By HUNTER O. LYLE
RAPID CITY, SD – Sunday began at 4 a.m.
Waking up before the crack of dawn, I slowly wiped the sleep from my eyes as I rolled out of bed, my mind groggy with the last bits of jet lag. Throwing on some fresh clothes, my father and I packed up a small backpack and headed out on the road. Having been there twice a day before, both in the afternoon for a first viewing and in the late evening to see the giant sculptures of our first, third, fourteenth and 27th presidents lit up against a backdrop of stars, the route to Mount Rushmore was familiar to me, even in pitch darkness.
As we left the Rapid City limits towards Keystone, the sky began to break with a blue haze that coated the approaching granite mountains of the Black Hills. With no one else on the road, we both had ample time to scan our horizons, watching the light green prairies slowly raise into budding mountain tops. Along the way, just before the tourist traps of Keystone’s mining-town inspired street, an amber fox darted from the roadside and into the security of the pine-laden hills.
Just like the night before, when we pulled into the National Monuments two-story parking garage at 10 p.m., the lot was empty besides a few white pickup trucks donning the National Park’s famous arrowhead logo on the side. Walking down the Avenue of Flags, we once again studied the plagues at the bases of each flag, noting the date and order of each states’ establishment – Pennsylvania, the second state inducted into the Union, beat out our home state of Connecticut by four.
Ahead of us, the bulbous noggins which took nearly 20 years to emerge from the mountain top stared off in the distance, with pink and blue streaks beginning to crawl across their faces. George Washington led his piers in breaking the day while Theodore Roosevelt clung to the shadows cast by Abraham Lincoln. Standing above the amphitheater and directly in front of the monument, I whipped out my camera and telephoto lens before quickly adjusting the settings while my father read the names of the various foundations and benefactors which made this creation of American ingenuity possible. The only sounds around us would be the rapid clicking of my snapshots and a small choir of birds calling through the complacent morning air.
Arriving at Mount Rushmore just before dawn, my father and I watched as the morning sun painted the figures with streaks of pink and honey. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle
After a few moments, we were drawn back together, staring at the 5,725 foot structure and wondering how in the hell this was possible. Using hammers and steel drills and dremels, their safety relying harness ropes and rickety stairs and buckets, a crew of old-timers filled with can-do attitudes chiseled and blasted away over 450,000 tons of rock, shaping perfectly smooth busts that stand the test of nearly one hundred years.
Visiting for the third time, there was just one thing left to do: the Presidential Trail.
Recommended by a traveling couple named Sterling and Dee, whom we had met the day before, we decided to walk the 0.6 mile track up to the base of the cliffs. Walking past the discarded graveyards of broken stone, we made our way until we stood below each head, taking time to read the plagues that told their stories. As we passed, the sun finally broke through the clouds, illuminating the faces in a brilliant golden light that seemed to fill their stone cold eyes with life and which also warmed us from the cool breeze that had persisted since arriving in South Dakota.
After just over a half hour, we returned to the perch above the amphitheater and once again stood in front of the former Commanders in Chiefs. In the time that had passed, the warm honey light had faded, now replaced with the pale white daylight that emphasized the granite in which they were carved. Taking one last look, we turned back down the corridor of state flags and headed back to our car. It was just past 6:30 a.m. and with our schedule full, we needed to return back to Rapid City for a bit of rest and relaxation.
Growing up, my father and I had often traveled together. Besides the yearly family summer vacations to Rhode Island, which gave me my deep love for the ocean, we drove to New Hampshire to become small time firework smugglers, day trips to Saratoga Race Track to bet on the ponies and even a trek to Battleship Cove in Fall River, Mass. to spend a night on a submarine during my brief stint as a Cub Scout. However, in the last handful of years we have expanded our horizons to the West. First, we made our way to Wyoming for a job opportunity before he eventually met me in Colorado for a week during my cross country adventure last summer.
After coming home from 71 days on the road, I was eager to take him out on another trip to show him what he might have been missing. Knowing that Mount Rushmore was on his bucket list – although he refuses to say he has one – South Dakota seemed like the perfect option. With that in mind, I decided to surprise him with two plane tickets for Christmas. Serving as a two-fold present, we would head to the midwest for four days that culminated in his birthday.
We landed in Rapid City’s small, beige airport on Friday and took our first day to settle in after six hours in the air. After dropping our stuff in the hotel, we drove to Main Street’s central strip full of indigenous antique and gift shops, tourist information centers and a handful of restaurants. There, we got a late lunch at Firehouse Brewing Company, an old firehouse turned bar and grill where we enjoyed one of the best burgers I’ve ever had – it earned an 8.7 on the Lyle Food Review. Still lagging from the air travel, we returned to the hotel and nodded off for the rest of the evening.
On Saturday, the adventure began in earnest. Still battling the wind and not remembering to pack pants, the first stop was a sports outlet to pick up some pants and jackets, also checking out a pair of Ray Bans – one of my dads few rituals. But then we checked off the first box on our to-do list: Rushmore. Just over a half hour from Rapid City, I was delighted as my dad’s eyes shot open as he got his first glimpse of the Black Hills, a terrain of blunt, grey mountaintops that peaked over hills coated in pine tree forests.
We spent about an hour at the base of Rushmore, taking in all the angles of the momentous sculptures before taking a walk through the museum to learn about the building process. My father, a construction worker and miner by trade, was blown away by the crude tools that produced such a magnificent work of art and history.
Construction of Mount Rushmore began in 1927 and was completed in 1941. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle
“That’s just so wild,” he would quietly mutter as he moved from exhibit to exhibit, chuckling in awe along the way.
But then it was time to move on, checking itinerary item No. 2: Crazy Horse Memorial.
Partially inspired as a response to Mount Rushmore, Ogala Lakota Chief John Standing Bear dreamed of a way to memorialize their own iconic heroes in stone. Writing to Korczak Ziolkowski, a Polish-American artist and sculptor, Standing Bear’s request was eventually accepted with a sense of great pride and honor. The project began in 1948 with Ziolkowski climbing over 700 wooden stairs on a daily basis as he started carving away rock by hand.
Nearly 80 years later, Crazy Horses’ piercing stare and football-field-long left arm have emerged from the mountain. Speckled in cranes and bulldozers, the progress continues with completion hoped to happen in the next handful of decades. Just under a mile from the 564-foot warrior chief’s rebirth, we passed through the halls of the Crazy Horse Museum, looking over artifacts, portraits and written stories of Native Americans’ troubled history. Again, my father spoke in awe of both the culture and the amazing physical feats taken to accomplish Standing Bears’ vision.
Crazy Horse, who is being memorialized in stone just under 20 miles from Mount Rushmore, was a Lakota war chief who took up arms against encroaching settlers during the mid-1800s. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle
After getting a front-row view of the monument with a bus trip, priced at just $5 a head, we once again packed back up in our rental car and headed back to Rapid City. Following an even better burger – this time at Salt Block Burgers and Brews, a 9.1 – we retired to the hotel for more research and rest, both of which would be much needed for Sunday’s adventure.
* * * *
Heading East, there was no semblance of the Black Hills, or any hills for that matter. Taking a quick pit stop back at the hotel, my dad and I continued the Sunday fun with my most anticipated stop of the trip, Badlands National Park.
Coined by the French, Badlands got its name by the tough terrain and lack of water. However, what it lacked in the basic survival necessities, it made up for in literal awesome geological features. Covered in more than 240,000 acres of jagged spines of sandstone peaks that resembled castle ruins, Badlands is a labyrinth of caves and cliffs that surround far off buttes and plateaus way beyond the rims’ edge. From the plains that surround the highway, you wouldn’t even imagine something so naturally fascinating would be just a few miles out of view. But even before we reached one of my favorite landscapes on Earth, we were treated to another, equally amazing sight.
On my first trip to the area, I was lucky enough to see bison, albeit, just for a quick glimpse off in the distance. I was determined to give my father a chance to see these wild and majestic beasts, but I thought luck would have to be a factor to see just one. Apparently, luck was more than on my side on Sunday afternoon.
Pulling off the freeway and onto a gravel side road, we traveled into no man’s land, surrounded by a lush prairie on either side that was uninterrupted by any signs of civilization. Suddenly, to our left stood three hulking animals. The buffalo grazed just a few feet from the road’s edge, slowly moving from one patch of grass to the other and completely unbothered by our car, which we quickly pulled over to get a better view. My father, nervously excited and eyes wide, stayed in the car but I was quick to step out for some close up photos.
On the way to Badlands National Park, my father and I stumbled upon a trio of bison who leisurely grazed upon the open prairie, oblivious or indifferent about an ensuing photo shoot. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle
Broad shouldered and covered in a thick, patchy layer of hide, the animals strolled about while I, safely, inched closer despite my fathers’ hesitation. Under their short black horns, their stoic eyes rose to meet mine, analyzing any potential danger before giving me a pass and returning to their late lunch. After a few moments, I returned to the car.
“Aren’t they wild? I think bison are my favorite animal,” I said, double checking that my dad was impressed. “I’m so glad you got to see some.”
Little did I know what lay just a mile or two down the dirt road.
A few minutes on, more dark specks lined the horizon and as we approached, we realized that we were rolling up to a full herd. Ahead of us, more than 50 bison covered the dirt path. While some laid in the afternoon sun, others migrated from one side of the road to the other, taking their time and unaware of the cars patiently waiting on either side. In the distance, a few honey colored calves hung close to their mothers, occasionally getting a burst of energy and darting in circles but never straying too far.
A young calve, still without it’s thick hide or horns, keeps close to it’s mother as my father and I drove through the herd. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle
With my camera resting in my lap, I leaned it on the window for some drive-by shots while my dad pulled out his cell phone camera.
“I have to send these to your grandma,” he said, pinching his screen to zoom in.
Slowly making our way down the road, we maneuvered past the herd in a near silence that was only broken by our astonished remarks. Finally breaking through the pack, the groups dwindled to just a few at a time but they never fully disappeared from sight as we continued towards Badlands. Just as we were seemingly getting past the awe-factor, we were greeted by another sort of welcoming party.
On either side of the road, the light green plains were speckled with tan circles that numbered in the hundreds and stretched beyond our sight. Stopping to inspect what these mounds were, quiet, high-pitched chirps announced our presence and soon after, there was a flurry of movement between the small hills. Snapping a few photos before manually zooming in on them, I walked back to the car to show my dad a neighborhood of prairie dogs, an animal that neither of us had seen before. Ringing the alarm with their tiny screams, the rodents retreated to their dens, giving us a quick look back before diving underground.
“Two for two,” I said to my dad with an ear to ear grin.
Prairie dogs live in complex underground burrows called “towns,” with interconnected tunnels and chambers. A typical burrow has multiple entrances and can be quite extensive, with lengths varying from 15 to 109 feet. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle
We ventured on and from where the flora ended the breathtaking views began. Driving along the rim, we looked down at the shattered landscape painted in muted hues of tan, orange, red, purple and yellows before dipping beneath and being swallowed by the castle-like structures constructed by prehistoric volcanic ash. Every once in a while, we would stop at a viewpoint to take in a world that resembled a doomed, distant planet.
Slowly, we made our way through the 39-mile scenic byway, eventually returning back to the highway towards Rapid City. Pointed West, Badlands once again returned to the imagination, hidden behind miles of flatlands and the midday haze. The day ended peacefully, full of conversations recounting how unbelievable this country could be. That, and another round of Salt Block burgers.
On my fathers birthday, Monday, we laid low. Tired and not up for another long drive or two, we lounged around Rapid City. Dipping in and out of shops and wandering around bronze statues of all the 47 presidents, we perused the simple living lifestyle that was South Dakota’s second largest city – the first being Sioux Falls, located on the exact opposite side of the Rushmore State. While there was a handful or so of to-dos and attractions, there was a welcomed lack of hustle and bustle.
In the evening, we retired to the hotel room one last time, becoming invested in a full season of Animal Planet’s Harpoon Hunters, a competition show of anglers who hunt down bluefin tuna with nothing more than a sea-worthy spear.
At the end of it all, I asked my father if he had enjoyed his time in South Dakota and, not one to mince words, he replied, “of course,” an answer that gratefully fell on my ears. Working hard labor jobs from his late teens to present day, I could think of no man who deserved a vacation more than my role model. After all that he had provided to me, I was very happy I had built up the kind of life where I could deliver something back.
There are plenty of states in this country that get overlooked. Sure, California has the Pacific Coast and beautiful weather, and yes, Wyoming has Yellowstone and Arizona had the Grand Canyon, but there are some places in this country that don’t advertise the true wonders in which they hold. South Dakota, with its rich history, monuments and stunning scenery, all within an hour or so drive, making it a perfect place for a weekend away, is without a doubt one of those places.
