Badlands of the Wild West
Trip Start
Nov 02, 2000
1
31
Trip End
Nov 16, 2004
Deadwood, South Dakota
Tuesday, August 9, 2005
We geared up filling my aunt's 22-foot motorhome mainly with more food than we could possibly eat in one week and I filled my little shelf with clothes, of which I only ended up wearing about half. The vague idea was to drive down through Minnesota, down into South Dakota to the Badlands, the Black Hills, Deadwood and hit Sturgis on the way back just before the annual motorcycle rally.
The first few days we mainly stuck to the roads and spent long stretches on the highway. In the evening we'd set up camp. It didn't really dawn on me that we were in the States until we hit South Dakota and the accents became thick with a twang that I usually emulate when I'm goofing off or needlessly chastising the Americans.
When we got further south, the bikers became more apparent. They were all soaring down the highways, not a helmet in sight, some looking menacing covered in tattoos, chest-length beards and more black leather than should be allowed to be worn in the hot sun. Others I can only describe as weekend bikers, the sort like my Dad who bought a chrome decorated bike in a mid-life moment. But being there, in such beautiful countryside you can understand why anyone would want to become a biker.
The badlands looked like we'd landed on Mars. Large outcrops of rock lay jagged against the otherwise rolling farmland of South Dakota. The rock has the most incredible red rings which stretch into the sky and turn the land a sort of reddish like the soil in Africa. It used to be the sea bottom hundreds of thousands of years ago.
After a few hours in the hot sun of the Badlands we drove on, understanding why the old French trappers that came this way called it "mauvais" at 100 degrees and not a pond or stream in sight. A few days we were into the Black Hills, a heavily wooded area that looks exactly the way you would imagine the American Forest to look, big pines, winding mountain roads, crystal clear creeks and beautiful peaks. This is where Mt Rushmore stands, and where the stunning Crazy Horse monument is slowly being molded out of mountain. It is awe-inspiring seeing Crazy Horse which is the largest mountain carving in progress in the world and a moving tribute to Crazy Horse, the Lakota leader and native American hero who fought and died for his people.
To be honest, as beautiful as Mt Rushmore was with it's famous images of Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington and Roosevelt etched in stone, it paled against the enormous single-handed-family project of that is Crazy Horse. Most interesting perhaps is that men of European descent construct both monuments. Native elders asked Polish descendant, sculptor Korzac Ziolkowski to work on Crazy Horse and Mt Rushmore was the brainchild of a Gutzon Borglum, a Dane. Their legacy literally etched in stone.
We spent the rest of our time touring the small cities of the Wild West, areas were Jesse James and Calamity Jane tore up the strip. Tales of shoot-outs, saloon gun-wielding cowboys and sheriffs kept us laughing.
We met quite a few bikers who actually are a lot more charming than they appear. I was kissed on the cheek by two members of the "Avengers", not sure what that means but I can only assume it was less worrying than the number of Hells Angels which dotted the highway.
Oh...to be a biker, with the wind always in your hair and the long dusty highway stretched out before you, sunburn on your cheeks and engine purring beneath you. It's an incredibly romantic way to travel if you can afford to maintain a Harley, some of those bikes are worth twice the price of most people's cars and they look about ten times more fun.
Am now back in the quiet peace of Thunder Bay, not a bike engine can be heard. Am off to Quebec City in two week's time. Am looking forward to hearing from you.
Kim
