Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Day 7: Rapid City-->Black Hills--> Spearfish, SD



As explained earlier, Fran and I were very excited to fulfill our nerdy tourist needs in South Dakota after the previous night's fiasco. Rapid City is right to the east of the Black Hills National Forest, which includes an abundance of historical spots like Custer State Park named after the notorious General Custer who decided to get himself and all his men slaughtered by the legendary Indian chief Crazy Horse (whose grand, yet unfinished stone sculpture memorial lies within Custer's Park.) Crazy Horse's memorial, carved into the mountainside of the Black Hills, is quite remarkable, standing at over 500 feet in height, despite its unfinished condition. Despite the weak shots, you can get a sense of how massive the sculpture is:


Our drive from Rapid City to Spearfish--if it had been linear-- was only a mere 43 miles, yet we took the most roundabout path in existence in order to hit every site as you can see in this half-loaded map:

The day before, during our nighttime drive through the casual tornado, we had passed through Badlands National Park--which is a day trip in itself-- so we spent this day completely in the midst of the Black Hills. For fellow adventurers, a few other points of interest include the the Wind Cave National Park and Jewel Cave National Monument--both of which we merely glanced at due to the obnoxious crowds and exorbitant fees to simply walk around. I had mixed emotions by the time the famous mugs of Mt. Rushmore came into view, for I had expected South Dakota's local wonders to feel more...well, natural.  The issue is that just like with any other tourist attraction, the primary goal of the owner is to aggressively monetize the attraction. Every one of these famous spots in the Black Hills had been monetized to oblivion, and it literally cost money to breath in the air of the parking lots surrounding these sites. Mt. Rushmore was no different; so, after a quick loop of the parking lot with a few pauses for pictures and after being shooed out by both cops and angry masses of RVs trying to get prime spots, we left, feeling somewhat miffed at the experience. Nonetheless we got some great shots and crossed it off the "before I die" list:

 
 In retrospect, hands down the most exciting part of the morning was the outrageous roads which ascended and descended the 3,000 foot hills in treacherous fashion. We (I) had an absolute blast cruising along the switchbacks as we climbed up and down, through caves cut in the walls of the hills and over tiny bridges. The views and general scenery were absolutely phenomenal, and I daydreamed about cruising around on an old Harley as we were surrounded by hundreds of Bikers on a perfect summer morning.


 

As we finally descended out of the the hills, slowly headed northwest on our way to Spearfish, I noticed that my normally loquacious driving partner was dead silent and sickly looking. I had forgotten that the poor girl got carsick simply sitting in stop and go traffic, so this nonstop rollercoaster of switchbacks must have been a nightmare. Luckily Fran maintained her composure and I enjoyed the quiet time to absorb the incredible, ever-changing scenery. A spooky site caught my attention as we continued downward: 



As far as the eye could see and on both sides of the mountain, the entire tree population had been uprooted and completely decimated. Thousands of acres of forest had been turned into frail toothpicks by what appeared to be a large forest fire. I would learn later in the day that this phenomenon was not only natural, but desirable in order to recycle dead wood and replenish the soil...who woulda thunk??? Within minutes, the landscape had drastically transformed from charred death to gorgeous, crystal-clear lakes protected by jagged, red-tinted peaks, some even maintaining snow that had resisted the mid-summer runoff.

 

I realized, for about the fifth time, that I was in the West, and the thought absolutely floored me--for there is truly nothing like the expansive and dynamic vistas of every single state west of the Great Plains. During a brief spell of flat highway similar to the 500 mile cruise of the day prior (which started to look very similar to the flat, scorched earth of eastern Wyoming) we cruised through the funky little cowboy town of Custer in the heart of the the Black Hills




Again, as you can see, the Harley's outnumbered the cars by about a 10:1 ratio which I simply equated to the perfect riding conditions and the biker-heavy population of the state. As we left Custer, we were immediately reintroduced to the mainly mountainous conditions of the massive National Park. I caught this gem, which actually got me thinking, on the outskirts of Custer:

hmmmm, I wonder what they think of planned parenthood? Obamacare? Liberals? Tax?

Anywhooo, as we cruised North towards Spearfish the pristine blue sky of the morning had transitioned into a visually pleasant contrast of pure blue and the preternatural, seemingly fake white of a puffy cloud which reminded me of the region's propensity for rapidly developing storm cells. This massive, low-hanging and deceivingly innocent looking puffer was almost palpable and required documenting:

Out of the National Park we cruised through Lead, an old mining town on an extremely high incline--similar to the hills of San Francisco, yet at the same time, not at all similar? Lead evoked images of the quintessential Western town with its small wooden frame buildings, saloons, and local stores. The town marked the fringe of the heavily wooded mountains of Western South Dakota, and, as I've said probably five times (prematurely) symbolized the gateway to the immeasurably massive and dry, iron-tinted landscape of Western third of the country. 



Despite being outside of the green area on googlemaps which I associate with National Parks and wild terrain, our destination for the night, Spearfish SD, was certainly not flat, nor barren, nor un-picturesque . Our abode for the night, the Spearfish Lodge, was absolutely gorgeous. The lodge lay in the valley of the Western Black Hills and was surrounded by hills, forest, lakes and an abundance of wildlife. As we rolled in, I finally learned why we had been traveling with thousands of motorcycles for the entirety of our time in South Dakota. My naivety brought wonderment to the front desk attendant, for it seemed everyone except Fran and I knew that Sturgis, the infamous annual motorcycle rally which brought 500,000 enthusiasts from around the world, to the surrounding towns. Each and every lodge, hotel, motel, and trailer park in the vicinity was packed to the brim with massive bearded men, their female companions, and Harleys of all shapes and sizes. We were truly foreigners in the land of Sturgis, yet I thoroughly enjoyed mingling amongst these wild modern day cowboys. Instead of attempting to ask lame questions and make my motorcycle ignorance more obvious, Fran and I took the opportunity to hike around the area; we were not disappointed. Along with some epic natural wonders, we stumbled upon the filming area for the equally-epic film site of "Dances with Wolves:"










After an excellent hike we settled into the lodge and enjoyed a phenomenal dinner of local game meat. I was so pleased with the meal that I was compelled to commemorate our time in South Dakota with a realist drawing of the State's license plate:


Despite our distended stomachs, we decided a dip in the outdoor hottub under the preternatural star-scape of a perfectly clear night. We ended up enjoying some champagne with a hysterical couple from Kansas City who both gave us a detailed itinerary for our time in the city about three weeks later and helped clarify the stark differences between riders of Harleys and BMW bikes (to sum it up, they begrudgingly follow the adage of separate but equal despite their pointed opinions of each other.)

Finally, I fell into a deep slumber with the purrrrrr of Harley engines coloring my dreams.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Day 6: The Heartland to Tornado Alley Part 3

So, about two hours East of Rapid City, the resilient sun could wane no longer, falling below the horizon. At around 8 or 9, a gorgeous and complete darkness enveloped the sky. Yet only a few minutes into enjoying this rare, seemingly unprecedented darkness, the sky lightened (sp?) to an incredible hue of purple. The change from blackness to radiant purple was visually shocking, yet I thought nothing of it at the time. As we continued to drive, I noticed that the illumination of purple suspended into the ether was made possible not by any human sources of light, but rather a perpetual, yet eerily silent showcase of heat lightning. I certainly do not claim proficiency in the science of meteorology, and thus, I simply shrugged off the show of lightning as another strange feature of the Northern Great Plains states. Eventually, the regularity of streaking white flashes reached a saturation point which resembled the encore of a fireworks show, becoming increasingly disconcerting. All of the sudden, the wind picked up and a light rain began to fall; within 5 minutes, the wind had intensified to a steady gust of 50 miles an hour combined with aggressive downpours. This, however, was nothing new, as my depth of travel via the road had previously translated into many instances of sudden, aggressive storms. Long story short, the storm intensified in a matter of seconds: 65 mile an hour gusts led to my massive 2.5 ton car being tossed back and forth (like that dinky plastic motorcycle game at any sleazy arcade) with an unrelenting fury. Yet what really made us flip our shit was the tumbleweed (I truly thought that was only a desert/Hollywood fixture) being slingshotted sideways from one side of the highway, across my hood, to the other side along with the sudden and piercing noise of a weather alert materializing on my Sirius Radio.

The abrasive and repetitive beeping noise was followed by a droning voice announcing isolated thunderstorms with up to golfball-sized hail, 75 mile winds, and the potential for tornadoes directly on the I-90 corridor due west of us for the next 90 miles. Combine that fact with the realization that we were 30 miles--each way--from the nearest active exit. Needless to say, and using a euphemism, we East-Coasters were "maladjusted" to the situation at hand. I called my dad to give him my last wishes (despite the sincerity of my tone, he probably thought I was being a pussy) and asked what he thought we should do. He told us to get off the highway as soon as possible, so alas, we did that at a local exit which was really no more than a remote country highway most likely leading to nowhere. Luckily, (I guess?) we stumbled upon an abandoned gas station which we promptly pulled into. The storm was only getting worse and hail had begun to fall. My superficial concern was to protect the near immaculate shell of my newborn Jeep. Thus we snuck my car under the dilapidated roof of the gas station near the pumps--a situation bursting with oxymorons (safe gas pump, decrepit shelter, etc) and ideally situated for a Final Destination death scene. To our surprise, another car cruised out of the maelstrom and into the vicinity of the station, presumably surmising, as with us, that hiding under a flammable, brittle structure was superior to the option of being sucked up by a twister in the middle of the highway. The family was from nearby Kansas and seemed remarkably calm in the midst of what I assumed was an Armaggedeon-type situation. The man, unfazed, explained (in the typical laconic speech of the hybrid farmer/cowboy character which I naively assumed every man west of Chicago to be) that such hellish weather was commonplace in the plains states. Well shit, the stoic nature of the Kansan's attitude towards the storm made me feel at once like a melodramatic thespian; I smiled, and with feigned cool confidence retorted something idiotic like "Yeah, this isn't our first rodeo" or "Yeah, this is nothing compared to what we see on the East Coast." Embarrassing.

Luckily, I had about forty five minutes to let the flush dissolve from my face while the emasculated feeling of being psychologically (obviously not physically) subordinate to my Kansan comrade simmered and fomented like the ebb and flow of the storm overhead. Just as quickly as the storm had materialized in front of our faces, it dissipated, or at least continued its trek eastward, and we quickly parted ways with our refugee friends, thankful to have avoided a tornado--at for the the time being. Finally, around midnight, we cruised into Rapid City, SD, starving and exhausted from a long drive and the drain of the storm. I didn't really know what to expect from Rapid City, as I had never been to South Dakota previously and just assumed that its towns and small cities were indicative of one of two themes: farm or mine. Rapid City was neither of these. Being the second largest city in South Dakota (a laughable 65,000 residents), the city was not amidst farm land, being on the Eastern cusp of the legendary Black Hills--nor was it what I'd consider a mining or "old west" town, many of which I would pass through as we continued westward. Even though it was a saturday night, the concierge at the front desk of our "Eco-friendly" hotel option answered our question about possible dining options with a terse and unhelpful "not many." On the bright side, the concierge's vague response forced Fran and me to take a pleasant walk around the "downtown" area in search of grub. Interestingly, Rapid City is known as the City of Presidents, an epitaph which led to the creation of an art project to fill the city's sidewalks with fantastic sculptures of nearly 30 US presidents. Why in Rapid City, you ask? My candid response is that I have no idea...but who cares, the sculptures are precisely detailed and make for great photo ops. Unfortunately all have been lost in transition, but don't worry, there are thousands more to come.

Finally after visiting nearly every local restaurant in the vicinity and being welcomed by closed signs, we spotted some local fast food joint, and settled, involuntarily, for whatever they had to offer. Of course, the joint was drive through only during the witching hours of the early AM. Without a car, I decisively chose to walk up to the drive through window and stand my ground. To my dismay, I was lectured, through the speakerphone, that it was South Dakota law to only serve those in a vehicle who entered the drive through line. Stunned and frustrated, a guardian angel in the form of an F-150 noticed our debacle and was kind enough to order for us and pass on the food. Despite the inherent flaws of the Midwest and isolated areas of the Plains' states, I swear the people--regardless of their background/sex/age/life goals--are truly nicer, more sincere, and more accommodating. Such a small gesture of friendliness, such as ordering our food, (an unthinkable, time-consuming pleasantry in Boston) goes a long way and leaves a lasting impression. Impressed with the local behavior, we happily carbo loaded, promptly felt the fast-food paralysis and hit the sack, intent on taking full advantage of the depth of local sightseeing in our midst during the day before heading Northwest towards Spearfish.