpture when it’ll be finished some day. I had no idea that the sculpture itself is only one part of a huge complex (still very much in its infancy) that already features a museum and gallery and will eventually be home to the Indian University of North America, a Medical Training Center, a cultural center, recreational facilities, and more (see this image). Crazy Horse is much bigger than Mount Rushmore, but the only way to get really close (aside from special events, I think) is to either be a sculptor and work on it or take a shuttle that takes you a couple feet closer than you are allowed by yourself. Since I wanted to see a bit more today, I didn’t have too much time and decided to go see Mount Rushmore next.

Unusually well informed, I knew that instead of an admission, you have to pay $11 for parking at Mount Rushmore, so I took a roadside parking lot nearby and, after taking some photos of Mr. Washington’s supersized head (which was already visible from here), the beautiful pointed spires and the cliffs and the gulches and the conifers all around me, I walked about a quarter mile to get to the entrance. Considerably more people here than at Crazy Horse—senior citizens, couples, families, school classes, veterans. Passing the flag gallery (a flag for each state), I approached the monument that stood out mostly because of its gray color that distinguishes it from the raw and untreated red-brown rock of the mountain it was carved into. And it is pretty impressive, definitely worth a visit if you’re in the area. Otherwise, not. Don’t come here just to see four giant heads in a wall. I enjoyed the boardwalk (that brings you right underneath the faces so you can see up their noses) more because it was winding through immense fallen rocks and tall scrawny trees. Too much people here, though. So I thought, what to do next? Back to the Badlands, hike there, or spend the night in the Hills? 

I talked to a Park Ranger, inquiring about camping opportunities, and she told me that solitary back country camping is allowed here, but that these hills are home to mountain lions and stuff. Which is not really a problem, but you know, just so I know. Tempted by the prospect of more than 4 hours of sleep this night (i.e., without unwittingly invading animal territory), I decided to call some camp sites and ask about their prices. So she gave me a number to call. After listening to some Vivaldi for at least five minutes, someone answered the phone, and we were talking about camp sites for tonight until, after another five minutes or so, this gentleman told me that they are not handling camp sites in the Black Hills. Well, that’s what I told him where I was in the beginning, but I guess he just needed someone to talk to. Thanks anyway. Okay, so I accepted that, for better or worse, I’d have to drive around and just inquire at some camp sites (the Park Ranger’d given me a map) about their rates until I’d find a pretty and cheap one. 
So back to the car. This was the worst part of the day; I somehow got onto a road with the top layer missing, so my car sounded like a tank, and I couldn’t really drive at a convenient speed. The Black Hills is a much bigger area than I had expected. Which is cool in itself, but not if you just want to find a camp site for the night. I found one that seemed pretty expensive and one or two others that were completely booked, so I had to go to another one—Custer Trail Campground—that I’d marked on my map, and this one was almost empty, right by the pretty Deerfield Lake in the middle of woods and hills, and ‘only’ $14. Deal! Looking for an office or a booth to pay my money, I only found a box, some envelopes, and a manual that instructed me to fill out the form on the envelope’s back and put my money in, then throw it into the box. This is probably the only place in America where you cannot pay with a credit card. And I usually even prefer paying cash, but right here, my problem was that I only had $20 bills. And no one who could change it. Okay, so $6 down the drain...

Having pitched my tent and watched three baby squirrels chase each other along the top rail of the primitive wooden fence around the camp ground, I set out to explore the area around the lake a bit. After less than a ten minute walk, from the top of a hill, I had a beautiful view on the green pastures and dark groves around me, the lake to the south, and the wooded hills that enclosed this place to all sides. I went a bit farther and sat on the side of a little creek right where it runs into the lake, had some dinner and read The House of the Seven Gables, all the time accompanied by four wild geese thirty or forty feet to my right. Then all of a sudden a small herd of five or six deer emerged out of a bigger grove to my left, one after the other, a few of them regarding me for a moment with alert big black eyes, and then walking on.

Around 9 p.m., I once more gave in to my fascination with water during twilight and sat on the floating wooden landing stage just a few inches above the surface. In completely still air, the lake was a huge dark mirror that reflected the even darker woods along its shores. The water lay perfectly smooth and plain except for one patch a couple of feet away from the jetty where the surface was constantly rippled for whatever reason (You might have witnessed something like this before on a lake, I have no idea how to explain this). A very general and all-encompassing silence—a tranquility?—was frequently broken by the bored croaking of toads, the bustling chirping of grasshoppers, and the excited splatter of jumping fish. From the woods, the occasional hoot of a nighthawk or an owl. In the distance, two or three pallid blue ridges of wooded hills gradually disappear as it gets truly dark. Neither stars nor moon tonight, only a solitary beacon on a summit very far away. Winds come up, gently stirring the lake. I decide it won’t get any darker tonight; I switch on my flashlight and go to sleep.

An Early Morning

As you might have read, dear reader, I visited the Badlands National Parks a few weeks ago. The first day of that trip was, in sum, around 9 hours of driving West, then some marveling at the Badlands’ stunning beauty, and then leaving the trodden path to find a quiet place to pitch my tent, a place that was apparently already the home of a bighorn sheep…You can read about that first day, and see some pictures, here.

Waking up the next morning around 7:00 am—the sun had already risen but was still veiled behind a heavy curtain of milky whitish-gray clouds—I got out of my slightly damp sleeping bag and left my tent whose walls were, like everything else around, coated all over with heavy dew. The night had turned the air refreshingly cold, and except all the birds singing from their trees and bushes, the wind, and maybe a chirping cricket or two, there wasn’t a single sound to be heard. It was a beautiful morning. My quadruped neighbor (or should I say host?) from the night had already left, but I decided to walk around a bit before leaving too. Right before the small scrubby plateau where my tent stood lay that seemingly endless ‘wall’ that separates the lower from the upper prairie in this area, a hardly passable steep sandstone slope that winds through the land, forming the countless buttes, ravines, gaps and chasms that are the main reason why Dakota tribes as well as French-Canadian trappers and American pioneers considered this region ‘bad lands.’ And not only this morning did I try to imagine people living here, or passing through, in earlier times, all the centuries before, and the few after the United States’ westward expansion. As much as I tend to romanticize the idea of living close to nature, simply off the land—being exposed to something really close to wilderness for such a short time already relativizes my envy for those who actually do, and it increases the respect I feel towards those people. Still, I hope to get some more chances to go out, hike and camp, leave civilization for some time. I am way too used to all the standards, too comfortable with all the knick-knacks, too accustomed to the routines of the town and the city. Having a bighorn sheep standing right next to your bed gives you at least a little idea of why people started building fences and houses. Yes it is cheesy, but going out, phasing down a bit—it cleanses you. There are cheesy truths.

So this early morning, I really wanted to go somewhere—and why not climb that naked butte (no pun intended) so prominent over there slightly to my left? I slid down a slope and scrambled up the other side, walked atop a narrow ridge, carefully, so as to not lose balance and fall down. One of the advantages of travelling alone is that you can do all the stupid things your friends and loved ones would tell you not to do because they might be dangerous. (I know: the disadvantage is already implied here; no one is there to help you! But relying on your own judgment every now and then is a good thing, too.) After a few minutes of scrambling, balancing, and leaping, I arrived on that butte located in the middle of winding ravines and bluffs, amidst all those colors produced by the different layers of sandstone, by the mutual exclusion of shadow and light. North of this rough and rocky strip of terrain, stretching for miles and miles towards the distant horizon, lay the vast prairie, and a few hundred feet behind me my lonely little tent between the bushes. Less than half a mile behind it, the road and my car. It was time now to pack my things and go. I had made up my mind to drive a bit farther into the Black Hills and see Mount Rushmore today.

Rucksack on my back and sleeping bag in a hand, I left my plateau, back through the bushes, along the side of a small ravine, then climbing up the slope (which was harder than sliding down on it), and along the meadow that leads to the road. There I saw a big bird—either a vulture or a wild turkey—waddling along in the distance, looking for some breakfast I guess. Back at the car I changed, put on some music, rolled down the window, and took off.

Wall Drug Stuffed Animan Hipster

Directly north outside the Badlands, the (apparently very famous) Wall Drug Store is located in the tiny town of Wall, SD, named after the already mentioned sandstone wall that cuts through the prairie here. There’s not to much to tell about it, I think this town’s entire existence today rests upon the store and the attempt to preserve/simulate/create some kind of Wild West atmosphere; Main Street is loaded with weird touristy shops that sell cowboy equipment, merch, and souvenirs. Hats, boots, belts, shirts, key chains, stickers, magnets, mugs, books, and so forth. I came there for the restaurant’s 5 cent coffee (which is, among all the other things advertised as soon as you’re west of the Missouri; hundreds of billboards along the highway) and, of course, just to see it. And it is really kinda weird, but I don’t quite understand all the fuzz about it. Maybe it’s just self created. Wouldn’t be the first one to do that. The coffee was good, and since everything else was pretty overpriced, but I felt stupid sitting in a restaurant just sipping a cup of 5 cent coffee, I ordered the affordable breakfast potatoes. Nothing fancy. I left the consumer bonanza and, after a short time on the highway, had to pass a pretty odd and run down small town out of which I took an unpaved road that went on for miles between the endlessly rolling hills, empty and desolate except for the occasional herd of cattle grazing underneath the deeply hanging clouds. In the distance I could now discern the Black Hills, but it was still more than an hour until I would arrive.

Into the Badlands

When, on a westward journey, you approach the Missouri River on Interstate-90 in South Dakota for the first time, the sudden change of scenery strikes you as stunning, as it promises to set an abrupt end to the hundreds and hundreds of flat Midwestern miles that you were passing for the last four hours or so, a welcome distraction to the endless farms and fields on both sides of the highway. Over millions of years, the river has gouged itself a bed through the relatively soft (so I assume) rock right in the middle of what we today call South Dakota, splitting the state into a bigger western, and a smaller eastern portion. And as the waters have gradually retracted over this incomprehensible period of time, the riverbed has turned into a fluvial valley featuring two long humped and hilly slopes on either side of the smoothly winding stream. Therefore, when you reach that peak on I-90, right at that point where it makes its sudden and unexpected drop into the valley, it is hard to keep your eyes on the road instead of gaping and wondering at this beautiful landscape that has just opened up before you, a veritable gate to the West.

I made up my mind to set out on my first Iowa-based road trip about two weeks ago, but the destination had already been set in the spring semester, when Kirk, teaching assistant in my Editing and Publishing class, had told me about the Badlands National Park in South Dakota. Since I've come to the United States not only to meet people, but also to get away from them, not for the city but for the country, Kirk couldn't have made a better suggestion.

So I checked the Badlands' camping regulations and, hooray!, they allow backcountry camping! Which I'd never done before, except for a couple of summers many years ago with my friends, on the fields outside our home village, where one night, I swear, we'd had a wild hog rummaging in our trash bags right next to our tent. Anyway, that's not quite the 'backcountry' experience I was looking for this time. I ordered a tent and some other essentials that amazon promised would be here until last Thursday, walked out all the way to the Hy-vee (I need some kind of a vehicle! Cedar Falls is just too big) to get some supplies, and rented a car online. Luckily, enterprise has a pick-up service, so I did not have to call a taxi to get to my car. I then got some other tings I still needed--sleeping bag, insect repellent, sun screen, hat, knife, etc.--at Walmart, and left Cedar Falls around 9:30 on Friday, May 23. The ride did not appear as long and dull as I had expected, partly because there is a lot of beauty (often overlooked) even along a dead straight highway like I-90; the hundreds, maybe thousands of black cows grazing placidly on their huge pastures, or the occasional abandoned farm consisting of one or two empty grey little houses and a huge decrepit barn whose immense roof came tumbling down many years ago, and right next to it that small grove of knarly old trees. Also, I listened to Florian Illies' 1913: Der Sommer des Jahrhunderts (1913: The Year Before the Storm; thanks to my buddy Steffen for that!) for about six to seven hours, a very interesting and entertaining account of Europe's cultural (and a bit political) history just before the dawn of World War I, with a huge ensemble of protagonists ranging from Sigmund Freud, Oswald Spengler, and Karl Krauss to Franz Kafka, Thomas and Heinrich Mann, and Else Lasker-Schüler to Pablo Picasso, Oskar Kokoschka, and Alma Mahler, to Josef Stalin, Adolf Hitler, and Franz Ferdinand (the archduke, not the band). Anyway, after crossing the Missouri and looking at the bumpy hills that continue for three or four miles past its western shores, I had to restart listening to the last chapter because I noticed that I hadn't been paying attention at all to what I was hearing. It was easy to focus again because the initially mentioned scenario is tricky in its promise of a change of landscape: after a few miles, you are right back in the typical flatness of the Midwestern fields. And by now, you've kind of gotten used to the pretty cows and romantically shabby farms. Very gradually, however, the rectangular fields and pastures yield to more and more open grasslands, and the dark brown and green planes are replaced by brighter hues of green, stretches of swaying grass, sometimes streaked by a grey or beige hint of sandstone and dotted by small lonely trees; you approach prairie and the Badlands.

After finishing my audiobook, I decided to go full-scale emotional and listen to Eddie Vedder's great soundtrack for Into the Wild. Just then, an impressive sandstone bluff that appeared on the horizon behind that endless stretch of grass to the left of the road finally heralded the vicinity of the Badlands. Gradually, more strange-looking peaks and oddly shaped sandstone formations came into view before I finally reached the Park's eastern entrance. I paid my $11 entry charge (which is good for 7 days!), asked the park ranger if my information on backcountry camping was correct--basically anywhere you wanted as long as it is at least half a mile away from the road--and it was, and then explored the park a bit along the road, getting off at every scenic view parking lot to have a closer look at those weird little--well, mountains (for in this portion of the park's Northern Unit [there is also a Southern Unit in which camping seems to be entirely forbidden, as I was about to learn in two days from now], the formations are very spiky, unlike the more hilly prairie of the western part) that rise out of southwestern South Dakota's prairie. Since the soft sandstone is highly vulnerable to erosion, this landscape changes quickly as it is exposed to constant shifts of weather from thunder storms to dry heat waves to severe winds to cold winters. Some parts look like a desert, or even Mars (if you have a fancy imagination); the sandstone seems to be everywhere, from the deep canyons up to ground level and all the way up to the pointed peaks. In other places, the prairie dominates, and only the sides or tops of hills break through the pallid green sea of grass. As I drove farther along, I continued looking for an area that would allow me to pack up my things and leave the car for the night in order to hike out for a mile or so. Easier said than done; in most portions that have a parking lot, the impassable bluffs and cliffs are so close to the road that I did not see how I could pitch my tent at least half a mile off of it. And all of that as the sun was already close to disappearing behind the western horizon; I think I had about an hour or so left until sunset.

As I eventually spotted an area that looked penetrable, I parked my car, got my backpack, tent, and sleeping bag, and crossed the street northward, walked across a meadow and down a steep slope, squeezed in between some bushes, and found a really nice spot. There I saw that this place was still closer than it had appeared from the road. Not half a mile yet. I went a bit farther until I reached some slopes that I had no way of descending safely, so I decided to stay here and hide behind some bushes in order not to be seen from the road which, although I could not see it from here, I knew was not yet half a mile away. Then, as I was pitching my tent, I heard a kind of hissing, a snarling, or was it the animal's burrowing in the earth?, of something in the bushes, probably the size of a porcupine, a weasel, or a badger. Could have been a bobcat; many animals live in the Badlands, and while most of them are not that dangerous, I've heard a lot of them can be pretty aggressive if you give them a reason. And what did I know of animal reasoning?! I must have invaded someone's territory here, definitely a pretty good reason to be pissed. Well, I waited a few moments as the hissing continued, not quite sure what to do, and then carefully finished putting up my tent, and my neighbor didn't seem to mind all too much anymore; the hissing eventually stopped. We would be on good terms for the rest of the night.

At dusk I sat on top of one of the nearby slopes that granted me a great view on the wide open prairie of the Buffalo Gap National Grassland that stretches all around the Badlands. Next to all the cicadas chirping in the grass, a couple of birds tweeting in the bushes, and some bats flying past, I had a simple but good dinner of water, bread, crackers, and cheese spread, and read a few pages of The House of the Seven Gables. After that, some more reading in the tent, and then lights out before 10; I'd wanted to get up early the next day. Not even 15 minutes later, I heard footsteps. A park ranger fining the hell out of me because I violated park policy? I lay perfectly still, didn't budge an inch, tried to breathe evenly, to calm down my pounding heart. No speaking, no knocking, so nope, wrong. Conclusion: animal. Did not really help against my strongly pounding heart; I did not exactly wanna mess with a bighorn sheep now. Whatever it was, it continued walking around, slowly, now right behind my tent, in the small space between two bushes. It then started picking grass, and later made some noises remotely reminiscent of a sheep's baa, but unlike any sheep or goat I'd heard before (not even like these goats!). Anyway, the eating probably meant the presumed sheep had accepted this big blue thing in her/his dining room. Good for me because after a while, I could not bear lying in this position anymore, I had to roll over. I did, and my new neighbor didn't care. A bit later, s/he lightly kicked against the tent once, but that was the closest we got. I eventually fell asleep with the sheep's occasional soft and melancholy 'baa' in my ears.

My next post will relate the rest of that weekend; I spent the next day and night in the Black Hills, and then returned to another part of the Badlands for the last night.