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...
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.
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