Ah, the Black Hills...who hasn’t seen pictures of this marvelous land? American as apple pie and Cardinal’s baseball, the great Presidents of our nation are etched indelibly into the craggy granite of the mountains. Even Crazy Horse, the mystic Sioux war leader, is being carved into posterity on the peak of a mountain here. I have to say, though, that when I first viewed the carving of Crazy Horse back in 1972 with Diane and Jimmy Tillay during a wild west adventure ( and I mean wild ) it looked about the same as it does today. It doesn’t appear that much has been done to move the process along since that time. In between these two visits we’ve been here to the Hills at least three times. I always check on the progress of Crazy Horse. I still love it, though. Just the thought that someone, or some folks, thought to memorialize a Sioux leader is reassuring to me. In this time of tearing down statues, particularly Confederate war leaders, I ask myself, “How is Crazy Horse different from Robert E Lee? Maybe work should stop on Crazy Horse as well?” But my self same answer to that is pretty simple. This was Indian land to begin with. These Black Hour principal reason for coming this way on our trip back to Missouri.ills are their Holy Place, “Paha Sapa”.
Coming to the Black Hills from any direction it’s easy to see why you might find this area sacred. It rises up from the rolling prairie landPost titles like a giant cathedral. In the southern end of the Black Hills granite spires shoot into the sky with tall, jagged carvings...almost like plein aire stalagmites. Driving along the Needles road through the State Park of Custer there are tunnels for the road that even our jeep can barely fit through. It’s amazing and fun to drive along. The views are spiritual, if not uplifting. Springs and streams abound in the area. Even in this time of drought, there is still water in most of the creeks. The reservoirs, of which there are several, are only about 2-3’ lower than capacity.
We entered the park from the northwestern cornerAdded later even though we drove up from the south, from Cheyenne, WY. We spent the night prior at the AB RV campground in Cheyenne. Though we usually don’t stay in private RV parks this one is very good. They feature a pool (though closed this late in the season) full hookups, and killer barbecue ribs. That’s a first for us...barbecue ribs at an RV Park. If you are reading this and going that way through WY in an RV give AB a try. Nice folks there, too.
After driving through Spearfish Canyon, which is spectacular in the Autumn with all the Aspens and variety of trees changing colors, we tried to camp at Hanna campground. I had read about it and thought it looked really nice, being run by the US Forest Service. The road in is 1 ½ lanes wide. So, here we are driving a 38’ motor home towing a Jeep down this twisty little avenue. There is a gorgeous storybook creek running along the road. It has a good current and is bubbling over rocks and bowling ball boulders as it runs headlong towards the Spearfish Canyon. All manner of grass and other greenery line the banks. Aspens of gold and dark green pines fill out the frame of this picture-perfect setting. When we arrived at the campground...it was closed! The gate was locked. Crap! Now we are stuck on a narrow road hooked up to a Jeep with no apparent way to turn around, and the road forward was getting narrower as it climbed the hills out of sight.
A guy came screaming down the hill on an ATV. I stopped him to ask about the road condition going forward. “ No way, man. Don’t try it” he emphatically said. Diane took the dogs for a much needed walk while I conjured a way out of the dilemma. After unhooking the Jeep, which had the hitch stuck due to the weird angle the motor home sat on, I managed a 12 point U-turn delicately maneuvered so as not to damage the vehicle. There were ditches on either side of the road. I was surprised I could accomplish it, actually. Necessity is the mother of invention as they say.
After wiping the worry sweat off my forehead, we continued south, through Lead and Deadwood on the #385 road. As it was getting late in the day, and determined not to violate our Rule #1 ( Never, under any circumstances, allow yourself to search for a camp site after dark...bad medicine!) we found a US Forest Service campground about 2 miles off the road called Robaix Lake. What a beautiful little spot. The Campground was closed, save for one little stretch that had a half dozen “dry” campsites still open on the road to the Lake itself. We snagged a decent spot. Now, since the campground was officially closed, there was no fee for camping either. Nice...free, semi-boon-docking camping. That fits us to a T. Robaix Lake is a gem of a place, mostly overlooked due to the abundance of other attractions is the area.
There are camping spots galore here in the Black Hills. There are commercial RV parks like crazy in the Hills. It’s quite crowded, too. Perhaps it’s due to the Autumn season, but all the Custer State Park campgrounds are booked for weeks ahead. The US Forest Service campgrounds are pretty crowded as well, except for our little Robaix Lake spot. Ponderosa Pines climb to the skies above stretching to 80 or 100’ above the forest floor. There is very little under-story or brush. It makes for a park-like setting. The small Robaix lake is, as I mentioned, a gem...an emerald of deep green reflecting the pines on its banks. Fish regularly break the surface snapping up insects that tempt them as they spy from the depths. Cattails line the upper reaches of the lake where a small intermittent creek feeds it. It’s picture perfect for the Black Hills, and though there are roughly 30 or 40 camp sites here, most are closed for the season save our little stretch of 6 or 7.
Post titlePost titleDuring our first full day here I walked over to an empty picnic table nearby and sat down to play my guitar. Within minutes a neighbor popped over with his guitar and said to me, “Hey, you’re not going to have all the fun, let’s play some tunes.” He had a fender acoustic guitar, not much of an instrument, really, but he quickly acknowledged such and stated that it was his camping guitar. He didn’t care if it got damaged or ended up as firewood someplace. That was the point. I remember that Brad Koberman, a truly gifted violinist and fellow Road Apple Band mate, and I once brought such a guitar and a fiddle on a float trip down the St Francois River in southeastern Missouri. We ran out of beer on that trip and Brad came up with the idea of playing music on a sandbar for beers from the other passing canoeists as they drifted by. It worked better than we imagined. I remember the most popular tune that day among the floaters that day and the one that fetched the most cold frosties was, “If I only had a Heart” from the Wizard of Oz.
Turns out this fellow was a pretty good guitar player and knew some good tunes we could play together. He said he knew just enough guitar to aggravate a really good guitar player...he’s much better than that. Turns out that this fellow is a Hammond B-3 organ player who’s played with and recorded with several great bands. Turns out this fellow has a degree in music. It turns out that this fellow is a Urologist who flies his own airplane to several practices he has around the state of South Dakota. Turns out this fellow owns his own commercial recording studio to boot called “The Sanctuary” in Rapid City. I think I’m sitting here with a genius I think to myself. Well, we had a great time exchanging stories and what not and played some tunes together until it was time for him to leave and get back to Rapid City.
What a delightful experience it was. It’s yet another example of the interesting and fascinating people you can meet on the road as a nomad if you just allow it to happen. It once again causes me to reflect back on over 2-1/2 years of travel and all the wonderful human beings we have met and become friends with. I think of the crazy characters we’ve met as well who bounce around the back roads like crazy coyotes howlin’ at the moon. Life is so, so much better for having all of them in the world. We’re so, so much better off in our little lives for having met all of them.
Whereas in Colorado nearly everyone wears a mask, cowboys and clerks as well, here in South Dakota it’s as if wearing a mask is mortal sin. I went to a grocery store in a small town and no one, I mean no one, was wearing a mask. Not even the clerks who checked you out were wearing a mask. On the other hand, of the ten men who were in the store, 8 of them were wearing side arms proudly outside their un-tucked shirts. They weren’t concerned about the killer virus, but seemed very concerned about being attacked in the produce aisle. And this, in a town of about 200-300 people. Didn’t they all know each other? Were they afraid of each other? Was there a cranky jackelope lurking in the coffee aisle I missed?
It is such a shame to us that the Covid-19 pandemic is a political pandemic to some folks IE: Real Americans don’t wear masks unless it’s Hollowe’en. I just got news that a musician acquaintance of mine back in St Louis is down for the count with the virus. He’s on a ventilator now and that’s typically the final straw. The last hope in the Covid cycle. (Added later: He passed away a few days after this writing) As we drove down to Rapid City passing “Trump Stores” where you can purchase all things Trumpian we marveled at the not so subtle differences in human behavior these days between Colorado and South Dakota.
Finally, we took time out and drove down to Rapid City for the principal reason we came this way as he make our way towards Missouri. We voted. It felt very satisfying to vote, just as it did when I turned 18 and voted for the first time in my life. Now we know that our vote will be counted and not lost in the mail. It’s strange to us...to reflect upon this voting season. It's such a vastly different time and place.
We spent 4 days here in the “Hills”. It was Autumn and it was sublime. The colors of the forest tickled our eyes. The cool breeze, the undercurrent of Autumn along with the warm sun, made us feel alive and reassured that we had chosen the right path to life at this time in our lives. We drove through the Needles a couple of times and had a wonderful experience there. The granite spires, which give it the name, Needles, are like nothing I’ve seen anywhere else. Truly, the Black Hills is a region unto itself. People have fought to possess it for centuries if not for millennia. I think perhaps some folks, still, are fighting.