We must go north on US 83 before we can go west. Beady-eyed at sunrise, the sun is now lost behind a thick layer of clouds as we cross into South Dakota.
Turning west on 44, the landscape lacks only an ocean on the hooded horizon. The road picks up dimension and the landscape acquires rock formations and erosion patterns against a deep green palette. Untrimmed cedar trees look like enthusiastic bushes. Cattle country.
With the Bakersfield Beat on SXM as our soundtrack, we at last make it to the Badlands, which are small in scale but interesting geologically. Who knew this area was part of an inland sea? With all kinds of interesting dinosaurs. Even though the light is grey and flat, the air 65 degrees and windy, there are beautiful areas to be beheld, either by car or on foot, of sedimentary rock, finely carved by erosion over thousands of years (it will be gone in about 500,000 years — get in while you can). And as you get deeper into the park, the colors become more intense. I imagine what it would look like under full sun. Spectacular. So glad to at last be in the west.
But the day is young. We gained another hour and are now on mountain time. After fortifications at the Dairy Queen in Wall, SD, (only the best for us), we are back on the road continuing to angle north and west, to pick up 44W through the Black Hills, after bypassing a detour down south to see Mount Rushmore (next trip).
The Black Hills feel very western — foothills in the vernacular of the Rockies, but heavily forested by a certain kind of black pine that creates the darkened tone. Deep in these hills on 85N is the small casino town of Deadwood (yes, that Deadwood). Which would be a fantastic place to walk and browse… but for the thousands upon thousands of motorcycles parked along the main street. All you see or hear is motorcycles. Little did we know that the Sturgis Rally is this coming week.
We jumped on and off I90 going west, until at last we cross over into Wyoming. “Green Grass of Wyoming” is a book written by Mary O’ Hara, author of “My Friend Flicka” and a fact of these grasslands, the sure sign of summer, according to Ms. O’ Hara. We are here at last. Tonight we stay in the small town of Gillette. Tomorrow, Big Horn National Park…
WordShelter.com 