Wyoming Wanderings and Black Hills Thrills
By the time I'd blogged and emailed friends, it was past noon in Laramie. I finally tore myself away from the good Internet access and headed northeast. The day was fine. The weather report would call it partly cloudy, but the clouds were evenly distributed puffballs separated by ample blue with plenty of sunshine pouring through. On its clearest, purest September day, DC doesn't look this sunny. With the previous day's cloak of raincloud lifted, I now could see snowcapped peaks to the south. The land and the sky were both immense, the grassland mottled with light and shadow from the endless distribution of cumulous clouds. Signs that directed one to turn around and go back to Laramie, when flashing, and frequent snow fences on the windward side of the road bespoke the harsh winters. The road paralleled a long plank of upthrust land, then turned into it and wound through pretty sagebrush-covered hills. There were plenty of cows, and a number of dirt roads were labeled as leading to ranches. I stopped often and tried to capture on the camera the beauty of the ragged horizon against the blue sky; but it is simply impossible to convey the long lines and depth of landscape within the frame of a stationary lens. When I stepped out of the car for a pic, there was a stiff breeze and otherwise profound silence.
Eventually the road broke out of the hills and onto flat land going into Wheatland, where prairie grass alternated with fields of wheat, hay and corn (or maybe sorghum). The crops require irrigation, which is accomplished with enormous arms of pipe that wheel around a central hub and spray a circle of land into green. I had an idyllic experience working on a ranch/farm (the Two-Bar Ranch) here in the summer of 1975, and as one of my jobs mowed one of those irrigated fields. I simply got drenched every time the irrigation arm and my path of mowing intersected, and the cows pasturing in the field likewise got a periodic bath. My main job that summer was painting barns and houses barn red with white trim. I did see one barn thus colored, although one would hope it had been painted sometime between now and 1976, so probably not my handiwork. I expected Wheatland to be quite altered, because later in 1975 there were plans to build a power plant, and the population was anticipated to double or triple overnight. However, driving into town a sign announced the population to be 3850 -- less than when I lived there. The post office clerk explained that the town size had swelled while the power plant was built, but then had dwindled back down once the construction was completed. My memory of the town isn't strong -- I didn't have a car in 1975, and so probably wasn't paying much attention as I was driven around -- but it didn't seem to show signs of having had a boom. I had a reuben (beef!) at Vimbos, which, I'm pretty sure, was the restaurant at which Two-Bar bought me dinner when I interviewed for the job there.
From Wheatland I went north on 320, past the Laramie River power plant that had caused the temporary boom, with the Laramie Mountains making a noble western horizon. I turned east at 26. The land became hillier with outcrops of sandstone and lots of cows. Then I crossed the North Platte into Guernsey. The river was impressively full and wide for a western river -- I later learned they were draining the Guernsey Reservoir in what is called a silt run. A Bureau of Wrecklamation web site explains: "The silt run is an operation which provides silt-laden water to Goshen, Gering-Fort Laramie, and Pathfinder Irrigation Districts under contract with Reclamation." A sign on the main street pointed a right turn to the Oregon Trail Ruts. I'd put myself (approximately) on the Oregon Trail! I followed the signs back across the North Platte to a parking lot at the base of a bluff above the river. On top of the bluff, there were deep ruts cut right through the rock by the many wagon wheels and horse hooves of pioneers on the Oregon Trail, the Mormon Pioneer Trail, the California Trail, and the Pony Express Trail (which were all the same trail at this point). Although there is now enough grass regrowth that the non-rock portion of trail doesn't easily show in a picture, you could distinctly see the remains of the wheel ruts in the prairie grass, more than 100 years later. Remember that next time you consider walking off the designated path.
Just a couple miles downriver from the ruts was Register Cliff -- a wall of sandstone at which weary pioneers would take a recuperative stayover. They would "register" by carving their names and the date into the cliff wall. There are now probably more names and dates from the 20th century than the 19th, but it is fun to see "A.H. Unthank, 1850" and "P.D. Dianne, 1846", and perhaps our great-great-grandchildren will enjoy seeing the 1995 inscriptions. I shared Register Cliff with only two other tourists, plus a rabbit that didn't mind me getting quite close, and a number of Cedar Waxwings perching on electric wires and fence rails.
Back on 26, on the east side of Guernsey, there were clusters of train tracks lined three tracks deep or more with car after car of coal. I blew past the turn to 270 and considered going back, since it clearly went up through hills, but instead kept going east into the plains, the North Platte making a line of green to my right. At Fort Laramie (Pop. 86), a sign announced that the turn to Pine Ridge Ranch was left in 100 yards. For cars going the other direction, it said, "Whoa! You just passed the turn for Pine Ridge Ranch!" I turned up the road, thinking it might be a fun place to lodge for the night. After several miles, an imposing log gate over a dirt road announced Pine Ridge Ranch and sternly forbade entry to any who weren't owners or invited guests. So (read this in a whiny voice) why did they urge you to turn from the town? Anyway, the dirt road stretched indefinitely into the distance with no ranch in sight, so I simply followed the paved road, which, according to the map, would eventually take me to 85 near Lusk. But the center line on the road became fainter and fainter and the road looked less and less used. While the empty scenery was beautiful, I was clearly miles from anything, and it appeared that, should something disable my car, it could be a long time before another vehicle would come along. And I only had another hour or so of daylight. I'm an adventurer, but not a fearless one. So I decided to go back to 270 and see if the town of Hartville had any accommodations and, if not, find a motel in Guernsey. Hartville had a wooden sign in the shape of a large heart proclaiming that it was the oldest incorporated town in Wyoming still in existence. From the look of the little main street, it isn't in existence for too much longer. There were no cute little cabins, or even a scary-looking Bates Motel-type place, just the Miner Bar -- oldest bar in WY. So I went back to Guernsey and checked into the Sage Brush Motel. After anesthetizing myself with some TV, I went back out to see the full moon lighting the North Platte. In true small-town fashion, the town at 10:30 was completely dark and silent, no sign of activity except for a solitary man unloading something from his car into an office.
In the morning, I packed up and went to the Riverview Restaurant for steak and eggs. (Beef!) Then up 270, through immense ranches, prairie stretching in all directions. Cows were gathered around windmills, or were clustered as tiny black and brown dots against the gray-green sheets of grass. At 18/20, I turned east and drove the few miles to Lusk, then headed north on 85 and then east on 18 into South Dakota. I was in the company of many fellow vacationers -- most of the traffic on 85 and 18 appeared to be RVs and families in SUVs. On 85, I saw signs for Wall Drug (a renowned American kitsch spot which will probably appear in a future blog entry). The land had an irregular surface, but with gentle, smooth transitions, as if the Goddess had casually dropped a satin shawl. But the shawl had lain on the ground long enough that it had been rent in a number of places by sandstone outcroppings. After Lusk, the stretches of prairie began to alternate with pine covered hills. Far to the northeast, looking like miniature clouds with the distance, I spotted thunderhead precursors growing on the horizon. As I drove north and then east, it became apparent they were forming right over the Black Hills. From the distance, the pine-covered slopes of the hills did indeed look black. The road turned north at Edgemont, dropped into the Cheyenne River valley, and then began a gradual climb.
Rave reviews for the Black Hills!! I had heard of Mount Rushmore, of course, but had not heard of the many other wondrous things in the area. For example, the approach to Mt. Rushmore from the south is along the Iron Mountain Road, a narrow, winding ascent with three one-lane tunnels. Two of the tunnels perfectly frame Mt. Rushmore in the distance. There also are three "pigtails" -- constructs where the road makes a 360 degree turn, spiraling under itself, as a way to handle the steep grades. Another remarkable road is the Needles highway, also narrow and winding, with tunnels. It takes one through fantastical columns of granite pointing skyward -- the needles. At one spot there is a vista of a broad wall of such structures, known as the Cathedral Spires. (It turns out the original idea that eventually became Mt. Rushmore was to carve figures of such personages as Buffalo Bill and Chief Red Horse onto the needles.) There were several notable caves in the Black Hills -- I hate caves, but its nice to know they are there for those interested. And then there was all the wildlife -- bison, pronghorn antelope, elk, bighorn sheep, wild donkeys, prairie dogs. Overall the Black Hills had a gentle, peaceful beauty; the "feel" was most agreeable.
At Hot Springs, I stopped for lunch at the Chicago Cafe. The cafe was in the back of a shop filled with beaded moccasins, knives, jewelry, videos, baseball cards, and lots of other bits of the 10,000 things. My chicken salad had at least as much pickle relish as chicken. Route 385 from Hot Springs led first through Wind Cave Park, a Civilian Conservation Corp project that includes its own pigtail turn, and then into Custer State Park, a well-appointed and well-maintained park with camping facilities, lodges and cabins, visitor centers, informative signs, and many turnouts to admire scenery and/or animals. At the intersection of 385 and 87, there was a prairie dog town. In blatant disregard of the "Do Not Feed the Wildlife" sign, some bikers used peanut butter crackers to lure a couple of dogs close for photos. They looked like furry dumplings, sitting on their haunches and munching the crackers held up in their little paws. Further down the road, I joined several other carloads in walking out into a meadow to look at a single bison bull lying in a field. When I raised the camera for a shot, the bull obligingly rolled on its back and then stood up in full profile, exactly like a nickel. What a gentleman. Several miles later I turned onto the wildlife loop. Wildlife sightings were limited in the heat of the afternoon, but the fields of grass and stands of pine were a serene, gentle beauty. The wildlife loop rejoined the main road by the State Game Lodge ("Choice of Presidents"). The sign said vacancy, so I inquired within. There was nothing at that lodge, but a cabin was available at Sylvan Lake, so I booked that and then headed for Custer. On the way, a number of cars were pulled over to take pictures of a group of bighorn sheep on the hillside. The people viewing was as good as the wildlife viewing.
In Custer I got a scoop of mint chocolate ice cream and ate it while viewing the Dr. Flick cabin -- the oldest structure in the Black Hills, a one-room cabin that was built by the doctor when the first gold prospectors arrived, and which he had to abandon when the Army evicted the prospectors from what was then Indian land. (That didn't last long.) The cabin later became the subject of the second suit in equity in South Dakota. From Custer it was a short drive to the Crazy Horse Memorial. So far, only the face has been completed, and the arm that will stretch out over the horse's mane has been roughed out. But you can see the impressive scale model and an artist's conception of the finished project -- a sculpture higher than the Washington Monument, looming over a reflecting pool and a collection of buildings housing the University and Medical Training for the North American Indian.
From there it was a relatively short drive up the first few miles of the Needles Highway to my little mountain cabin at Sylvan Lake. The badges on the check-in clerks indicated they were from Jamaica. I remarked that the Black Hills must be a little different from Jamaica, and they agreed it was very different -- you could tell they were having quite an experience. I spent the evening on my little porch in the perfect summer night air, playing my guitar and chatting with a neighbor who was there for a big family reunion. In the morning I awoke early and walked around the lake. It is a little jewel of blue water with a wall of fantastical granite at one end and pine-covered hills around the remainder. The water was a smooth mirror and the early air already hot. A couple mallards were swimming along the shore with fuzzy little ducklings in tow. After the walk, I called to inquire about extending my stay, but, unsurprisingly, all rooms in the entire park were booked -- my one night there had been a bit of luck. So I continued along the Needles highway and up the Iron Mountain Road. The air was redolent with pine resin baking in the intense sun. At one point I had to stop for a traffic jam created by donkeys in the roadway. Apparently many people ignore the Don't Feed the Wildlife signs, and some of the donkeys walked right up to car windows hoping for a hand out. Less gregarious donkeys were on the hillside, including some adorable little ones (colts? donklettes?).
On through the above-described tunnels and pigtails to the Mt. Rushmore Memorial. It is very well done -- laid out with good traffic flow and good anticipation of tourists' questions and needs. I had lunch on the cafe patio looking up at George Washington and Thomas Jefferson (Teddy Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln were veiled by pines). My entree from the memorial concession was pizza with whole wheat crust, whole wheat crust being the only choice, if you can believe it. Imagine imposing health food on visitors to an American shrine! (although I heard plenty of foreign languages while there). After Suicide Chocolate Cake to counteract the whole wheat, I walked the Presidential Trail that goes up as close as possible to the sculptures, and took pictures from every angle. With binoculars, I observed a part of the incredible artistry of the busts -- the pupil of every eye was done differently, capturing the essence of each personality. Washington is dignified but a little sad -- perhaps wishing to be on his farm rather than wrangling with problems of State. Jefferson looks dreamy. Roosevelt looks fiercely determined. Lincoln's eyes are a well of compassion.
From Rushmore, the road falls steeply to Rapid City, which spreads onto the plain at the eastern base of the Black Hills. On the outskirts of Rapid City, I stopped in at Bear Country USA, a wildlife park that you drive through, with incompatible species separated from each other by fences and cow guards. At the end of the drive, there is a small zoo area. Most of the animals were snoozing in the hot late afternoon air, but a couple bears lumbered from one snooze spot to another and a singe wolf paced along the far fence. In the zoo area, three river otters were unfazed by the heat, and kept up a nonstop trio dance, running or wrestling or chewing their fur while piled together. After many failed attempts to capture their cuteness digitally, I drove on in to Rapid City. It is the kind of city built where land is plentiful -- wide streets, lots of space between buildings, more than two stories a rarity. Thursday I stayed in Rapid City to catch up on email and write this entry. In addition, I visited the Berlin wall memorial -- two sections of the wall with a number of plaques telling the story of its building and destruction. It was eerie to read the history of that wall even as one is being built to separate Palestinians and Israelis. Tensions are high there today, as they once were in Berlin between the US and the USSR. Let us hope the Middle East tensions also dissolve as peacefully as did the Berlin Wall.
Eventually the road broke out of the hills and onto flat land going into Wheatland, where prairie grass alternated with fields of wheat, hay and corn (or maybe sorghum). The crops require irrigation, which is accomplished with enormous arms of pipe that wheel around a central hub and spray a circle of land into green. I had an idyllic experience working on a ranch/farm (the Two-Bar Ranch) here in the summer of 1975, and as one of my jobs mowed one of those irrigated fields. I simply got drenched every time the irrigation arm and my path of mowing intersected, and the cows pasturing in the field likewise got a periodic bath. My main job that summer was painting barns and houses barn red with white trim. I did see one barn thus colored, although one would hope it had been painted sometime between now and 1976, so probably not my handiwork. I expected Wheatland to be quite altered, because later in 1975 there were plans to build a power plant, and the population was anticipated to double or triple overnight. However, driving into town a sign announced the population to be 3850 -- less than when I lived there. The post office clerk explained that the town size had swelled while the power plant was built, but then had dwindled back down once the construction was completed. My memory of the town isn't strong -- I didn't have a car in 1975, and so probably wasn't paying much attention as I was driven around -- but it didn't seem to show signs of having had a boom. I had a reuben (beef!) at Vimbos, which, I'm pretty sure, was the restaurant at which Two-Bar bought me dinner when I interviewed for the job there.
From Wheatland I went north on 320, past the Laramie River power plant that had caused the temporary boom, with the Laramie Mountains making a noble western horizon. I turned east at 26. The land became hillier with outcrops of sandstone and lots of cows. Then I crossed the North Platte into Guernsey. The river was impressively full and wide for a western river -- I later learned they were draining the Guernsey Reservoir in what is called a silt run. A Bureau of Wrecklamation web site explains: "The silt run is an operation which provides silt-laden water to Goshen, Gering-Fort Laramie, and Pathfinder Irrigation Districts under contract with Reclamation." A sign on the main street pointed a right turn to the Oregon Trail Ruts. I'd put myself (approximately) on the Oregon Trail! I followed the signs back across the North Platte to a parking lot at the base of a bluff above the river. On top of the bluff, there were deep ruts cut right through the rock by the many wagon wheels and horse hooves of pioneers on the Oregon Trail, the Mormon Pioneer Trail, the California Trail, and the Pony Express Trail (which were all the same trail at this point). Although there is now enough grass regrowth that the non-rock portion of trail doesn't easily show in a picture, you could distinctly see the remains of the wheel ruts in the prairie grass, more than 100 years later. Remember that next time you consider walking off the designated path.
Just a couple miles downriver from the ruts was Register Cliff -- a wall of sandstone at which weary pioneers would take a recuperative stayover. They would "register" by carving their names and the date into the cliff wall. There are now probably more names and dates from the 20th century than the 19th, but it is fun to see "A.H. Unthank, 1850" and "P.D. Dianne, 1846", and perhaps our great-great-grandchildren will enjoy seeing the 1995 inscriptions. I shared Register Cliff with only two other tourists, plus a rabbit that didn't mind me getting quite close, and a number of Cedar Waxwings perching on electric wires and fence rails.
Back on 26, on the east side of Guernsey, there were clusters of train tracks lined three tracks deep or more with car after car of coal. I blew past the turn to 270 and considered going back, since it clearly went up through hills, but instead kept going east into the plains, the North Platte making a line of green to my right. At Fort Laramie (Pop. 86), a sign announced that the turn to Pine Ridge Ranch was left in 100 yards. For cars going the other direction, it said, "Whoa! You just passed the turn for Pine Ridge Ranch!" I turned up the road, thinking it might be a fun place to lodge for the night. After several miles, an imposing log gate over a dirt road announced Pine Ridge Ranch and sternly forbade entry to any who weren't owners or invited guests. So (read this in a whiny voice) why did they urge you to turn from the town? Anyway, the dirt road stretched indefinitely into the distance with no ranch in sight, so I simply followed the paved road, which, according to the map, would eventually take me to 85 near Lusk. But the center line on the road became fainter and fainter and the road looked less and less used. While the empty scenery was beautiful, I was clearly miles from anything, and it appeared that, should something disable my car, it could be a long time before another vehicle would come along. And I only had another hour or so of daylight. I'm an adventurer, but not a fearless one. So I decided to go back to 270 and see if the town of Hartville had any accommodations and, if not, find a motel in Guernsey. Hartville had a wooden sign in the shape of a large heart proclaiming that it was the oldest incorporated town in Wyoming still in existence. From the look of the little main street, it isn't in existence for too much longer. There were no cute little cabins, or even a scary-looking Bates Motel-type place, just the Miner Bar -- oldest bar in WY. So I went back to Guernsey and checked into the Sage Brush Motel. After anesthetizing myself with some TV, I went back out to see the full moon lighting the North Platte. In true small-town fashion, the town at 10:30 was completely dark and silent, no sign of activity except for a solitary man unloading something from his car into an office.
In the morning, I packed up and went to the Riverview Restaurant for steak and eggs. (Beef!) Then up 270, through immense ranches, prairie stretching in all directions. Cows were gathered around windmills, or were clustered as tiny black and brown dots against the gray-green sheets of grass. At 18/20, I turned east and drove the few miles to Lusk, then headed north on 85 and then east on 18 into South Dakota. I was in the company of many fellow vacationers -- most of the traffic on 85 and 18 appeared to be RVs and families in SUVs. On 85, I saw signs for Wall Drug (a renowned American kitsch spot which will probably appear in a future blog entry). The land had an irregular surface, but with gentle, smooth transitions, as if the Goddess had casually dropped a satin shawl. But the shawl had lain on the ground long enough that it had been rent in a number of places by sandstone outcroppings. After Lusk, the stretches of prairie began to alternate with pine covered hills. Far to the northeast, looking like miniature clouds with the distance, I spotted thunderhead precursors growing on the horizon. As I drove north and then east, it became apparent they were forming right over the Black Hills. From the distance, the pine-covered slopes of the hills did indeed look black. The road turned north at Edgemont, dropped into the Cheyenne River valley, and then began a gradual climb.
Rave reviews for the Black Hills!! I had heard of Mount Rushmore, of course, but had not heard of the many other wondrous things in the area. For example, the approach to Mt. Rushmore from the south is along the Iron Mountain Road, a narrow, winding ascent with three one-lane tunnels. Two of the tunnels perfectly frame Mt. Rushmore in the distance. There also are three "pigtails" -- constructs where the road makes a 360 degree turn, spiraling under itself, as a way to handle the steep grades. Another remarkable road is the Needles highway, also narrow and winding, with tunnels. It takes one through fantastical columns of granite pointing skyward -- the needles. At one spot there is a vista of a broad wall of such structures, known as the Cathedral Spires. (It turns out the original idea that eventually became Mt. Rushmore was to carve figures of such personages as Buffalo Bill and Chief Red Horse onto the needles.) There were several notable caves in the Black Hills -- I hate caves, but its nice to know they are there for those interested. And then there was all the wildlife -- bison, pronghorn antelope, elk, bighorn sheep, wild donkeys, prairie dogs. Overall the Black Hills had a gentle, peaceful beauty; the "feel" was most agreeable.
At Hot Springs, I stopped for lunch at the Chicago Cafe. The cafe was in the back of a shop filled with beaded moccasins, knives, jewelry, videos, baseball cards, and lots of other bits of the 10,000 things. My chicken salad had at least as much pickle relish as chicken. Route 385 from Hot Springs led first through Wind Cave Park, a Civilian Conservation Corp project that includes its own pigtail turn, and then into Custer State Park, a well-appointed and well-maintained park with camping facilities, lodges and cabins, visitor centers, informative signs, and many turnouts to admire scenery and/or animals. At the intersection of 385 and 87, there was a prairie dog town. In blatant disregard of the "Do Not Feed the Wildlife" sign, some bikers used peanut butter crackers to lure a couple of dogs close for photos. They looked like furry dumplings, sitting on their haunches and munching the crackers held up in their little paws. Further down the road, I joined several other carloads in walking out into a meadow to look at a single bison bull lying in a field. When I raised the camera for a shot, the bull obligingly rolled on its back and then stood up in full profile, exactly like a nickel. What a gentleman. Several miles later I turned onto the wildlife loop. Wildlife sightings were limited in the heat of the afternoon, but the fields of grass and stands of pine were a serene, gentle beauty. The wildlife loop rejoined the main road by the State Game Lodge ("Choice of Presidents"). The sign said vacancy, so I inquired within. There was nothing at that lodge, but a cabin was available at Sylvan Lake, so I booked that and then headed for Custer. On the way, a number of cars were pulled over to take pictures of a group of bighorn sheep on the hillside. The people viewing was as good as the wildlife viewing.
In Custer I got a scoop of mint chocolate ice cream and ate it while viewing the Dr. Flick cabin -- the oldest structure in the Black Hills, a one-room cabin that was built by the doctor when the first gold prospectors arrived, and which he had to abandon when the Army evicted the prospectors from what was then Indian land. (That didn't last long.) The cabin later became the subject of the second suit in equity in South Dakota. From Custer it was a short drive to the Crazy Horse Memorial. So far, only the face has been completed, and the arm that will stretch out over the horse's mane has been roughed out. But you can see the impressive scale model and an artist's conception of the finished project -- a sculpture higher than the Washington Monument, looming over a reflecting pool and a collection of buildings housing the University and Medical Training for the North American Indian.
From there it was a relatively short drive up the first few miles of the Needles Highway to my little mountain cabin at Sylvan Lake. The badges on the check-in clerks indicated they were from Jamaica. I remarked that the Black Hills must be a little different from Jamaica, and they agreed it was very different -- you could tell they were having quite an experience. I spent the evening on my little porch in the perfect summer night air, playing my guitar and chatting with a neighbor who was there for a big family reunion. In the morning I awoke early and walked around the lake. It is a little jewel of blue water with a wall of fantastical granite at one end and pine-covered hills around the remainder. The water was a smooth mirror and the early air already hot. A couple mallards were swimming along the shore with fuzzy little ducklings in tow. After the walk, I called to inquire about extending my stay, but, unsurprisingly, all rooms in the entire park were booked -- my one night there had been a bit of luck. So I continued along the Needles highway and up the Iron Mountain Road. The air was redolent with pine resin baking in the intense sun. At one point I had to stop for a traffic jam created by donkeys in the roadway. Apparently many people ignore the Don't Feed the Wildlife signs, and some of the donkeys walked right up to car windows hoping for a hand out. Less gregarious donkeys were on the hillside, including some adorable little ones (colts? donklettes?).
On through the above-described tunnels and pigtails to the Mt. Rushmore Memorial. It is very well done -- laid out with good traffic flow and good anticipation of tourists' questions and needs. I had lunch on the cafe patio looking up at George Washington and Thomas Jefferson (Teddy Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln were veiled by pines). My entree from the memorial concession was pizza with whole wheat crust, whole wheat crust being the only choice, if you can believe it. Imagine imposing health food on visitors to an American shrine! (although I heard plenty of foreign languages while there). After Suicide Chocolate Cake to counteract the whole wheat, I walked the Presidential Trail that goes up as close as possible to the sculptures, and took pictures from every angle. With binoculars, I observed a part of the incredible artistry of the busts -- the pupil of every eye was done differently, capturing the essence of each personality. Washington is dignified but a little sad -- perhaps wishing to be on his farm rather than wrangling with problems of State. Jefferson looks dreamy. Roosevelt looks fiercely determined. Lincoln's eyes are a well of compassion.
From Rushmore, the road falls steeply to Rapid City, which spreads onto the plain at the eastern base of the Black Hills. On the outskirts of Rapid City, I stopped in at Bear Country USA, a wildlife park that you drive through, with incompatible species separated from each other by fences and cow guards. At the end of the drive, there is a small zoo area. Most of the animals were snoozing in the hot late afternoon air, but a couple bears lumbered from one snooze spot to another and a singe wolf paced along the far fence. In the zoo area, three river otters were unfazed by the heat, and kept up a nonstop trio dance, running or wrestling or chewing their fur while piled together. After many failed attempts to capture their cuteness digitally, I drove on in to Rapid City. It is the kind of city built where land is plentiful -- wide streets, lots of space between buildings, more than two stories a rarity. Thursday I stayed in Rapid City to catch up on email and write this entry. In addition, I visited the Berlin wall memorial -- two sections of the wall with a number of plaques telling the story of its building and destruction. It was eerie to read the history of that wall even as one is being built to separate Palestinians and Israelis. Tensions are high there today, as they once were in Berlin between the US and the USSR. Let us hope the Middle East tensions also dissolve as peacefully as did the Berlin Wall.
posted by Annventurer | 7:53 AM
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