Black Hills. South Dakota

Holy shit South Dakota is cold.

We arrived late night in the Black Hills. And set up camp. It was too late to start a fire so we made a ridiculous dinner of black beans, tuna, and salsa mized together in a Glad Tupperware container. Our can opener was absolutely useless. While I tried to naively open the can with a knife, Jill saw a couple pull into the campsite next to ours. They were from North Dakota and they had an amazing can opener. Their daughter lived in Denver (they were on their way to New York), and the woman told us that “the big city” made her nervous. Too many people. When we told her we were from New York City, she shuddered like it was some kind of Nazi prison camp. I could tell was a little defensive of the city, but after Chicago I was losing my religion. I suppose.

I fell asleep to Jill loading film into the old Brownie camera we’ve taken along with us. So far we have 3.5 extra partners on this trip:

1. The old camera, that I have compared to the senile Grandma in the backseat that occasionally contributes beautiful, and archaic wisdom. 

2.The other is this pimple that has formed underneath my left eye, that has creeped into every picture, an exposition of my exhaustion. I have named the pimple Paula. 

3. The bright yellow flashlight we named Blondie, the sprightly, younger partner to Brownie. We need a lantern. 

4. The .5 is the nameless guitar, neither of us has played yet because we haven’t had even 5 minutes of downtime.  When the guitar is played, she will graduate to a full partner in our journey.

Seven AM and we wake up to a wet tent.  The KOA showers are nicer than my dorm showers. We make friends with a few bikers from the Sturgis Rally and exchange stories.  No one here thinks what we are doing is crazy or weird. Their enthusiasm leads to advice, which in turn revises our ever-changing itinerary. We have a great system going.

I have always kind of had a little thing for the Wild West. I think Louis L’Amour is legitimate literature and I believe the Ox Bow Incident could replace any textbook on group psychology any day. Deadwood is the culmination of all this. OK so whatever I like the HBO series and read the cheesy historically based dime-novel-of-a-book. In addition, I loved every second of the tourist-centric gambling saloons. They are named after heroes that would have approved. Poor Jill. I talked profusely about Wild Bill and Jane Cannery and told her stories that were a mix of history, folklore, and blatant fiction. We tried on hats in an Old Time Photo shop, where we couldn’t afford the costumed photos. We stumbled upon a museum that displayed old roulette wheels, cards abaci, and a cabateour. We walked to Mount Moriah cemetery to see Wild Bill’s and Calamity Jane’s graves that abut each other. It was her dying and drunken request to be buried next to him. She died of alcoholism, she drank 2 quarts of whiskey a day. I cried.

We stupidly got on back onto the Interstate and realized we were on the wrong route to Mt. Rushmore, National Monument. We needed 385. Luckily a kind woman at a gas station gave us a route into the Black Hills Backcountry, with the adage: “There are many roads to 385. When you live in the Hills, you see them all.” That’s verbatim. So we took Vonocker Canyon Road, to another road, to a gravel road to Nemo, South Dakota. We needed to be reassured of our directions so we asked a old woman at a ranch who embodied whole-heartedly (and with her aqua-netted hair) Dolly Parton. There were “curiosities” and antiques. The highlight was an old player piano I sat at for a second to imagine myself playing in the 19^th century, singing for my meals and flashing the Black Hills my derrière. And the Black Hills were so beautiful that I found myself angry that I was not a Native American.  So goddamn beautiful that Jill started talking about us going half in on a ranch.

Mt. Rushmore, National Monument can only be explained through our pictures. If I find a decent Internet connection you will know what I mean. Never pay the parking fee, unless you are a first time tourist. My children will join the bikers on the side of the road, freeloading the view.