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WDB News from the road Vol. 4a
by miksmi on Sun Jun 25 20:45:00 PDT 2000
6/24/00 8:53 am, Badlands. It's raining, appropriately it seems tome, in this massive demonstration of the power of erosion. I can see the place change right before my eyes, watch its soft multi-hued earth wash away under my feet. The vistas are limited somewhat by clouds but this is offset by the increased vibrance of the colors. Walked the Cliff Shelf Trail, where I was priveleged to make the acquaintance of a mountain bluebird as it huddled in a cedar tree. (Not that I'm a birder mind you. I was accosted by a pair of them though at the visitor's center after they overheard my conversation with a ranger, and among the four of us we determined exactly which blue bird I had seen. Looked just like the picture too.) 6/25/00 5:21 am, Buffalo WY. My body is still on Eastern Time. When I step out the door I can see the Bighorn Mountains. Yesterday was what I'll call The Whirlwind Tour of the Black Hills region; strap on your seatbelts and I'll tell you about it. As I drove further through the aforementioned Badlands National Park the skies parted and the sun shone through. I was therefore treated to seeing the place in full daylight as well as under clouds and rain. This is significant because the colors change under different circumstances. It never failed to be breathtaking however. At first I thought the sun was going to be shortlived but it turned out to be the beginning of the end of the rain, and by the end of the day I was driving under a cloudless sky. After the Badlands it was back to I-90 and another dose of South Dakota's less exciting terrain mixed with Clancy's _Executive_Decision_.. At milepost 86 I crested a rise and saw a silhouette on the horizon: The Black Hills. Good heavens, they call those hills? They're huge! I stopped at a visitor's center just outside Rapid City, very fortuitously as it turned out as I was served by a wonderful and very knowledgeable lady. With her orange highlighter and a map she guided me around the local detours, suggested routes thrhough the Black Hills, recommended how much time to allow at the various sights, then went on to show me which little grey lines on the map to follow once I reached the Tetons, which she and her husband had visited many times. I thanked her profusely, grabbed a ham sandwich at a quickie mart, and headed into the Hills. First stop Mount Rushmore. Maybe it was all the hype and attention the place gets, but when I pulled up to the entrance, looked up and saw the sculptured granite, then looked back down at the $8 parking fee (the free parking lot was "full"), I turned back out onto the road and headed past. About 1/4 mile down there was a small parking area along the road from which one could see George Washington in profile. I stopped and snapped off a shot just for so, and began walking back up the road to get a picture from headon (pun?). However about halfway there I noticed a mountain goat grazing against the rocky hillside not 50 feet away. Click, click. Good enough! On to Crazy Horse. The road between the sculptures winds through the Hills and provided a beautiful drive in more ways than one. Finally the Subaru got a chance to romp around some turns, which it did with vigor. Crazy Horse. "My land is the land where my ancestors are buried." You can park for free out on the road and see the sculpture-in-progress from a distance, or you can pay a fee and go in. I went in. I have long been fascinated by this work, its devotees, and the philosophy behind what they do. What I did not know, could not have known, until I stood there and breathed the place in, was that there is another, very powerful component. There is are spirits here, strong spirits, hard at work. There are the spirits of the native Americans, who commisioned the sculpture, whose ancestors are buried here, and to whom the Black Hills are sacred. There is the can-do, independent, don't-tread-on-me spirit of the American settlers, evident in the family of the man who gave his spirit to them and to this place, as well as in the philosophy that drives it. They accept no government funding. They privately own the land on which they work. They labor to show us that native Americans have heroes too. There is the spirit of Crazy Horse, slowly being released from the mountain. (Seeing the work in progress is somehow more energizing than seeing a finished sculpture. Also, perhaps it is just me or the nature of large stone sculputures, but Crazy Horse in profile looks remarkably similar to Mr. Washington.) Finally there are the spirits of the Hills themselves, in the air and trees and the creatures and the granite itself. All of these spirits swirl around and around and one cannot help but feel their presence. I spent a long time at Crazy Horse. To be continued, Dave

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