Joe Mountain

"I need to use your phone to call 911!"

As I heard the screen door slam behind me, I stopped my homemade apple pie purchase to look over my left shoulder for the origin of excitable commanding words.  The young counter clerk broke away from our conversation and handed the young man the cordless house phone.  As he initiated the conversation with the EMS dispatcher, the clerk and I completed our transaction as we overtly eavesdropped on the on-going dialogue.

Elderly man. Unresponsive. 2-miles off the highway on a trail. Nurse on-scene.

Then came the mandatory, but useless questions.  Address (in the forest); phone number where you can be reached (there's no cell service out here); and so on...

I made my way to the truck and asked Kristy if her paramedic skills were ready to come out of retirement.  After giving her the paucity of info I overheard inside, she merely replied, "Let's go."  When the young man exited the store, I informed him of Kristy's skill-set and told him we'd follow him to the scene.  He said "Okay" and we were off.  While Kristy was going through her mental checklist of what we had available in the truck for an emergency scenario, I was intently focused on trying to keep pace with the lead vehicle.  He was hauling ass!!!  I was thankful for slower moving traffic on the mountain road, as it kept me from driving 80 MPH to keep up.  We reached the Forest Service Road in about 10 minutes ( previously it was a 20-30 min drive) where the young man gave us further directions; he would wait at the main highway to direct the EMS responders.

Up the wash-board gravel road 2.2 miles and over the one-lane wooden bridge, we found the campsite just as the young man had described.  We pulled in to where an older man "Bill" and an elderly woman were standing in the shade of a lone lodgepole pine.  We exited Hank, informed them that EMS was en route, and Kristy began her situational assessment dialogue.  The elderly lady identified herself as Laura, the wife of the victim—Joe.  Bill informed us that his wife—a retired nurse was up on the nearby ridge with Joe.  Kristy asked if he was conscious, to which Laura replied, "No.  Joe's gone."

Born on the last day of 1932 in Buffalo, Wyoming; Joe was raised by a first-generation immigrant "mountain man" whose roots were firmly planted in the Pyrenees Mountains along the France-Spain border.  Joe's impressionable years occurred in the shadows of The Big Horn, where he began his lineage love for mountain life.  After reaching adulthood, he began his career with the Wyoming Highway Patrol.  He found the love of his life in his hometown of Buffalo, and soon thereafter made her his wife.  Children and countless trips to enjoy nature at higher elevations followed.  He experienced the joy of raising five children, and the heartbreak of burying two; recently commenting to Laura that he didn't want to bury any more of his children.  He had even mentioned to Laura over the past few days that he was ready to go home.  She told us she thought he was talking about Buffalo.

Earlier that morning, Joe and Laura took a walk to a nearby overlook behind their campsite.  After spending some time taking in the inspirational views, they returned to their camper and had an unremarkable lunch--their last meal together.  After lunch, Laura said she wanted to take a short nap.  Joe encouraged her to do so, stating that he wanted to take in the ridge-top view and capture some photos one more time.  He walked to the top, removed his shirt to let the sun warm his well-worn chassis, and sat on a nearby log.

When Laura awoke from her nap, Joe had not yet returned.  She thought he had tarried a bit much, but gave him a little more time before finally grabbing her hiking stick to go check on him.  When she reached the top of the plateau, she saw her husband of 58-years lying on the ground with his feet resting across the log he had been sitting on.  Joe had indeed gone home.

She carefully navigated her 82 year old body down the narrow, rocky path to the forest service road where she flagged-down a young man and his family from Gillette, who were camping nearby.  I would meet him later while making an apple pie transaction.  The next people to be flagged were Bill and his wife Sara.  With her nursing background, she summited the ridge and stayed with Joe until addition help arrived.  An array of emergency responders began to descend upon the camp shortly after our arrival. Johnson County Sheriff arrived first, with Forest Service Rangers and Buffalo EMS only a few minutes behind.

Bill and Kristy led the sherriff up to Joe's final resting place where Sara sat and watched over him.  Sara was relieved to have help, and get a reprieve from her vigil.  As the sheriff spoke to Sara, Kristy relayed how she marveled at the beautiful place Joe had chosen to perch.  The sunbeams pierced the forest canopy and bathed the log that would be his final resting place; a warm glow exuding peacefulness across the ridge.

Knowing how far each of these agencies travelled, and their arrival time since the 911 call was made, their trip up the mountain had to be a harrowing one.  As the other agencies arrived and exited their vehicles with great expediency, their sense of disappointment and sadness was visibly seen when they were informed that this was not a rescue, but a recovery.  Buffalo is a small, close-knit community.  Joe was no stranger to most of the responders.

The assembled responders made their way to Joe.  When they arrived at the ridge-line, they had a moment of quiet reverence as they stood on the stage where the final act of Joe's long life played out.  It was bittersweet, with the solemness of a passing soul blending with the inspirational surroundings that Joe had chosen as his last mortal view.  After performing agency-specific procedures, they respectfully covered him and carried him down from the ridge.  Unable to use a gurney, the 6-man team slowly made their way down the steep and rocky decline, reminiscent of a military casion team; while the pines and aspen stood at attention as Joe made his final descent from his beloved mountains.

Laura and their three dachshunds were at the camper.  She had a network of friends and family in Buffalo, but the non-existence of cellular service prevented her from engaging.  Vision problems rendered her incapable of driving, much less pulling a camper down the series of 8% grades.  With the EMS crew ready to take Joe to Buffalo, I offered to drive Laura and their camper into town.  Kristy and the boys would follow us.  After hitching up their camper, Laura and her hounds climbed into the Ford F-150 and we began our descent.  The truck didn't have an exhaust brake, so I drove slower than the posted speed-limit to reduce brake temperatures.  Although the trip was lengthy, she spent the time telling me about the life of her soul-mate; which I've tried to capture in this writing.

Just outside Buffalo she was able to make contact with long-time family friends.  They insisted she stay with them, so I drove the truck and camper to their ranchette.   Being part of the closing chapter of Joe and Laura's outdoor history was not lost on Kristy or myself.  With the truck and camper parked, and Laura physically in the presence of her network of friends and family, we departed.  She had a tough road ahead, but she was with Her People.  They would care for her.

Joe was born in the mountains; spent his youth in the mountains; got a job in the mountains; got married in the mountains; raised a family in the mountains; vacationed in the mountains; retired in the mountains; and died in the mountains.  His headstone my reflect a different surname, but we feel he lived a long and prosperous life as Joe Mountain.

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Bighorn National Forest Boon-docking (WY)

As the sun wraps-up it's vitamin-D distribution for the day, the eastward-flowing shadows of The Bighorn Mountains converge at the crossroads of Interstates 90 & 26.  It is at this Great Plains junction that you’ll find the town of Buffalo.  What The Badlands failed to do to settler's spirits, this 80-mile long/30-mile wide/13,000+' high obstacle could bring a halt to further westward progress.  Being 19th-Century cowboy town, you'll find a much larger selection of Carhartt than Calvin Klein.  Our visit coincided with the annual county fair, but this wasn't the type of fair that featured carnival rides and stuffed animal prizes.  These folks focused on the important stuff: animal raising, canning, and ranching skills. You won't get a 36" Minion for popping a balloon with a dart, but you can get a years worth of braggin' rights if you can hang on to that bronc for 8-seconds or if your blackberry jam takes top honors.  Priorities...these folks have ‘em.  

The downtown area shows it’s 19th-Century beginnings and cattle-centric mindset.  Across from the city park—where bronze statues of cattle dogs herding sheep mark the entrance—the Occidental Hotel anchors the downtown, two-story skyline.  Like stepping back in time, this hotel has retained its early-western decor.  The vast array of antiques gives the first impression of a static museum; but this is a fully-operational hotel with full room, bar, and dining services.

Occidental Hotel lobby panorama

With our first boon-docking experience being a huge success, we were ready for more.   In keeping with the "scout first—camp later" methodology, we pulled into the Buffalo KOA and established our scouting camp.  The Buffalo KOA is a nice campground that allowed us to flush our holding tanks, do laundry,  take care of any ordering or other personal business requiring internet connectivity.  It also gave us a short break from watching our fuel/battery/tank gauges.

First order of business was visiting the U.S. Forest Service office that oversees Bighorn National Forest.  The helpful rangers provided us with a detailed map similar to the one we used near Devil's Tower.  There was a slight modification to the rules-of-engagement, as the local Forest Service office had implemented a policy allowing dispersed camping only in existing camp locations.  What this meant for us was that we could only camp in an area that was already established as a camping pad and had a fire-ring.  We didn't anticipate this having much of an impact on us, as we were not interested in trailblazing or bushwhacking our rig into the next site.

Where to camp?  Meadow? Forest? Mountain?

Bighorn National Forest is a 1.1-Million acre multi-use government managed area in North-Central Wyoming.  Because of the sheer area that this forest encompasses, we didn't think that we'd have any trouble finding a place to boon-dock—after all, there was far less public land around Devil's Tower and we only saw one or two RV's the entire week we camped.  After leaving the strictly enforced 30 MPH Buffalo city limits speed limit, we began a series of 8-degree climbs into the Bighorn Mountains.  These are old mountains, with Precambrian rock—formations dating back over a billion years—jutting out to frame the edge of the highway. 

Skeleton of a flume is all that remains from the Sourdough Creek timbering activities

About 20-miles into the journey we took our first scouting route: Sourdough Road.  This location was a huge focal point to local timbering activities over 100-years ago, and the remains of that infrastructure can be found amongst the vast undergrowth.  This gravel path follows (what else?) Sourdough Creek as it flows from the spring-fed elevations above.  We saw more established boon-docking sites in the first mile of Sourdough Road than we did our entire stay at Devil's Tower.  Unfortunately, we also saw more campers on these sites than we did our entire stay at Devil's Tower.  Finding a good spot might be tougher than we thought.

Buddy modeling his latest hair coloring: The Dirt Fade

Sourdough Road itself was in fair condition—with only a few spots having teeth-rattling washboarding—but the spurs leading to the boon-docking sites were really bad.  Large rocks on the crest of the road; coupled with severely rutted-out tracks made me give pause before putting Hank's transmission case at risk.  The sites that weren't a challenge to egress were either occupied by fellow campers, or grazing livestock.  I have nothing against livestock...I have them over for dinner at least once a week.  The problem is that they have a tendency to leave evidence of their presence wherever they roam.  This does not bode well in a family with two dogs who are prone to wallowing in newfound turf.

Unknown roadside grave on Elgin Park Road

We found a few spots on Sourdough Road that were just okay, so we annotated our map and continued our search.  The next road was Elgin Park.  We have heard good things about this road through a boon-docking publication that we had subscribed to, so our hopes were still intact.  The first place we found was not a camping site, but a crudely constricted grave just off the road.  We had documented many cemeteries and graves during our cross-country travels, but this one was the most surprising due go its singularity and location.

Lots of boon-docking sites; and lots of boon-dockers

We continued down Elgin Park and were astounded at the number of campers that lined the main road and adjacent spurs.  We counted no less than 30, and that is just what we could see from the main road.  A trip down any side spur would reveal an additional dozen or more occupied campsites.  These people really loved to boon-dock!  As we exited a large strand of pines and approached the ridge-line ahead, we were graced with a magnificent view of the snow-capped mountain range—complete with a meadow of golden grasses spanning across the hillside.  We stopped in the middle of the road to take in this awe-inspiring view, as well as a few photo.  While I remained fixated on the view ahead, Kristy pointed towards my window and said, "Look! Campsites!"  WINNER! WINNER! CHICKEN DINNER!!!

Front yard view from our Bighorn boon-docking site

With our first-choice campsite selected, we returned to Buffalo—making sure to drive 30 MPH when we hit the city limits—and made our final preparations.  Anxious to spend some quality time in the solitude of the mountains, we completed our pre-flight chores much quicker.  The next morning we finished-up our departure checklist and rolled out to higher elevations.  With the sun beaming off the eastern Bighorn slopes, we made our assent up the steep grades.  A full measure of water, propane, generator gas, and recently purchases sundries had Hank was working all of his horses.  Although diesel engines generally perform better at higher altitudes than their gasoline engine counterparts, Hank was earning his keep on the 8% uphill grade while pulling the additional 500-pounds of drinking water.  

After crossing ridge after ridge, we arrived at our (thankfully!) vacant campsite.  The approach was steep enough to cause Glory to scrape her rear hitch on the road as we pulled onto the side spur.  We backed Glory into the campsite and checked for level.  It was difficult to see from with all the rolling terrain, but the site was badly sloping from left-to-right.  After several attempts to get Glory onto a left-right level spot, we noticed a small ditch a few feet away.  It was only about 4-6" deep, and 4-6' long.  The "Ah Ha! moment" arrived, and we realized some other 5'er owner had dug this depression to achieve the left-right  level that we sought.  When Glory's driver's-side wheels eased into the trench, the bubble on the level went to center.  Park It!

Kicking' it by the campfire under the lodgepole pine canopy

After a leisurely set-up, we parked our folding chairs on the front row of our spectacular view and again found ourselves in relative solitude.  The open view to the north and west allowed incoming light, while the rest of our site sat in the shade of Lodgepole Pines.  There was an abundance of seasoned and dry timber to keep the pre-existing fire-ring stoked.  Deer were frequently spotted a few feet from our perimeter, and elk were seen just a bit further back.  There was even evidence of moose activity in the aspen glade about 100-meters behind our camp; with an abundance of large droppings, hoof prints, and chewed bark.  The sunrises illuminated the mountain range, while the sunsets slowly melted behind the darkening contrasted peaks.  These spectacular views greeted us every moment, and we felt as though we were immersed amongst nature.  

Open Range Grazing: A place for every activity in The Bighorn

When the weekend arrived; the solitude, serenity and wildlife predictably reduced.  Caravans of trailers rolled down the dusty road en route to their weekend get-away.  ATVs sprinted up and down the road by the dozens.  We quickly learned that there are two primary seasons in the Bighorn: ATV and hunting.  During Spring and Summer, the majority of users are riding ATVs along the expansive trail network.  In the Fall and Winter, the focus shifts to hunting.

To ensure that everyone is afforded opportunities to respectfully utilize our public lands, the Forest Service hires seasonal rangers to assist in managing the various interests and activities within the forest.  These interests and activities include: dispersed camping, hunting, fishing, trail hiking, motorized and non-motorized trail riding, livestock grazing, timbering, and geological/archeological research.  Keeping all of the aforementioned groups playing nicely together on the same piece of land is a full-time job.  

Miles to explore: A ribbon of road bisects fields of gold

Even with the dramatic influx of weekend activities within the forest, we spent enjoyable days hiking around the immediate area, or exploring the vast web of backroads that provide access across this vast forest.  We found a few roads that took us to tremendous views and wide-open spaces that provided breathtaking views and the solitude of nature that we were seeking; while other roads led to kidney-bruising dead-ends.  Regardless, the hours of exploring this vast, (mostly) unspoiled wilderness was a vacation unto itself. 

Thanks for the warning, but...we're here for the adventure.

One of our exploration trips was down "Crazy Woman Trail."  This narrow and rock-laden road wad a real kidney-bruiser under Hank's ultra-stiff suspension.  We traveled several miles until we decided the views were not worth our fillings being rattled loose.  About halfway back, we were stopped by a guy on a Harley.  He asked us—in a very European dialect—if it was okay to drive a motorcycle down this road.  I told him it was legal, but it might not be the best idea if he wants to preserve his kidneys or paint job.  We took a brief detour and then continued to the entrance of "Crazy Woman Road."

When we arrived at the intersection, the guy on the Harley was there with a group of other motorcyclists.  All of them had patches on their jackets that identified them as Swedish Hog Riders.  This group had obviously traveled a long way to take part in the 75th Sturgis Rally, and we're now a days ride away from the American Motorcycle Mecca. They were all dismounted and looking around at the scenery, so I quickly accessed all of my Swedish phrases I was taught in grade school and gave them a hearty and welcoming, "Bork, Bork, Bork."  The eldest gentleman approached an told us they were looking for moose and asked if I knew where they could find some.  I relayed to them that we had not seen any, but there were river areas that were more prone to moose activity.  I also informed them that (moose) cows can be very dangerous when accompanying their calfs, and to make sure you give them a wide berth when photographing.  Above all, do not approach or try to pet them.  This information seemed to be completely “foreign" to them, and the older guy relayed to the group the info I had presented.  They all gave the universal, “we had no idea" look, and continued to talk amongst themselves.  Still not sure why they were looking for a moose, but I suspect it involved some unusual Swedish cuisine.





Suddenly, a young woman in their group pointed at some objects on the distant ridge-line.  She had the entire groups attention as she pointed at the distant, dark objects that were barely moving.  I grabbed my binoculars and walked to her vantage point.  As the group pointed and pontificated whether it was moose, antelope, or deer; I focused my lens and clearly saw...the tops of aspen trees gently swaying in the wind.  The group awaited my proclamation as to which North American species they were witnessing in its natural habitat.  I told the older guy, "Trees."  He initially looked puzzled, then looked through my binoculars and laughed.  He then informed the group that it was merely tree tops swaying in the wind.  

The younger woman was slightly embarrassed, and was catching some ribbing from her fellow travelers.  Never passing up an opportunity to haze a citizen from a neutral country, I turned to her and said,"Not dangerous. You can pet them."  NOW she was thoroughly embarrassed, as her companions increased their roasting of her.  I offered them some bottled water; thanked them for their utilitarian knives, accurate watches, tasty meatballs, soothing massages, and attractive bikini team; and gave them another hearty "Bork, Bork, Bork."  If Sweden ever declares war against us, I'm taking credit.  

“I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it.” -- Rosalia de Castro

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Devil's Tower Boon-docking (WY)

"Be getting' over, till the Big Sky Country; We be kissing' time, be kissing' time goodbye." ~ Chris Whitley; Big Sky Country

Confident that we had enough infrastructure and experience, Kristy and I began preparations for our top-shelf goal--boon-docking.  Boon-docking--also known as "dispersed camping" by the U.S. Forest Service folks--is the practice of setting-up your camp on public lands.  This create-a-camp methodology requires the camper to bring ALL of the infrastructure and basic needs that are commonly found inside traditional campgrounds.  It also means that the dispersed campsite will likely be a rough, unimproved piece of land that may pose significant access and RV leveling challenges.  These two challenges are the reason scouting is such a vital task, and why we opted to utilized the nearby Reuter campground.

With the recently acquired U.S. Forest Service map in-hand, we climbed aboard Hank and began our scouting adventure.  The map is similar to most, with the exception of small dots lying adjacent to existing roadways, signifying where approved dispersed camping areas are located.  The good news was that there seemed to be hundreds of dots covering the map--giving us a wide selection to choose from.  The bad news was that dispersed camping also includes hikers carrying a one-person tent in their ruck.  We'd need a little more acreage to accommodate Glory's massive footprint.

The rules are fairly simple.  Find a location that is approved for dispersed camping, and set-up your camp within 300' from the center of the road; and don't stay more than 14-consecutive days in that location.  This means that you can actually camp on the side of the road as long as you do not impede the flow of traffic.  This may seem like an easy solution, but it would be a bit unnerving to awake to 4-wheel drive headlights racing towards the bedroom slide that protrude towards the edge of the roadway.

Our plan was simple: start driving backroads.  The first road we explored was a gravel passage that wound through the adjacent hills, varying in width as it made its way through the forest.  Our roles were vastly different, but equal in importance and necessity.  While Kristy was peering up to 300' into the adjacent woods looking for potential campsites, I was imagining pulling Glory down this rocky path.  With every "ooh" and "ahh" that the scenery invoked from Kristy, there was a matching "ooh, that's a tight turn with a 20' drop-off" and "ahh...think that tree branch hangs a bit too low."  

We found a side road off the main side road that looked promising.  The map had this road leading to a hill-top outcropping with elevated views towards the east.  The road was narrow, but navigable...for a short distance.  The rough and rocky road quickly became a two-rut pathway that was littered with large rocks and crowded by trees and stumps.  We proceeded to the terminus where we found the beautiful overlook that the map had accurately displayed.  We also found a few things that weren't on the map: a make-shift camper that may or may not have been occupied; and no place to turn around.  This last finding really drove home the importance of scouting, as backing an RV down the path we'd just travelled would've been virtually impossible.  I put Hank in reverse and we began our slow retreat through the rocks, stumps, and trees.  We eventually found a very small clearing where--with Kristy as an outside spotter and Hank in 4WD--I was able to make a 12-point turn-around.  

Emil Reuter: Pioneer, Prospector, Hermit & Local Legend

For a moment I was getting discouraged.  If that last site was what the "average" boon-docking site looked like, we're probably going to be hanging out in developed campgrounds.  The next road was wider and not so tree-laden; but it didn't have any sites that we could get Glory into.  It did have two interesting features: an abandoned gold mine, and the grave of Emil Reuter--a famous prospecting hermit who lived in the nearby hills and whose name adorns the Forest Service campground where we were staying.

Walker Campground; Black Hills National Forest

We jumped back on the paved thoroughfare and kept moving northward.  At Bear Lodge Mountain--site of the USFS fire tower--the pavement abruptly ends.  We pressed onward for another mile and decided to take a short side road and give The Boys a little run-around time.  At the top of this side road was a big...level...mountain-top...gravel pad. Once the site of a radio transmission tower, this abandoned tract had 360-degree views and a 15' concave berm that blocked the strong northwesterly winds.  The western slope was covered in native grasses--an ideal spot for observing grazing wildlife; and the northern slope had an unobstructed view of Devil's Tower--fifteen miles away.  J-A-C-K-P-O-T!!!

We returned to Reuter campground and made preparations for our off-the-grid journey.  After emptying our tanks (for a small fee) at a RV park in Sundance, we filled our 70-gallon fresh water tank and headed to our remote and exclusive campground.  With an abundance of space, Hank easily pulled Glory onto a level area adjacent to the berm.  After a routine set-up and deployment of "Three Mile" and "Chernobyl"--our twin Honda Power Plants--we sat on the top of Our Mountain and took in Our View.  The Dream had become reality.

Darkness envelopes Devil's Tower behind a lava-red sunset

From Walker Campground we set out on daily drives to further explore the Black Hills  National Forest (WY), and of course...Devil's Tower.  Instead if taking the Devil's Tower tourist highway (US 14), we opted for a leisurely trip through the backroads that traversed both public and private lands.  The scenery was spectacular, and we were able to stop Hank at any place we wished to capture these memories.  

Scenic backroads to Devil's Tower

Designated as America's first national monument in 1906 by President Teddy Roosevelt, Devil's Tower received a boost in notoriety as the UFO airstrip in the 1977 Steven Spielberg movie, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind."  This monolithic monument is also sacred amongst the Native American population, with the creation of the tower being a part of tribal lore. 

Classic Devil's Tower; Western slope in full afternoon sun

Walker Campground served as our bed-down location for six wonderful nights; enjoying the scenery, solitude, and sunsets.  Well...five were wonderful.  The one thing missing from Walker Campground is a reliable cellular signal. Without a strong signal, we are mostly blind to any weather conditions that may spawn during the night.  On one such evening--predictably around 2 AM--I was awoken by shaking and paparazzi-like light flashes.  The shaking was being generated by Callie--who had relocated his astraphobia-rigors to the safety of my pillow; and the light flashes were from a continual lightening event that was passing dangerously close overhead.  

Massive thunderhead illuminates the evening sky as it prepares to illuminate the late night sky.

One of the many benefits of camping on top of a mountain is that you have an unobstructed view of the lightening as the clouds pass through your camp.  I grabbed my iPhone and saw that it could only muster 1-bar of service, with an occasional leap into 2-bars.  I opened up my "go-to" weather app--Storm--to see if I could get any info on the blinding light show that was transpiring around us.  Storm loaded up the radar, and it appeared to be just an all-purpose thunderstorm passing by.  I relayed this to Kristy, and told her that it should pass without issue in about 15-minutes.  

I retrieved the weather radio to see if any additional information could be gleaned.  Upon my return to the bedroom, I found that the Storm application had received enough data to update the very outdated radar that I had previously viewed.  We now had a severe thunderstorm with 60-MPH winds and the possibility of damaging hail five minutes away.  The 60 MPH winds were of concern, as the Forest Service employee at the fire tower informed us that winds "up top" are normally 20 MPH higher than what the weather service reports for lower elevations.  We were now faced with the potential for 80 MPH winds and hail only monuments away.  

After informing Kristy of the impending weather, we decided to seek better shelter.  Being no strangers to bad weather on this trip, we have a "bug-out bag" at-the-ready for such events.  We grabbed our essentials and tried to coach The Boys out of the trailer.  The lightening was intense and there was no need for a flashlight, as the habitual flashes in the low-hanging clouds overhead kept the mountain-top area well lit.  Begrudgingly (and probably a bit confused considering the outside weather), The Boys exited Glory and jumped into Hank.  We really had no place to go, but knew 1) we didn't want to be completely exposed on top of the mountain; and 2) we didn't want to be next to anything big (i.e. Glory) if the winds decided to start "moving things around." 

"I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.  Asked the Lord above for mercy, 'Save me if you please.'" ~ Robert Johnson; Crossroads

The road in front of our campsite traverses down to lower elevations and into a denser forested area.  We headed to lower ground, hoping that the trees would provide some reprieve from the wind and hail, but also realizing that they could be a hazard if the wind starts blowing them over.  We drove to an intersection of Fort Service roads, parked off to the side, and waited.  And waited.  And waited.

After midnight.  Alone on a desolate dirt road.  Waiting at the crossroads.  Devil('s Tower) nearby.  Robert Johnson would be proud.

Using our best guestimation, we waited for an hour as the winds and rain increased and then tapered off.  We headed back up to Walker Campground, hoping that any damage to Glory would be minimal.  With the exception of our front patio mat being wrapped like a scarf around Glory's front landing gear, there was no damage whatsoever.  We watched the storm as it continued eastward--with the continuous lightening illuminating the massive cloud formation--and a clear, star-filled sky in it's wake.  Confident that the danger had passed, We hauled our tired bodies back inside and quickly fell asleep.

The weekend came and we were fortunate to visit with The Hayes family for the 4th time in as many weeks.  It was great to sit on top of our private retreat and break bread with such great friends.  I had built an in-ground fire-pit at the apex to enhance the sunset experience, but the reliably constant Wyoming winds kept us from christening the newest campsite feature.  We again said our goodbyes and prepared ourselves for the move.  

Kristy & The Boys watching The Dream become Reality

Our first attempt at boon-docking was a great success; and it whetted out appetites to seek-out additional dispersed camping opportunities.  More bad weather was rolling in.   The storm-front with its curtains of precipitation were clearly visible from our mountain-top retreat, and it was rapidly closing in on us.  The wind increased to where I could not keep my sunglasses on my face.  We broke camp with great expediency and drove westward through high winds and spawning storms.  After a long day of battling headwinds that kept Hank averaging a meager 8 miles-per-gallon, we arrived at our next scouting camp: Buffalo, Wyoming and the eastern gateway to The Big Horn.

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Sundance (WY)

Wyoming: Big Skies, Barb Wire, and Open Ranges

While I was doing all the pre-flight checks on Hank and Glory, The Navigator was entering our projected destination into the mapping program.  Regardless of our route, we only had a 2-hour trek ahead of us on this day.  It was up to us to decide if we wanted to spend those two hours covering 80-miles of Interstate, or 100-miles of Black Hills secondary roads.  Decisions...decisions [eye-rolling sarcasm].

We made the westward turn onto Hwy 16 at Custer and slowly drove past the crowds of moto-pilgrims who had taken a pause in their pilgrimage to Sturgis.  The town was getting a much needed infusion of "new money"; hopefully enough to ward off adding to the roles of failed and abandoned businesses that dotted our exit route out of town.

Sincere or Sarcastic?  Only the proprietor of (the former) Budget Burger knows.

Hank began the climb that would carry us over The Black Hills and into Wyoming.  The grade was indeed steep, but nothing that we hadn't experienced in Tennessee or Arkansas.  As we made our way into the higher elevations, the beauty--as well as destruction--of natural forces unveiled before us.  

"A tree falls the way it leans.  Be careful which way you lean." ~ The Lorax (Dr. Seuss)

The terrestrial landscape before us--carved eons ago as the Earth passed through puberty--was beautiful to behold.  The steeply smooth profile of yet-to-be eroded soil building upon itself as the elevation gains, forming layers of an earthen meringue that blankets. Eventually these smooth hillsides will succumb to the torrents of nature and reveal the austere Badlands scenery hidden below the (still) fertile ground above.

The scattered remains of a once thriving and vibrant forest.

The erosion phase of this transformation is firmly underway, with the introduction of wood-boring insects and the complete destruction of large tracts of forests.  All you can do is stare in sullen awe at the expansive hillsides littered with the remnants of a once vibrant forest.  Tree-sized pick-up sticks haphazardly strewn down the hillsides, leaving the soil and animals exposed to fend for themselves against the harshness that nature will most certainly bring again.  I've never been much of a volunteer tree planter, but the violent transformation occurring to our forests could change that.

After climbing to the apex on our winding asphalt trail, we were on the downhill toboggan run into Wyoming.  The scenery abruptly changed from the (mostly) green elevated outcroppings to long, worn hillsides painted in the light-brown pastels of native grasses.  Seasonal rocky creek-beds picketed the arid stretches of pasture; sneaking under the 3-strand barb wire and dispersing across fields accustomed to temperamental irrigation. 

Cowboy Humor

This was not the touristy haven that we'd left behind--this was cowboy country.  In the later part of the 1800's, this area was the northern edge for open range grazing--an  area between North Texas and Wyoming that was used to fatten cattle for domestic consumption and international export.  This era in American history produced the Western Lore of the infamous cattle drives and the birth of cattle companies.  Fences were prohibited as to let the cattle move across the expansive tracts of public lands.  The combination of severe weather and westward expansion brought the end to The Great Plains cattle drives; but today's ranchers still utilize these public lands to continue the American tradition of open range ranching.

We took a northward trek at Newcastle (WY)--the halfway point--and an hour later we were slowly motoring through the town of Sundance.  Made popular by Hollywood by the 1969 movie "Butch Cassity and The Sundance Kid," Sundance actually derives its name from the Lakota Owíwaŋyaŋg Wačhí, or "Sun-Watching Dance."  

[Factoid: The Sundance Kid is the outlaw nickname for Harry Longabaugh, a member of Butch Cassity's "Wild Bunch."  Alan Hale, Jr.--most notoriously known for his portrayal of The Skipper on the television series Gilligan's Island--played Harry Longabaugh in the 1957 movie, The Three Outlaws.  This brings the total number of Gilligan's Island references in our blog to 3.]

Sundance is a quiet little town that sits due south of Bear Lodge Mountain.  It has just about everything you need to live a comfortable life, and none of the things that you need to live an overly comfortable life.  The Dog Pound is a small fast-food shack that serves-up ground-round burgers, home-cut fries, and hand-made shakes.  I could eat there until my cholesterol matches Hanks odometer.

"A dyslexic man walks into a bra."  ~ Author unknown

A block away is The Turf Bar & Lounge--a dark and smokey watering-hole that hasn't had an upgrade since Harry Longabaugh walked the local streets.  We normally don't frequent bars, but when I asked a local where I could buy a bottle of vino, I was directed towards The Turf.  When I walked into the smoldering saloon, the dozen or so geriatric locals stopped their conversations and diverted their attention to the stranger who had just breeched "their Turf."  I looked around for a display of retail wines, but the only bottles I saw were the ones behind the bar, and the ones currently being emptied by aged beer drinkers.  Realizing that I had been "punked" by a non-drinking local, I retraced my steps towards the door from whence I came. 

Through the smoky darkness came a raucously scratchy voice--the kind that can only be achieved through years of sand-blasting without a respirator, or gargling with ground glass--weaving its way through the crowd of regulars.  When the raspy reverberation reached my ears, it had evolved into a question; "You lookin' for the licka store?"  The question stunned me.  Was this woman a fortune teller?  Was she going to direct me to the basement of The Alamo?  I cautiously replied, "Yes Ma'am."  Holding a half-burnt cigarette between her index and middle finger, she pointed the small smoking scepter towards a narrow doorway behind the bar and bellowed in a gravelly intonation; "Ya gotta go behind the bar."  

Admiral Ackbar's infamous phrase, "IT'S A TRAP!" rushed through my mind; as I proceeded with caution through the caliginous cantina.  I walked on the "working side" of the bar and into a small room where two ladies were selling liquor out the drive-through window--the only source of light in this room.  They too possessed a life-long passion for driving Phillip Morris stock through the ceiling, and seemed a bit surprised that someone would make an out-of-vehicle cameo appearance in their libation lair.  They had both kinds of wine--white and red--so I bought one of their below-average wine offerings and paid their above-average price.  

Kristy & The Boys kicking' it by the campfire at Reuter Campground

Our last stop before setting-up camp was at the local U.S. Forest Service office.  Kristy did the honors of engaging with the rangers and picking up a few maps that would be valuable in the coming days.  We headed northward up Sundance-Warren Peak Road to the (USFS) Reuter campground.  This was a "dry camping" venue similar to those in South Dakota, but we weren't planning on staying long.  This was our scouting camp for our first attempt at being completely off-the-grid.  We were about to embark on our "boon-docking" phase.

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Rainbows, and Yetis, and Axe Wounds! Oh, My!

Stormy sunset across Deerfield Lake

We drove through Hill City (SD) and turned northwest onto Deerfield Road. The winding paved roads took us to a dusty, gravel Forest Service road that leads to Dutchman Campground.  Dutchman is a "dry camping" site that houses nearly 4-four dozen campsites.  The year-round camp-host--Roger--welcomed us and helped us pick out the best pad in the park.  With only a few campers populating the well-spaced campsites, Kristy took the tiller and backed Glory's 6-tonne mass onto our site.

The campground borders Deerfield Lake, a 435-acre recreational lake that is stocked with 14" Brown, Rainbow, and Lake Trout.  The lake is not visible from most campsites, but our location gave us a panorama of the lake and adjacent Native American lands.  At 150' above the lake surface, the steep grade pathway from out campsite to the shoreline gave us frequent low-oxygen cardio workouts following our fishing expeditions.

Wes & Corey Hayes grilling' up some rainbow trout following an afternoon of waterboarding worms

It was 35-years earlier that I last fished for Rainbow Trout in West Virginia.  Armed with an El Cheapo Zebco rod/real combo and a can of sweet corn, I would fish in the nearby river for these palatable pisces.  Oddly enough, I've never eaten a Rainbow Trout that I've caught; always opting to give my daily haul to an elderly man who lived by the river.  

On a windy Saturday afternoon, I landed my first Rainbow in over three decades.  The fresh, pink meat quickly cooked over our gas grill, and I savored the taste of my first self-caught Rainbow with my bride.  Give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish and he'll never be able to drive by a Cabela's without stopping.

"You've been left on your own like a rainbow in the dark." ~ Ronnie James Dio; Rainbow In The Dark

On a quiet star-lit evening, I sat late into the night tending the campfire and watching the satellites cross through the deep, dark sky above.  Suddenly, a disturbance--like a small pebble being cast into a still pond--entered our peaceful confines.  A Bluebird bus--not unlike those that transported the lackland rainbows to where they would experience high-velocity saliva impacting their oratory canal--showed up at the campground.  There is something familiar about the running light configuration and sputtering diesel engine that makes this luxury coach unmistakable.  I was unsure if there was a military training exercise underway, or perhaps a prison bus has gotten lost.  Regardless, we've never seen this type of camping equipment....until now.

The Magic Bus

I watched as a few people--hidden in the darkness--yelled backing instructions to the driver as to how much room they had on the pad.  After an impacting "CLUNK" followed by an immediate distressed command of "STOP," the vehicle came to a rest and the diesel engine fell silent.  Shortly thereafter, a slow stream of people made their way to the pit toilet--all taking their turns at having a private moment...with a real toilet eat...behind a lockable door.

"TB or not TB; that is the congestion." ~ Woody Allen; Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex* (* But Were Afraid To Ask)

I was awoken the next morning by the sounds of several individuals having a sputum-hacking contest in the roadway adjacent to our campsite.  Apparently the 40-meter walk to the pit toilet was too strenuous for these youngsters; with most of them stopping to bend over and expel some vile slurry that was preventing them from maintaining sustainable respirations.  One of the individuals--not being able to wait his turn in the privy--walked behind the pit toilet and threw up.  

[Author's Note: Although considered crude by Western sanitarily standards, I completely agree with this gentleman's decision to refrain from sticking one's face in a pit toilet for the purpose of vomiting.  The sole exception to this would be when an entire bottle of ipecac has failed to bring about the desired expulsion of the stomachs contents; then, placing one's face in a pit toilet--or Port-A-Potty following the El Paso Chalupa Festival--is GUARANTEED to achieve said regurgitative results.]

Now fully awake, I made a cup of java and decided to watch these elusive creatures that had graced the campsite next to ours.  There was a lot of morning activity, but not much netting of results.  There were 4 males and 1 female traveling on the bus; all of whom were recent participants of "The Rainbow Family Reunion."  One of the males--presumably the head-honcho--had his own private tent that he pitched out behind the bus.  Each of the occupants would come off the bus, smoke a cigarette or two, expel some lingering phlegm, and sit on anything that gravity would lead them to.  Everyone must have had something weighing heavily on their minds, as they quietly sat and intensely stared...and stared...and stared...at a nearby tree.  The unrelenting gazing was so intense that it was making the tree feel awkward and uncomfortable.

The bus--equipped with three solar panels affixed to the top and a stove-pipe vent protruding from a window--had a steady stream of smoke emitting from the entryway door, roof vent, and any side windows that would not close properly.  Decades-old, archived images of Cheech & Chong films began to flood my mind. 

"Say, any of you boys smithies? Or, if not smithies per se, were you otherwise trained in the metallurgic arts before straitened circumstances forced you into a life of aimless wanderin'?"  ~ Everett McGill; O' Brother, Where Art Thou? 

Daylight was a-burnin', so The Leader began the entertaining process of setting-up a nylon hammock.  Being out of UHF-range, I watched in amusement as he performed his version of "The Hammock Scene" from the October 1964 Gilligan's Island episode, "Home Sweet Hut."  After stretching out the hammock and rope between two nearby trees, he tied one end of the hammock to a tree (Tree "A").  Walking to the other end of the hammock, he picked up the rope and attempted to tie it to the opposite tree (Tree "B").  "Attempted" as in, the rope wasn't long enough to wrap around the tree.  Being a "Road Scholar" in The Rope Measurement Arts, he untied the original knot (Tree "A"), and then proceeded to tie the hammock to the second tree (Tree "B") where the rope previously wouldn't reach, but now did.  To the surprise of all involved, when he "attempted" to tie the second knot (back on Tree "A")...the rope wasn't long enough to reach the tree.  Who knew that the distance between point-A and point-B is equal to the distance between point-B and point-A?  Quickly realizing that he was camping in a United States Forest Service campground--full of evil and defective government-owned trees--he chose two different ones.

With the hammock successfully bonding the two different pines, he applied "The Suspended Mass Test," which evaluates the hammocks operational safety with regards to 1) the gravitational force being exerted by the weight of the occupant, 2) the height of the anchor points on the opposing trees, 3) the "stretchiness" of the nylon hammock and rope when put under stress, and 4) the remaining distance between "terra firma" and "tailbone/fanny" when all of the aforementioned factors are computed.

The first test resulted in--what is commonly referred to in hammock testing circles as--"a butt bounce."  Complex physics equations were quickly recalculated; anchoring points adjusted to exacting levels; gravitational forces and suspension angles were pontificated; and the test was repeated.  The results were within acceptable limits, and the nearby gallery took a brief hiatus from their intense tree staring to give an approving round of applause (and a few productive coughs).  With the taste of victory firmly in his grip, The Leader lit-up a celebratory cigarette...and immediately burnt a Marlboro-sized hole in his nylon hammock.

With the hammock operationally suspended--and a rainwater drain unexpectedly but successfully installed--he gathered together his posse to register with the camp-host.  Four of The Rainbows--3 males and 1 female--left the Bluebird and "set out to embark on the perilous journey" to the camp host trailer (about 150-meters away).  One female and three male companions walking down the road.  Rainbow. Bluebird.  A long and difficult journey. A meeting with a powerful man (or at least a camp host).  All that was missing were a few flying monkeys.

Fate smiled on them that day, as Roger drove down the road and intercepted them after only 30-meters (and they didn't have to deal with any flying monkeys!).  The partially-exhausted crew briefly chatted with Roger, then began the long and perilous 30-meter journey back to camp.  Roger met them there, and after a brief pooling of change and pocket lint, the campsite fees were submitted.  

After a quick team meeting were everyone pointed toward various distant horizons, The Leader took a whiz on the bus' front tire--the signal for everyone to saddle up.  The Bluebird diesel fired up and let out a particulate-filled sputtering exhaust reminiscent of the occupants early-morning respiratory soundings.  After a series of air-brake releases, the green bus--adorned with "school bus yellow" patches emanating from under the surface, and a freshly stolen "No Trespassing By Order Of The U.S. Forest Service" sign taped to the inside windshield--rumbled out on its daily "mission of adventure."

"Every day you'll see the dust (Too much, the Magic Bus); As I drive my baby in my Magic Bus (Too much, the Magic Bus)" ~ The Who; Magic Bus

The group arrived back in a few hours and spent the day hanging out around the camp.  After a quick game of throwing large hacky-sack balls amongst the trees, they returned to their campsite for evening fellowship.  The next morning they were in much better spirits than the previous day (as all the ingredients necessary for an epic hangover seemed to be missing from their supply cache),  and prepared to break camp.  Everything was going smoothly until their generator needed to be stowed away.  Apparently the stowage compartment--previously packed to capacity--now had a new bundle of firewood that had been acquired since their arrival.  The reutilization of storage space for firewood made this a real-life game of Tetris for the crew.  An array of items were removed and turned into various positions in an attempt to accommodate the firewood.  After a half-hour--and a complete inventory of the storage compartment--The Leader grabbed the bundle of firewood and carried it onto the bus.  The bus rumbled across the gravel campground road, and headed..."somewhere."  The universe was in harmony once again.

Sunset weaves through the trees onto our lake-view campsite

The campground was pleasantly quiet for the remainder of the afternoon; then a mini-van arrived.  The passengers were an adult male and three adolescent boys.  After an hour of screaming and yelling, they had their tents erected.  An hour, and a quart of charcoal starter fluid later; they had a respectable campfire.  As they sat around the campfire, the adult male began to pass along words of wisdom and experience that would be crucial to these young men as they emerged into adulthood--how to hunt Yetis.  For the next hour, a fireside seminar was conducted on the origins of Yetis; their behavioral inclinations, and how to increase one's chances if "baggin' a Yeti."  

The culprit of many sleepless nights following campfire lore

After the campfire dwindled, they all retired to their sleeping bags and spent the next hour seeing who could make the biggest, longest, and loudest flatulent sounds.  A tear came to my eye as I watched the torch being passed from one generation to the next.  Or maybe it was due to the wind blowing campfire smoke into my eye.

Dead and diseased pines detract from an otherwise perfect landscape

As beautiful as The Black Hills are, they have an ugly blemish that continues to detract from their beauty--the pine bark beetle.  Hundreds of thousands of acres of Ponderosa Pines lay across the hillsides, or lifelessly remain in a "dead tree standing" posture.  Recent rain and increased winds continued to bring down the fatally infested timbers; and on one occasion the four of us were forced to run for our safety as a towering timber unexpectedly came crashing down amongst us.  It was the first time I'd ever ran from a falling tree without an axe or saw in my hand.

The original Axe Man

With all of the downed timber readily available, I took advantage of the opportunity to make a small stockpile of firewood.  As I swung the camp-axe onto the previously sawed logs, The result would be either a clean split or the axe blade wedged into the wood.  When the later occurred, I'd normally pick up the axe-with the log still wedged around the blade--and give another forceful strike against the ground.  On one such occasion--as I was on the downswing--the log partially dislodged from the axe blade. When the wood met the ground, the axe caromed out of the log and into my firmly planted shin.  I thought of such bad words that a tear came to my eye.  Being over an  hour from the nearest emergency room in Rapid City, I went into full denial mode and kept on chopping.  Due to my state-of-denial, I kept most if this hidden from my very competent paramedic partner.  Within two days, the wound was hurting even worse, and now showing signs of infection.  Relaying that I could've benefitted from a few stitches, she recommended cleaning the wound with hydrogen peroxide, and a steady diet of crow for my ego.  After a few days the wound was volumes better, and my taste for crow became more tolerable.  Chicks dig scars.

We spent a total of 11-days at our lakeside retreat.  Our tanks were full, and we needed to be heading westward.  We relocated to the nearby Circle B Ranch for two days of full hook-up service.  After restocking our pantry and doing laundry, we took the path of most resistance and headed through The South Dakota Black Hills--and into Wyoming.

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Black Hills (SD)

We gingerly navigated Glory out of the tight Spearfish Campground and narrow Downtown Spearfish (proper) streets.  We had a destination in mind--The South Dakota Black Hills.

Instead of taking a wider and more RV friendly route (which included the interstate), we decided to take the most direct route into the South Dakotan Land of Lore.  Although not ranked in the Top-100 of "Lower-48" elevations, our route into Black Hills had enough grade to keep Hank panting on the steep inclines.  The drive was scenic enough that I didn't feel worked in navigating the weight and mass of our caravan through the rollercoaster byway.

"People just can't seem to get enough of that old-timey music." ~ Record Company Agent; O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

The Chubby Chipmunk: A Deadwood tradition <sarcasm intended>

The first town we encountered was Deadwood. This is another former ghost-town that has been resurrected by the advent of Black Hills tourism.  This town has seen its non-tourism heyday during the Black Hills gold mining boom, but is now a photo-op background for tourist wanting to bathe in the spirit of The Old West.  As we drove through the narrow streets, we passed the "wild west themed casinos" and other touristy shops touting the legends of Buffalo Bill and regional Native Americans.  The northern portion of the town was in the process of an all-out street renovation.  I'm not sure of the extent of the renovation, but it appeared that they were replacing the sewers, sidewalks, and roadways.  We drove slowly across the washboard dirt roads that led us to the northern side of town.  We later learned that there were two seasons in Western South Dakota: winter and construction.

Sunset over Lake Pactola and the submerged town of Pactola beneath

We continued onward through the beautiful rolling mountain terrain; constantly shaded by the eclectic rocky outcroppings and Ponderosa Pine groves.  This was perhaps the most beautiful stretch of road we'd traversed to date.  As the elevation leveled, we came upon the massive Pactola Reservoir.  Pactola Reservoir is a 100,000-acre water impoundment area and is named after the nearby ghost town of Pactola.  The town of Pactola has thousands of tourists drive by it every year without giving the least notice to it's existence.  This is mostly due to it's location--230' below the surface of the Lake Pactola.  Anyone with a PADI Technical Diver certificate can still stroll down Main Street.

A couple dozen miles further and we had reached our bed-down location at Sheridan Lake.  Sheridan Lake was our first attempt at "dry camping". The term "dry camping" refers to camping in a location where electric/water/sewer are not provided.  You are responsible for bringing all of your infrastructure.   While we had not been tested in this capacity, we had long awaited the opportunity to utilize our supplemental resources in this manner.

We checked into our site and proceeded to the nearest communal water point.  With Kristy at the inlet portal and me manning the spigot, we filled Glory's 70-gallon potable water to capacity.  From there we backed into our reserved slot and set-up our portable power-plant.  Prior to leaving Virginia on our Oddessy, we purchased a pair of Honda portable generators.  Every month I would faithfully unpack the powerhouse pair and perform an operations check to ensure they were always at-the-ready.  It was now time for them to step up to the plate.  With a few pulls of the start chord, they cleared their throats of the full-choke white smoke and began to provide us with 4000 watts of off-the-grid electricity.  The last infrastructure item we had to address was waste tank management; which we had done numerous times while residing at "partial hook-up" campgrounds, and were fairly confident in our abilities.  We were on the cusp of being completely self-reliant.

Sheridan Lake campsite: our first official "dry camping" digs

The Sheridan Lake campground sits on the southern side of its namesake, with an additional non-camping recreational area on the northern side.  Both areas boast day-use pavilions/shelters, boat ramps, roped swimming areas, and miles of shoreline for fishing.  We tried our hand at fishing, and were successful in hauling in a few crappie, bass, and northern pike.

With our cellular devices registering "No Service," we were left with lots of time to watch seasoned wood transform into ashen embers.  The troubles of the world would have to take a backseat to the more primitive lifestyle.  This was therapy.  This was the "military DETOX" that we were seeking.  From this pseudo-remote area of The Black Hills, we were able to make day trips to nearby points-of-interest that were more notorious.

Classic Rushmore

The first was Mount Rushmore.  Carved into Black Hills granite sits the monumental (pun intended) work of Gutzon Borglum.  After fourteen years, the 6-story carving of four former U.S. Presidents was complete.  There is a museum to the sculptor in the nearby town of Keystone; a small tucked-away, tourist-driven haven that sits in the shadows of Mount Rushmore's eastern slopes.  Of course, no trip to Rushmore is complete without a photo of someone picking George's nose.

You can pick your presidents; and you can pick your nose; but...

The next attraction was The Crazy Horse monument.  This yet-to-be-completed memorial to the famous Oglala Lakota warrior is projected to be 640-feet wide and 563-feet high--almost 10-times the height of the Mount Rushmore carving.  Another impressive feature of this work is that it is done on private land, using only private funding.  That alone speaks volumes about how the Native Americans view the importance of maintaining one's sense of heritage.

El Caballo Loco

Five miles to the south of The Crazy Horse Memorial sits another touristy Black Hills town--Custer.  Named after the famous Army General, this town sits at the crossroads of the aforementioned stone carved monuments, and the 71,000-acre Custer State Park.  Custer State Park is huge by state park standards.  The park is also home to a 1,300+ buffalo herd, which roams within the parks boundaries and can be viewed along Wildlife Loop Road.  During our visit we could only catch a small speckled glimpse if the herd as they assembled on a distant hillside, far from the ogling eyes of curious tourists.  Oddly enough, while scouting out a potential camping site, we ran across a large bison lounging about 100-feet from the roadway.  We seemed to be the only one's who thought a 2,000-pound unpredictable animal so close to a campground was a possible issue.

Takonka chilling' outside the local campground

We did manage to see some "wildlife" while on Wildlife Loop Road; a small herd of "Begging Burros."  These stereotypically stubborn beasts-of-burden--the descendants of 19th-Century miner's pack-animals--have abandoned their ancestors grueling work ethic, and have found their Nirvana-niche by being petted and fed junk food by enamored tourists.  Next time someone calls me as a jackass, I might not be so quickly offended in being compared to these socially savvy animals.

Road Rule #14: Every traffic jam is the result of some jackass being themselves

After traveling the length if the Wildlife Loop Road, we decided to go off the beaten path.  A narrow, washboarded gravel road took us through some more tourist-free settings where we observed deer, prairie dogs, and....buffalo!  Lounging a few feet from the roadway were these great symbols of Native American livelihood.  Although tempted to get a closer look, we just sat for a while and took in the awe of a true American symbol.

Dangerously Beautiful

On the way back from Custer State Park we drove through the innocuous town of Pringle.  We would've kept going and likely forgotten ever venturing through this quiet hamlet, but something caught our eye.  Similar to the inexplainable "shoe tree" of Episode 33 we encountered another mind-bender: The Pringle Bike Pile.  This compilation of two-wheeled podiatrial peddlers was intentionally arranged in an artistic manner; yet we were unsure as to why.  With a 2013 census population of 115, it also begged the question as to how so many bikes ended up in this tiny town.  Our only explanation was that Pringle was to lost bicycles as dryers were to lost socks.

[insert your own caption here...I've got nothin']

The last day-trip we made from this rally point was the small town if Sturgis.  This Motorcycle Mecca is a quiet little Black Hills town 49-weeks out if the year.  It is those 3-weeks from late-July through mid-August that gives this town its notoriety.  We drove through relatively empty streets, visited the most popular Harley-Davidson store in the country, and observed the on-going preparations for the 75th Anniversary of The Sturgis Black Hills Rally.  It was hard to envision that this town of less than 7,000 residents would absorb the estimated 1.5 - 2 MILLION visitors during the rally.  We took our photos, bought our trinkets, and quietly saw ourselves out the way we came.

The most famous Harley-Davidson retail store in the country

After successfully "dry camping" for a week at Lake Sheridan, it was time for us to perform some housekeeping.  We opted to check into The Rafter J Bar Ranch Camping Resort--a full hook-up campground that would enable is to empty our now-full holding tanks, do laundry, and take a break from battery and generator fuel management.  It was a nice break, but we felt as if we were surrounded by tourists and "glampers."

With a longing to spend more time exploring The Black Hills, and being more comfortable in our ability to "dry camp," we looked for something even more remote.  Deep in the road-less-travelled region, Kristy found a promising lakeside campsite.  We did a quick scouting of the area and loved what we saw.  Once again Kristy struck gold.  This time it was Black Hills gold.

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