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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