An Early Morning

As you might have read, dear reader, I visited the Badlands National Parks a few weeks ago. The first day of that trip was, in sum, around 9 hours of driving West, then some marveling at the Badlands’ stunning beauty, and then leaving the trodden path to find a quiet place to pitch my tent, a place that was apparently already the home of a bighorn sheep…You can read about that first day, and see some pictures, here.

Waking up the next morning around 7:00 am—the sun had already risen but was still veiled behind a heavy curtain of milky whitish-gray clouds—I got out of my slightly damp sleeping bag and left my tent whose walls were, like everything else around, coated all over with heavy dew. The night had turned the air refreshingly cold, and except all the birds singing from their trees and bushes, the wind, and maybe a chirping cricket or two, there wasn’t a single sound to be heard. It was a beautiful morning. My quadruped neighbor (or should I say host?) from the night had already left, but I decided to walk around a bit before leaving too. Right before the small scrubby plateau where my tent stood lay that seemingly endless ‘wall’ that separates the lower from the upper prairie in this area, a hardly passable steep sandstone slope that winds through the land, forming the countless buttes, ravines, gaps and chasms that are the main reason why Dakota tribes as well as French-Canadian trappers and American pioneers considered this region ‘bad lands.’ And not only this morning did I try to imagine people living here, or passing through, in earlier times, all the centuries before, and the few after the United States’ westward expansion. As much as I tend to romanticize the idea of living close to nature, simply off the land—being exposed to something really close to wilderness for such a short time already relativizes my envy for those who actually do, and it increases the respect I feel towards those people. Still, I hope to get some more chances to go out, hike and camp, leave civilization for some time. I am way too used to all the standards, too comfortable with all the knick-knacks, too accustomed to the routines of the town and the city. Having a bighorn sheep standing right next to your bed gives you at least a little idea of why people started building fences and houses. Yes it is cheesy, but going out, phasing down a bit—it cleanses you. There are cheesy truths.

So this early morning, I really wanted to go somewhere—and why not climb that naked butte (no pun intended) so prominent over there slightly to my left? I slid down a slope and scrambled up the other side, walked atop a narrow ridge, carefully, so as to not lose balance and fall down. One of the advantages of travelling alone is that you can do all the stupid things your friends and loved ones would tell you not to do because they might be dangerous. (I know: the disadvantage is already implied here; no one is there to help you! But relying on your own judgment every now and then is a good thing, too.) After a few minutes of scrambling, balancing, and leaping, I arrived on that butte located in the middle of winding ravines and bluffs, amidst all those colors produced by the different layers of sandstone, by the mutual exclusion of shadow and light. North of this rough and rocky strip of terrain, stretching for miles and miles towards the distant horizon, lay the vast prairie, and a few hundred feet behind me my lonely little tent between the bushes. Less than half a mile behind it, the road and my car. It was time now to pack my things and go. I had made up my mind to drive a bit farther into the Black Hills and see Mount Rushmore today.

Rucksack on my back and sleeping bag in a hand, I left my plateau, back through the bushes, along the side of a small ravine, then climbing up the slope (which was harder than sliding down on it), and along the meadow that leads to the road. There I saw a big bird—either a vulture or a wild turkey—waddling along in the distance, looking for some breakfast I guess. Back at the car I changed, put on some music, rolled down the window, and took off.

Wall Drug Stuffed Animan Hipster

Directly north outside the Badlands, the (apparently very famous) Wall Drug Store is located in the tiny town of Wall, SD, named after the already mentioned sandstone wall that cuts through the prairie here. There’s not to much to tell about it, I think this town’s entire existence today rests upon the store and the attempt to preserve/simulate/create some kind of Wild West atmosphere; Main Street is loaded with weird touristy shops that sell cowboy equipment, merch, and souvenirs. Hats, boots, belts, shirts, key chains, stickers, magnets, mugs, books, and so forth. I came there for the restaurant’s 5 cent coffee (which is, among all the other things advertised as soon as you’re west of the Missouri; hundreds of billboards along the highway) and, of course, just to see it. And it is really kinda weird, but I don’t quite understand all the fuzz about it. Maybe it’s just self created. Wouldn’t be the first one to do that. The coffee was good, and since everything else was pretty overpriced, but I felt stupid sitting in a restaurant just sipping a cup of 5 cent coffee, I ordered the affordable breakfast potatoes. Nothing fancy. I left the consumer bonanza and, after a short time on the highway, had to pass a pretty odd and run down small town out of which I took an unpaved road that went on for miles between the endlessly rolling hills, empty and desolate except for the occasional herd of cattle grazing underneath the deeply hanging clouds. In the distance I could now discern the Black Hills, but it was still more than an hour until I would arrive.