Scottsbluff, NE to Boulder, CO (September 25)

Distance covered today: 203 miles

Distance covered total: 2,731 miles

Estimated mileage remaining: 1,303 (33% left to go)

The Metro succeeded in fending off bandits overnight, as it was still standing vigil outside of my motel room when I woke up in the morning. It had the feel of another good, comfortable day for riding, but after plowing an unprecedented 244 miles yesterday, I would be afforded a more leisurely pace on this fine Sunday and toyed with the idea of making a quick stop at nearby Chimney Rock, the landmark of Oregon Trail and State Quarter renown. 

I thought better of it though, as it only would’ve added mileage to my already lengthy Great Plains detour.  Besides, the unexpectedly impressive turrets of stout Scotts Bluff and its neighboring rock formations would’ve diminished Chimney Rock’s luster.  My condolences to the fictional Western Nebraska Tourism Commission (something similar has to exist), but I’ll just have to save places such as Chimney Rock, Carhenge, Fort Robinson, and Toadstool Geologic Park for my next visit.  So many sites, so little time!

Scenic overlook from outside of Scottsbluff.

Before hitting the Interior West’s main metropolitan oasis along Colorado’s Front Range, I’d have to repeat my charade as a lone wolf out in the open country of Nebraska and a corner of Wyoming (another perk of my South Dakota detour was that it gave me a chance to tie my record of hitting three states in one day), as the 100 lonely miles between me and Ol’ Cheyenne would feature only one town.

Giddy for the day’s double dose of state sign photos, I gunned it through empty fields until I had reached the doorstep of America’s least populous state- Wyoming!  What Wyoming lacks in people, it makes up for with unabashed Wild West pride, even seeming to revel in the fact that its population hasn’t been diluted with the same pansy-assed city-slicker riff-raff as the other 49 states.  The state is also nobly spearheading a counterculture movement to bring the brown-and-yellow color combination back into the mainstream.  Perhaps owing to the lack of people and subsequent cultural diffusion, browns and mustard yellows ripped from the beating heart of the 1970s are all the rage out here.  The font on the welcome sign, the license plates, the sports uniforms of the state’s flagship university, and even the parched looking grass and occasional sandstone outcrop that made up the landscape… it was ALL brown and yellow.

The few. The proud. The Wyomingites.

Wyoming did nothing to dispel its sparsely-populated reputation in the first town I came to.  That town was LaGrange (pop. 332), which supported an unmanned gas station- if you can call a single pump standing in solitude a “station”.  Fueling up all by my lonesome in LaGrange was the admittedly pitiful highlight of my morning, but that’s alright- I was banking on the hustle-bustle of Cheyenne to add some excitement to my day.

Fifty-seven wide open Wyoming miles later, I finally rode into Cheyenne like a desperado of old.  As an Albany, NY native, I have a special appreciation for this great land’s lesser-known and smaller-scale state capitals that often go overlooked.  Matching this description, I was eager to acquaint myself with the aptly nicknamed “Frontier City”.

From its real name (that the voice in my head always says in Johnny Cash’s darkest drawl and preceded by “Ol’”) to its nickname, to the abundance of cowboy imagery scattered around town, Cheyenne is a fitting capital city for a state that is so in touch with its wild (Western) side.

I liked Cheyenne from the start.  The place made a good first impression when, while stopped at a traffic light, the mom of some family in the car next to me rolled down her window and asked the usual list of questions about “where’d you ride that thing from?!”, etc.  But, as any loving mother should, this one was kind enough to let me know that my face had some major booger action going on before she pulled away.  In my defense, nose nuggets are an occupational hazard when you spend your day with a non-stop 35 mph headwind.  They’ve no doubt been a recurrent problem throughout the trip, but this mom in Cheyenne was the first person who was kind/brave/motherly enough to actually let me know I was in desperate need of a tissue.  Hey, at least my good, crusty road boogers were consistent with the state’s brown and yellow theme, so I was gonna fit right in.

Typical street corner decor in Cheyenne.

Still unhurried in my day’s trek to Boulder, I chose to take a lengthy lunch-break to explore the city and walk around for a bit.  Maybe the sunny weather had something to do with it, but my love-at-first-visit feeling towards Cheyenne only strengthened.  Pleasant residential neighborhoods led to the manicured grounds of the State Capitol Building, which then gave way to a handsome business district.  And everywhere you turned were not-so-subtle cultural clues to remind you which part of the country you were in- most restaurants and bars try to recapture the rough-n’-tumble saloon ambiance, and whereas Erie, PA has its frog statues all over the place, Cheyenne has 10-foot high cowboy boots. 

I had definitely been converted into a fan of the place, but after such a lengthy stroll around the city, I realized that I needed to climb back in the saddle or I would risk being overcome by a hankerin’ to buy some boots of my own to go along with a ten-gallon Stetson.  And so I dove south once more, into the brown and yellow countryside.

Just a lasso’s toss south of town, I came to a wooden sign welcoming me to “Colorful Colorado”- another state that I’d never before set foot nor scooter in.  Here on the border of these similarly-shaped states seems a fitting place to divulge a dirty secret I uncovered that will shake you to your core, and could drastically alter your worldview.  There’s no easy way to put this, but Colorado and Wyoming aren’t the perfectly rectangular polygons we’ve always believed them to be.  (I’ll wait while you go consult a map and look closely at their outlines... and I'm tellin' ya, you gotta look, like, REALLY closely).  I only realized this unsettling truth recently, while planning my swing through the Centennial State.  As someone who spent considerable time in my childhood nibbling state outlines out of cheese and graham crackers and such, I’m not going to try to hide my disappointment (Colorado and Wyoming were the only ones that I thought I had truly mastered), but as I twisted the gas, I resolved to give Colorado a fair chance to win back its street cred.

Warning: this state is NOT a rectangle. (And note my glove giving a thumb's up!)

And suddenly, there they were.  As if waiting to be unveiled until I crossed the state line, I went up a slight hill, rounded a turn, and was then taken aback by the sight to the West.  Previously obscured by rolling brown and yellow hills, the steep wall of the Rocky Mountains magically sprouted from the nothingness of the Plains, with the range’s highest peaks soaring to altitudes of 14,000+ feet (roughly 9,000 feet overhead from where I was riding).  I can now relate to that moment in history when Lewis and Clark first beheld the Rockies, and Lewis famously turned to Clark and remarked, “Oh f---.”

That’s not actually true, but while that phrase did come to mind, it was hard for me to isolate one word or emotion to articulate the avalanche of different feelings that the Rockies produced.  They simultaneously sent shockwaves of awe, excitement, inspiration and intimidation through my veins.  They looked so beautiful and yet so insurmountable.

Just as my gaze had been helplessly drawn to the speedometer on my first day of going 40 mph, I now found myself spellbound by the rampart of shark-toothed mountains. Knowing full well that my plebeian camera couldn’t do them justice, I didn’t even attempt a picture, but with my slackjawed stare fixed on the Western horizon for the better part of the afternoon, I pretty much committed the Rockies’ progressively lighter array of blues to memory.  Already the welcome sign was living up to its promise of a land of color, as the spectacular backdrop of blue mountains’ majesty (that “purple” guy was off by a shade) provided a much-needed antidote from the brown and yellow landscape of the High Plains.

The sleepy Plains towns began to get progressively larger and more suburban-feeling as I approached Fort Collins.  As soon as I shot into its city limits, “FoCo” struck me as a happenin’ place- it’s a manageably sized town with pretty, tree-lined streets permeated by that unmistakable, infectiously fun college town vibe (but on a smaller scale than what I was envisioning for Boulder).  Not having felt the sensation since Ames, I would’ve liked to stick around, but I only lingered long enough for a brief rendezvous with a friend from school, before waning sunlight forced me to continue onto Boulder.

The road between Fort Collins and Boulder was probably the busiest that I’d been on since Chicago, but despite the traffic, I enjoyed the ride.  I was already of the opinion that evenings are the best time for riding, but that’s especially the case when the sun is disappearing behind the Rockies on your right.  I had to cover the last half-hour or so in darkness, but that too, was a refreshing stretch of road.  The Metro’s headlight piercing the cool night air before me, I drove towards the wall of mountains silhouetted against the fading twilight, with the lights of some of Boulder’s outlying mountainside neighborhoods hanging above me like constellations.  It was a cool sight that brought out all those overused Dorothy clichés- I most certainly was not in Kansas or any other Plains state anymore (though I’d never been in Kansas, but you get the point).

Don't worry. Better pictures of the Rockies are yet to come.

It’s true though.  Boulder represented a dramatic change in the character of the land and an equally sudden conclusion of the Plains chapter of my trip.  The Plains had indeed been Great, but now I was ready for a part of the country with a new flavor to it and a new set of challenges… Or so I hoped.

My friend Travis’ house was set up in the Flatirons, the jagged foothills of the Rockies that imposingly push up against Boulder, putting an abrupt end to the suburban sprawl of the Front Range.  I crept up the hill to his house at a speed that would’ve been a moderately respectable jog, but, just as in the Black Hills, this limp to the finish did not ease my concerns about the mountains only a few miles yonder.

Those concerns were shelved for another day, as I gratefully sank into a couch and settled in for a couple-day stay in Boulder.  I was ecstatic to be back in the company of a friend as well as back on my original path to California.  But I was even happier to have made it a nice, clean 2/3 of the way to my ultimate destination… or (gulp) maybe this would be as far as I’d make it.  The elephant-in-the-room question that had loomed over me all trip was, “what are you going to do when you get to the Rockies?”  I heard it from friends and strangers each step of the way, and my attitude all along had been, “I’ll worry about getting to Colorado first, and then deal with that Rocky Mountain-sized problem once I get there.”  But here I was, with the formidable phalanx of the mountains before me, and while the Metro and I now had a swagger about us that had been absent in Boston, the plan of attack for the Rockies had not enjoyed the same evolution.  I guess, for better or worse, we’re about to find out what happens when scooters and mountains collide.

Shout-Outs:

-Cheyenne booger mom.  Aren't moms great!?

-Emily in Fort Collins.  Hope AmeriCorps has treated you well!  Wish I could've stayed longer. (A New Belgium brewery tour may be in order, some day).

-Fellow scooter-owner Travis in Boulder.  We would form one bad scooter gang over the next couple days (more on that to come).

Town(s) of the Day:

-Cheyenne, WY; Fort Collins, CO; Boulder, CO

Scenic, SD to Scottsbluff, NE (September 24)

Distance covered today: 244 miles
Distance covered total: 2,528 miles

Estimated mileage remaining: 1,506 miles (38% left to go)

Just as I had wanted, Dan put me to work on the ranch the next day, even joking that this might be the last day of manual labor in my life.  It’s doubtful that that will be the case, but it was weird to think that it was even in the realm of possibility.  I hoped Dan was wrong, as I sincerely enjoy an honest day’s work- especially one spent at a place like his ranch.  Unfortunately (and understandably) I was not entrusted with any buffalo-related tasks (they pretty much took care of themselves that day… after all, they are a hardy, independent bunch that don’t require constant supervision), but Dan promised me that before I hit the road the next morning, we’d go check out the herd again.

With the thought of seeing buffalo helping to get me out of bed, I was up shortly after dawn the next day.  Stepping outside into the cool air and looking out over the valley cut by the Cheyenne River, it was already shaping up to be one of those mornings that reward you for your early schism from the bedsheets.

This time we left the horses in the stable and hopped into this golf-cart-on-steroids type of off-road vehicle.  Though afraid of horses, oddly enough, the buffalo will come right up to these things, especially when coaxed by the bag of feed pellet buffalo treats that we brought along and tossed out as if they were kids scrambling for Tootsie Rolls at a parade.

No knock on my loyal horse Sun Dog, but this “here fishy” strategy allowed for much more of an up-close and personal peek at the buffalo.  Some of the brave and curious (or perhaps hungry) ones came to within an arm’s reach of us, their massive heads seemingly half the size of our vehicle.  Whereas, from a distance, the buffalo often blend together as anonymous members of the herd, this face-to-face interaction allowed me to see them as individuals.  Most shied away, but a gregarious few were eager to sniff us with their giant nostrils, and show off their blue tongues and worn coats.

Nothin' like buffalo breath to wake you up in the morning.

Though tempted to stay on the ranch longer, the time had come for me to move onward.  Between loading up my cargo and setting out, as I do with most of my hosts, I offered Dan a quick ride on the Metro.  I hadn’t expected him to accept the invitation, but to my delight, he chose to give it a go.  It was a crime that I didn’t pull out my camera to document the spectacle at hand, as Dan O’Brien- the rancher/writer who, to me, was the Wild West personified- swirled around his driveway in donuts.  Horses, falcons, buffalo, and now a cute, blue and white motor scooter- he truly has tamed some of the most formidable creatures that roam this earth.

After he was done taking it for a spin, I reiterated my thanks for his hospitality, and then took the reins once more, ready at last to grab the West by the horns…  Or so I thought, until 10 yards later, while rounding a turn in Dan’s driveway that was almost pure sand, the Metro’s tires slid out from under the bike and I experienced my first-ever wipeout.  Being pinned under the scooter was more embarrassing than painful, as the sand had cushioned my fall well enough to spare me any bodily harm.  Dan gave me a concerned look, but I popped up, waved off the paramedics, and successfully cleared the driveway on my second attempt.  Even so, my spill had been the kind of ill omen that had to have Dan (and even me) thinking, “this guy is gonna conquer the West!?  Bah!”

After a day off, it always comes as a thrill to get back on the road, especially with glorious weather such as this to see me on my way.  That excitement was certainly there today, but there’s no denying that it came as a bummer to have to pry myself away from the Broken Heart Ranch (a name that hinted at my reluctance to leave the place behind).  Another unfortunate aspect of leaving was that it meant I’d be missing the local goat-roping being held that afternoon to raise money for charitable causes in the community.  I’d never heard of a goat-roping before, but I’m guessing it involves goats, ropes, and fun.  Whatever it was, it sounded like a valuable peek at South Dakota culture and it pained me to miss it.  Plus, I had a hunch that goat-ropings might be kinda hard to come by out in San Francisco.

But overall the freedom of the road was a refreshing consolation prize, especially since my day's travel itinerary was one big, blank slate.  My goal was to make it the roughly 550 miles to my next stop in Boulder, CO in just two very full days.  I didn’t know exactly where I’d end up by sundown, as today I would simply go as far as possible and set myself up to reach Boulder the next night.  This would be a good opportunity to air it out with the Metro’s revamped engine and give the 4.5 horses in there some room to gallop.  The only problem that might hold me back from setting a personal record in scooting distance was the staggering dearth of towns, campsites, and anything resembling civilization that stood between me and Boulder.  If ever there was a point in my trip when it looked as though I might need to pitch the tent in the middle of some lonely cornfield, this was it.

While my day was mostly open-ended, I did have at least one destination in mind.  Here’s a hint- it’s the thing on signs, license plates, billboards, shot glasses, and State Quarters that everyone else comes here to see (and as another hint, no, the Sturgis Bike Rally isn’t on their State Quarter).  I’m referring, of course, to Mount Rushmore, the renowned landmark made famous by National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets.  Rushmore could actually be seen all the way from the end of Dan’s driveway as a faint white blemish pocking the profile of the Black Hills some 40 miles away.  I was hoping to get a closer look though- the kind of close look that had oh-so narrowly eluded me two years previously….

Headin' for the (Black) Hills.

Flashing back again to my swing through South Dakota in 2009, my intrepid comrades and I were hurtling across the Plains at criminally high speeds, hoping to get to Mount Rushmore before sundown (we didn’t know it at the time, but it turns out they do light up the mountain at night).  Originally adamant that we not break stride for anything, our once fiery resolve and singular focus on seeing Mount Rushmore was broken down by the hundreds of miles of ennui we endured across eastern South Dakota.  After passing dozens of signs advertising the infamous Wall Drug in Wall, SD, against our better judgment we knowingly gave in to temptation/boredom and stopped to see what the fuss was about.  As we had known but couldn’t bring our road-wearied minds to admit, Wall Drug was a lame, tacky tourist trap that wasted ten minutes of our lives.  At least we went to the bathroom to make the stop somewhat worthwhile, but those ten precious minutes lost would come back to haunt us in the cruelest way.

With the sun dipping low in the sky, we finally snaked our way up to Mount Rushmore and made it to the entrance gate with enough daylight for a good, long look at some dead presidents.  To be honest, I hadn’t known what to expect from the place and had secretly been bracing for a letdown.  As an eighth grade field trip to the puny and less than awe-inspiring Statue of Liberty had taught me, some landmarks are so overly glorified in photos and other merchandise, that you can’t help but be disappointed by the real thing.  Mount Rushmore, however, lived up to the hype, based on the few fleeting glimpses we had caught as we approached, the sharp features of its four white, granite faces gleaming in the evening’s warm glow.

But in the time that it took us to park and then walk to the observation deck where we had hoped to bask in the mountain’s glory for a longer stare, a veil of fog had come out of nowhere and descended upon the hillside, hopelessly obscuring it from view!  We waited around for an hour or so, hoping for a break in the fog, but it only thickened.  Disheartened, we got back in the car, descended the mountain, and drowned our sorrows at a Taco Bell in Rapid City.  Talk about rock bottom.  We all swore to never again succumb to the siren song of the loathsome Wall Drug.

FAIL. (Photo from 2009 trip).

With the wound from this tragic tale not yet healed, clearly I had some unfinished business to tend to up in them thar hills.  And so, on behalf of Trevor and Geoff, and for my own peace of mind, I had to go exorcise our collective demons at Mount Rushmore.

The Black Hills might have ‘hills’ in their name, but make no mistake, they are a mountain range, even if a relatively minor one by Western standards.  Maxing out at Harney Peak’s elevation of 7,244 feet, the Black Hills are the highest peaks east of the Rockies that the continent has to offer, and would provide a good test run as the Metro began to count down the days before its long-anticipated clash with the Rockies themselves.

I was hoping that this test run would serve as a confidence booster and allay my fears of having the journey come to an abrupt halt amidst the thin air and steep slopes of the Rockies.  Though I hit the Hills with optimism and a full head of steam, slowly and surely, the Metro’s velocity flagged, and with it my confidence in its mountaineering ability.  Climbing a series of steep inclines, I was lucky to occasionally brush 20 mph, though I took several hills at a humbling 10-15 mph.  I was starting to get nervous about how the scooter might perform in Colorado.  With steeper slopes and thinner air thrown into the equation, I feared that a 5 mph ascent (if that!) might lurk in a mountain pass in my future.

At about the same rate as the Grinch’s ascent of Mount Crumpet, I wound my way upward towards those familiar faces, much as I had done two years ago (though this time they were set against a cloudless sky, as I was pleased to note).  The parking area was swamped with license plates from all over the country, but I was proud to be the sole representative of New York mopeds (OK, and all mopeds, period).  Just to be sure to avoid a repeat of my last visit, I hurried up to the viewing platform near the base of the mountain.  No cruel twists of meteorological fate foiled me this time, as there they were, the Fantastic Four of the presidential variety, their welcoming expressions unbowed after years of exposure to the elements.  For a sculpture that is technically incomplete, the monument is pretty magnificent (the sculptor, Gutzon Borglum, had intended to give the group torsos but ran out of funding), and really does justice to the likenesses of George, TJ, Teddy, and Abe.  I also think the monument works well with the mountain itself.  Instead of scarring its natural backdrop, the beauty of both features nicely complement one another.

As beautiful as I imagined...

I snapped a couple photos and slurped down one of my just-add-water smoothie pouches under Rushmore’s eight-eyed gaze (ten if you like to make fun of Teddy “Four Eyes” Roosevelt).  This touristy moment in the shadow a South Dakota icon allowed me to reflect on my visit to the ex-Sunshine State.  The detour had been a gamble, adding days and distance to my voyage, but it had totally been worth it.  The Perfect Day I enjoyed when I arrived at the ranch almost justified the entire trip, let alone the detour, and today’s second dose of buffalo and pit stop at Mount Rushmore were just icing on a big South Dakota-shaped cake.  I would miss this place dearly, but it was time to see what other states had to offer, and so I continued on to my yet-undetermined location for the night.

Starting my southward plunge of a few hundred miles, I backtracked out of the Black Hills and soon re-entered the wide-open country of the High Plains.  This stretch of road would feature some of the emptiest and loneliest land that I’ve ever encountered.  In the 195 miles from Mount Rushmore to my eventual stopping point in Scottsbluff, NE, I would only go through two towns: Hot Springs, SD (pop. 3,711) and Crawford, NE (pop. 997).

Curiously, maps hadn’t tipped me off to let me know that I would encounter less than 5,000 people over the course of 200 miles.  To the contrary, maps online and in print indicated that there were a handful of small towns along the way.  But that’s the thing- there were small towns there.  Past tense.  Nowadays, they sat dead and/or dying, undetectable from the road, even if they stood just a mile or two away.

Just beyond one such ghost town named Ardmore, SD, I passed back into Nebraska, which, from what I hear, is even better the second time around.  This remote corner of the state is occupied by the Oglala National Grassland, with its parched looking grass extending as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Nebraska: Round Two.

Though the Oglala looks serene enough, its sunny fields and peacefully swaying grasses belie a violent and bloodstained past that Dan had told me a little bit about.  Historically, the native Lakota provided some of the region’s most heated resistance to the U.S. Government, prompting the establishment of nearby Fort Robinson in 1873.  The Fort played a central role in Indian conflicts beyond that point, with Crazy Horse being one of the more notable men killed there.  Looking at the land today, all that bloodshed seems so incredibly senseless. We really couldn’t have shared this land with Native Americans?  I mean, we sure as hell aren’t doing much with the place- just look at it!  I guess Manifest Destiny is a pretty powerful drug.

I stopped in Crawford, NE for some desperately needed gas.  Driving down its main street lined with old, empty buildings, it was obvious that poor Crawford was a decaying husk of the town it once was.  Wishing I could support a local business instead, I stopped at a Shell station and went inside to pay and make the usual small talk with the lady behind the counter.  After filling up, I was about to leave when the lady rushed out of the door and asked me how much gas the Metro could hold.  She warned me that there was nothing for 75 miles until Scottsbluff, and hadn’t wanted me to run dry.

As I soon discovered, it turns out the gas station lady was right- there really was nothing between Crawford and Scottsbluff.  It was just me, the road, and empty pasture dotted by the occasional windmill.  Nothing, nothing, nothing, until 75 miles later, the land began to change a bit, with golden, far-off bluffs (including the one for which Scottsbluff is named) looming like distant fortresses.  I had covered an impressive distance on the day, but all that time scooting was done at the cost of finding and setting up a campsite.  Arriving in town just as nightfall gripped the countryside, I again elected to stay at a hotel.

High Plains, low population density.

Scottsbluff, home to about 15,000 people, is a veritable metropolis out in these parts, but it saddened me to find it plagued by the same rural decay as Crawford, but on a slightly larger scale.  Not at all picky in my search for lodging, I pulled into a shabby looking motel that mirrored the town’s beat-up appearance.

The place looked oddly familiar.  I’d never seen it in person before, but could almost swear that I recognized it from a drug bust or a shootout that I’d seen in some movie.  It had a generally dirty vibe, and seemed like the kind of place where law-abiding wayfarers were in the minority.  Maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but I had spent the day driving past signs commemorating movies that had been "filmed in this area”, including North by Northwest in the Black Hills, and Hidalgo out on the unbroken prairie.  It wouldn’t have surprised me to find a similar sign referencing a bad ‘80s action movie just around the corner from this place.

A grungy bearded kid who looked and talked like a stereotypical stoner was behind the desk, but he was a nice guy who checked me in and handed me the key… and then handed me another key a few minutes later after the first one didn’t work.  It was that kind of place.

But I didn’t mind.  Not when I’d turned in a record-shattering 244-mile performance on top of triumphantly revisiting Mount Rushmore and also having a close brush with buffalo.  If I made it through the night without sustaining any gunshot wounds (no small feat), I’d consider that a pretty damn successful 24 hours.

Shout-Outs:

-The Adams State Grizzlies!  I’d never heard of them before, but apparently they exist, as a bus emblazoned with their logo passed me somewhere near Crawford.  I gave ‘em an enthusiastic #1 as they went by!

-Crawford gas station lady.  Thanks for lookin’ out for me.

-Trevor and Geoff.  Wish ya could’ve been there to see Mount Rushmore in all its glory.

Town(s) of the Day:

-Crawford, NE (almost by default)

Valentine, NE to Scenic, SD (September 22)

Distance covered today: 185 miles

Distance covered total: 2,284 miles

Estimated mileage remaining: 1,750 miles (44% left to go)

“We are in the middle of our continent.  Being alive is so cool.”

-Geoff King, 2009

My only other trip to the West came a couple years ago, when after the conclusion of my sophomore year of college, I hopped into a car with two West Coast natives and made the three-day trek from Minnesota to San Francisco.  As we sped across South Dakota, Geoff, one of my companions, made the above comment.  It made me laugh, so I wrote it down and have remembered it since, primarily for its comedic value.  Out of context it might sound a bit absurd (and rightfully so), but when Geoff said it, I knew exactly what he was talking about.  At the time, we were looking over windswept prairie with the distinctive, colorful, rocky bluffs of the Badlands lining the horizon.  It was the kind of picture-perfect Western imagery that you’ve seen your whole life on TV and in movies, but finally seeing it in person was even more magnificent.  Geoff’s words really did ring true- being alive in the middle of the continent is so cool.

On this bright and sunny day, I got another dose of the same type of landscape and was forcibly reminded of Geoff’s comment from two years ago.  This time, however, the landscape was only one of many factors that made life so cool today.

Never before had I been through an actual swath of Badlands National Park.  I also hadn’t peed across time zones.  Nor had I seen a meteor streak across the sky in broad daylight.  Nor had I accidentally rounded up some rogue broncos while riding a scooter. Nor had I ridden a horse at a gallop.  And I certainly hadn’t ridden that loping horse to within thirty yards of a herd of buffalo.

But on this awesome, once-in-a-lifetime day, all of those things changed.  I honestly don’t think I could’ve had a better day if I had shotgunned a can of that Felix Felicis good luck potion from Harry Potter- everything (including the weather!) went my way, and I caught all kinds of unbelievably lucky breaks.  All in all, I’d have to say that it was one of the best days of my life.

It’s important to note that this “perfect” day wasn’t without a major blemish or two.  Only a few miles into my day’s trek, I crossed into South Dakota.  While it felt good to enter a new state for the first time in a week, my excitement was quickly doused by a heart-wrenching glimpse of how harsh life can be in the Sunshine State (and yes, that used to be one of South Dakota’s actual nicknames).

Taking my talents to South Dakota.

The first South Dakota town I came to was Mission, and like many towns in that part of the state, Mission was on an Indian Reservation.  Pulling into town, I stopped along the side of the road to glance at my map, and within 30 seconds of getting off my bike I was accosted by a Native American guy in shabby clothes.  Although it was just mid-morning, he was obviously drunk, and immediately launched into a tragic spiel about being an army veteran and a bunch of other stuff before reaching a predictable conclusion by asking for some money.

After a couple polite nods and murmurs of “uh huh”, I managed to pry myself away from the guy, insisting that I didn’t have any change to spare.  It was your typically uncomfortable interaction with any street beggar, but this seemed especially unsettling.  I mean, not even while doing study-abroad in Africa had panhandlers descended upon me that quickly.  My interaction with him was a sobering reflection (no pun intended) of how rough things were on “The Res” and made me more painfully aware of just how run-down the place was.

Driving on, it became immediately apparent that Mission was no outlier, and that towns throughout the area were afflicted by the same extreme poverty.  In fact, conditions were even worse on the neighboring Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the eighth largest reservation in the country, and also the poorest. 

I didn’t take any pictures as I passed through Pine Ridge (though maybe I should have), but virtually every town that I came to featured squat, ugly buildings and dingy trailers in the same dilapidated condition, standing in horrible contrast to the grandeur of the beautiful, cloudless sky that served as their backdrop.  In the town of Wanblee, even that brilliant dome of sky was tainted, stained by a plume of thick, brown smoke rising from a fire raging in the town’s landfill that was visible from miles away.

Before reading this, if I had asked you to name the poorest place in America, what would you have said?  Prior to today’s drive, my guesses probably would’ve included “the usual suspects”- places like Flint, MI, Camden, NJ, or maybe even cities that I’d already driven through, like Gary, IN or inner city Cleveland.  Not to downplay the socioeconomic problems in any of those places I just named, but the distinction of “poorest town in America” actually belongs to Allen, SD, situated only a few miles off of my path for the day.  In Allen, an almost exclusively Native American town, the mean annual income is a staggering $1,539 – a number you’d expect to find in a third world country.  Things aren’t much better in other towns on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, where unemployment holds steady at about 80-85%, and perhaps not surprisingly, rampant alcoholism affects 80-90% of adults (and routinely falls into the hands of teens or even younger kids, in some sad cases).


The alcoholism pandemic is made all the more shocking when one considers that tribal law technically makes alcohol illegal on The Res!  Though this policy may have good intentions at its roots, it has only worsened Pine Ridge’s drinking problem by making its people vulnerable to cruel exploitation at the hands of their neighbors.  Just past the state line (and just past the jurisdiction of Pine Ridge and South Dakota law enforcement) the nine-person town of Whiteclay, NE supports four liquor stores where business is booming to the tune of 13,000 cans of beer sold per day.  These stores ruthlessly prey on the alcohol-addicted people of Pine Ridge, who come into town to spend what little money they have on alcohol with prices jacked well above market value.  The callous business being done in Whiteclay was recently spotlighted in this New York Times article that I urge you to read.  It makes me sick.


It’s one thing to have sympathy for Native Americans while reading about the Trail of Tears and countless other instances of their mistreatment in a high school history class, but seeing people face-to-face in the present day who have been shunted onto this land unsuitable for supporting agriculture (they’re called the Badlands for a reason) or practically any other economic activity elevated my white person shame substantially.  So much for taking a noble race of people and making them “civilized”- or should I say “sivilized”, as I can’t help but be reminded of Mark Twain’s criticism of our hypocritical society in his masterpiece Huck Finn.  To echo Huck’s famous lament, “it was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings can be awful cruel to one another.”


Maybe I had just been caught off-guard, as I wasn’t expecting to see this degree of in-your-face poverty right here in the U.S.A., but the utter destitution in these towns seemed a lot worse than in any urban neighborhood I’d seen, and also seemed to produce a bigger emotional response within me.  Simply passing through these towns was depressing enough- I can’t even imagine how tough and disheartening it must be to grow up in a place like Pine Ridge.  Seeing the ramshackle trailers on the Reservations has stuck with me as much as (if not more than) the exhilarating parts of my parts of my day that were yet to come.

America's Least Appreciated Time Zone.

At some point around midday, while still on The Res, my expedition reached another milestone when I came to the Mountain Time Zone.  As indicated earlier in the post, I used my entrance into America’s least appreciated time zone as an opportunity to stretch my legs, scarf down some groceries for lunch, and relieve myself (don’t worry, it was hardly indecent since there was no one around for miles in every direction).  Not only did I have to go, but this was one of those “having fun on/across borders” opportunities that everyone takes advantage of at some point in their life.  By peeing from East to West and waltzing back-and-forth across the line in the process, I figured that now I’d at least have a brain-teaser to keep me busy while I sat driving, as I could debate the Terminator-like complexity of my time warp urination (“did that count as the shortest pee in history, at a duration of negative one hour, local time?”)  Immature, I know, but believe me, you would make up crazy games like this too, if all you had was a full bladder and a time zone sign, and had been doing long haul scootin’ across the Plains without interaction with any friends in three days.  Just sayin’.

But lo and behold, I would not be needing those kinds of mental distractions as I had for the previous 1,000 miles of road.  As the name of the time zone hinted, the unblinkingly flat Plains were soon to be interrupted by the gray minarets of the Badlands, skirting the horizon.  What a relief (literally!) to finally have some topography in my life for the first time in hundreds, if not thousands, of miles!

The Badlands were all the more welcome given their reputation as an icon of the American West.  As I’ve explained before, there are a lot of shades of gray when determining where the Plains turn from the East to the West, but seeing the Badlands was certainly a tipping point- everything behind me was decidedly Eastern by comparison, as their banded sedimentary contours gave me an Old Western welcome.

Just beyond the northern extent of The Res sits the town of Interior, SD.  Hardly more than an intersection and a small collection of dusty buildings, the 94 brave souls who call Interior home are rewarded with one hell of a view.  The town sits facing a wall of craggy Badlands buttes as if answering nature’s dare for people to settle in such inhospitable climes.  From a distance, this rocky, lifeless backdrop made Interior look like an out-of-place mirage, but also lent the town an otherworldly beauty.

I should mention that, before leaving Valentine, I invested in a tiny red gas can and had strapped it around the base of the Metro, so that it shares the area near my feet.  Though I don’t like taking on extra weight, out in this part of the country you never know where (or seemingly ‘if’) you’ll find a gas station next, so it’s reassuring to suddenly tote an extra gallon of Vitamin G around (the equivalent of 100 emergency miles of distance).  Although I could now go much farther between fuel stops, it was still a good idea to play it safe and pull into pretty much every gas station possible.  Such was the case in Interior, where one of the only buildings happened to have a pump out in front.  And this wasn’t some corporate Mobil or BP outpost- this place had the look of a true “mom and pop” general store type of establishment, and had character very befitting of its frontier setting.

As I’d seen in a couple other small towns throughout my trip, the gas pump was one of those old school relics with the odometer-style numbers that roll over.  Of course, this antiquated pump didn’t have a place for me to swipe with plastic, so to pay I had to go inside and interact with another human being.  What a hassle!

Just as the building fit one’s mental image of a dusty, South Dakota gas station, the woman behind the counter also had the look and the temperament of your textbook small town store clerk.  It was as if Pearl Jam song “Elderly Woman Behind The Counter in a Small Town” had been inspired by this very lady (well, she was more middle-aged than elderly, but give her a decade or two…).  She was very nice, and our brief conversation inevitably shifted to where I was riding from and where I was headed.  When I mentioned that I would be stopping around the next town of Scenic, she seemed slightly concerned and said, “you know the town is closed, right?”

I thought I had misheard her. “The town is closed… wait, you mean the road is closed? What do you mean, ‘the town is closed’?”

Apparently, over the summer, the post office and whatever struggling businesses remained had shuddered their windows, and the town went up for sale.  I don’t really understand the details, because the notion of a town closing and going up for sale is foreign to me, but I guess I’d be able to see this “closed town” for myself about 30 miles down the road.

Badland for farming. Goodland for scooting.

Comforted by the full tank of gas, stunning scenery, and the short distance that I had left to cover, I was able to sit back and enjoy the ride between Interior and whatever was left of Scenic.  Scooting that stretch of road was pure bliss.  South Dakota Highway 44 cuts right through open expanses of Buffalo Gap National Grassland and then bisects Badlands National Park.  The road was among the smoothest I’d encountered all trip, perhaps due to the high volume of bikers who roll through here like windswept tumbleweed- drawn to this far-flung playground by its world-class, dream-like environment for open road riding.

Unlike most days, when I frantically race towards my destination as the setting sun plummets below the horizon, today I was in no hurry and made a conscious effort to relax and fully appreciate my surroundings and the simple joy of scooting.  I recall thinking that in as little as a month or two, I could find myself tethered to a desk job in some crowded city a thousand miles away, and wondered how badly would I miss this freedom.

Steeping in the splendor of Buffalo Gap and the Badlands would have made for enough of a memorable afternoon by itself, but a miraculous twist would soon take the day’s awesomeness to another level.  Off to my left, some horses were charging across the swaying grasses of their open range, manes and tails billowing behind them.  As I was driving, I thought, “you know, I really should take a picture of those galloping horses” but couldn’t bring myself to do it, clinging to the mentality that if I stopped for everything worthy of a picture out here, then I’d never make it to the ranch.  But eventually those majestic mares in the neighboring field got the better of me, and I decided that I had to use my point-‘n-shoot camera to immortalize them in miniature, grainy pixels that would never stand a chance of doing them even a remote degree of justice.  My indecision caused me to overshoot a gravel turnoff that looked as though it would be a good vantage point for a photo, so I turned around to backtrack to the spot.  Only seconds after pulling my 180, an overhead streak of light caught my eye and I glanced skyward. 

A meteor- no, it was thicker than that- a fireball was tearing across the sky!  Although only visible for maybe one very full second, it seemed so low in the sky that I was able to make out a surprising amount of detail.  I could see the chunk of mass at its head, with the different whites, yellows, and angry oranges tailing behind it like a dragon!  Even after the flash had disappeared, a small wisp of smoke hung in the air, briefly offering proof of what had just happened.  Seconds later, that, too, dissipated into thin air.

It moved in complete silence, even though visually it looked as though it should have caused a deafening WHOOOOSH as it went screaming past.  It can’t be overemphasized that this was more spectacular than any shooting star I’ve ever seen by several orders of magnitude, and this was DURING THE DAY!!!  (Later, I would find out that this wasn’t actually a meteor, but was in fact an old satellite re-entering the atmosphere as it crashed to Earth.)

Replaying the fireball’s trajectory in my mind, and laughing in disbelief at my good fortune (I would’ve been facing the wrong part of the sky had it not been for my oh-what-the-hell decision to turn around right at that moment), I drove on and reached the deserted town of Scenic.

Pretty much!!!

The highway didn’t go directly through the heart of town as I’d expected, but instead the clump of shuddered buildings (even dustier than those in Interior) stood a short ways away, while the road veered off in the opposite direction.  Maybe it’s ‘cause there was one other car snoopin’ around and throwing off the ghost town vibe, but for whatever disappointing reason, I didn’t go the few hundred yards out of my way to stop and explore. In hindsight, deciding not to peek at the abandoned streets of Scenic is about the only part of my day that I would go back and change.  I must’ve really been itchin’ to see some buffalo.

With Scenic behind me, now seems a good time to paint a more complete picture of Dan O’Brien, my host who awaited at a buffalo ranch not too far away.  I’ve already mentioned in passing that Dan was the professor of one of my favorite courses at Carleton, where each spring he taught a two-week class about the Great Plains.  What I haven’t said (and will surely fail to convey) is how much of an interesting renaissance man this guy is!

His life-altering decision to convert his struggling cattle farm into a buffalo ranch (staving off economic and ecological ruin in the process) is the basis for his book Buffalo for the Broken Heart.  Alongside rancher, professor, and writer,  “falconer” is another eye-catcher on Dan’s resumé.  Dan has devoted a couple books to his experiences with falconry, and has many other written works about the problems (both environmental and social) facing the Plains.

Though originally from Ohio, Dan strikes me as a true man of the Plains, and dutifully serves as a great advocate for restoring the region to health.  Using his unique drawl, he has a gift for using honest and forthright language to breathe life into his writing and speech.  I guess in that way, his simple yet eloquent way with words mirrors the subtle beauty of the land he calls home.  I was really looking forward to seeing him again and sitting down over a beer, although (and I’m sure he’ll forgive me for saying so) I was even more excited to get up close to some free ranging buffalo!  Somewhere along the banks of the Cheyenne River, I turned off of the paved strip of highway and onto the gravel of Dan’s road (though in South Dakota, where everything is spread out, I still had a ways to go).

Rattling my way down the road, I happened across a trio of horses.  Out here in Truck Country, rather than letting me putter on by, they apparently got spooked by the sight of a guy crunched up on this odd-looking scooter device, and took off running away from me.  Only problem is, their escape route down the road was contained by barbed wire fences lining both sides, so they could only run ahead of me, as I followed at a safe distance, trying not to alarm them any further.  I had mixed feelings about this- on one hand, I felt a little bad for the horses and just wanted them to chill out, stop running away from home, and let me pass, but on the other hand, this was kinda cool.  Gotta admit, I’d never wrangled three head of horses on a Honda Metropolitan before.  I felt pretty empowered- like a “hoss boss” if you will.

Runaway horses, beware: there's a new sheriff in town!

This game of cat-and-mouse (or was it scooter-and-horse?) went on for quite a ways.  After what must’ve been a mile or two, I was worrying that the horses would have a tough time finding their way back home, but at a bend in the road I quit horsin’ around (ba-dum-chhhh) and corralled them into the corner, where they came to a stop.  Giving a feeble warning honk to keep them at bay, I finally slipped past, freeing them to wander on home for supper.

Soon enough, I came to Dan’s "Broken Heart Ranch", and turned down the long, gravel driveway that descended down towards the river.  It turns out that I had not exhausted my luck for the day, as I arrived at a most opportune time.  Dan and a couple of friends from a neighboring ranch were saddling up some horses in preparation for a ride down to the buffalo herd.  It wasn’t a joyride either, as evidently, some of the horses had yet to be introduced to buffalo.  As such, this was their chance (and mine, too) to get broken-in and become acquainted with the big guys roaming the valley below.

Within ten minutes of dismounting from the Metro, I had hopped on another beast, this time of the equine variety.  Dan paired me with an older horse named Sun Dog, who was an easy-going steed and more or less handled business as if he were on autopilot.  All I had to do was hold the reins and not fall off.  As easy as that sounds, it was a pretty full plate of responsibility for me, considering that I’d been on horseback at most four or five other times in my life and had never done anything more than go for a casual, closely-supervised stroll.  I don’t think I’d been in the saddle for years, and I didn’t want my greenhorn status to slow down the rest of the group.

But Sun Dog knew what he was doing, and Cecie, one of our riding companions, offered helpful coaching as we clomped off in the general direction of the herd.  Before long, Dan asked if I was ready to ride at a lope, so I lied and said yes.  Once Sun Dog got to loping, the ride got rough and jarring in a hurry.  After a few uncomfortable furlongs at that clip, I did a better job of redistributing more of my weight to the stirrups, so that my knees absorbed most of the shock, as opposed to my rear.

Dan and the herd.

Meanwhile, hundreds of hulking brown shapes drew ever nearer with each cadence of hooves.  Dan owns over 300 buffalo (mostly females, with a handful of bulls thrown in), and the vast majority of them were gathered here under the late afternoon sun, grazing contentedly while also keeping a safe distance from the horses, which make them skittish.  From what I could tell, the herd enjoys relatively free reign over more than 20,000 acres- a couple thousand of which are owned by Dan, while the rest are tracts leased through some agreement with Buffalo Gap National Grassland.

Seeing them standing resolutely among the knee-high “amber waves” of grass, it’s hard not to wax poetic about the majesty of buffalo, a species tailored with a ruggedness that has made them perfectly suited to rule the Plains.  The “strong and silent” type, they maintain a calm and almost sleepy demeanor while their physique distills power down to its most elegant natural state.  I sat atop Sun Dog admiring them while Dan enlightened us with a few select nuggets from his treasure trove of buffalo facts.  Though we were anchored there watching the buffalo for some time, our long gaze seemed pitifully insufficient by the time we had decided to turn for home.  I couldn’t wait to pay them another visit during my stay on the ranch.

“Well, we’ve cheated death once more” Dan quipped upon getting the horses back into the stable.  I laughed and decided that I had to adopt that as the new Official Mantra of The Trip.

Someone pass me a Busch Light.

With a sequence of events like today’s, I guess it’s true that every dog has his day.  And this day even had dogs!  As if things hadn’t been good enough, back at the house my shins were greeted by a pair of rambunctious cocker spaniel puppies.  With a champion pedigree flowing through their veins, these pups were Dan’s next generation of grouse hunting dogs.  While someday they might blossom into masters of the hunt, for now they were just wild and crazy, living with the sole purpose to gnaw on something (or someone).

I definitely recognize that the Plains aren’t for everyone- heck, they’re hardly for anyone given the population density out here- and have a subtle beauty about them, but how some people fail to see the magnificence of the land is lost on me.  That I’m even attempting to describe a place so beautiful in writing is blasphemy.  Some things you just gotta experience with your own five senses.

That sentiment was reinforced as September 22, 2011 concluded with me taking in a brilliant sunset over the silhouette of the Black Hills looming in the distance.  It was quite the sight to behold, but the gradient of blues and purples covering the blanket of grass in the eastern half of the sky was just as arresting.

My day had basically been a Chevy truck or Busch Light commercial without the product placement.  I still can’t believe how the stars (and faulty old satellites!) had aligned to make for such a thoroughly stimulating day, powerfully triggering several different emotions.  The despair on the Indian Reservations, the euphoria of riding horses and scooters amidst such natural beauty, and the awe-inspiring sight of meteors and buffalo alike all combined to make for a day that I won’t soon forget.

The rest of the West couldn’t possibly be this awesome… could it?  September 23^rd was gonna have one tough act to follow.

Town(s) of the Day: 

-Interior, SD

Shout-Outs:

-Bob Barker (yes, that Bob Barker), who apparently grew up on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in Mission, SD.  I’m not sure if Mission was as rough back in his youth but regardless, Bob must’ve overcome a lot with such a humble upbringing.  In his honor, I’ll also squeeze in a reminder to get your pet spayed or neutered.

-Bade and Sun Dog- the horses who put up with my incompetence and didn’t kill me.

-Cecie- for coaching me with the horses.

-Dan, Jill, Jilian, Colton, and Scott for making me feel so welcomed on the ranch and for giving me a taste of such an amazing and overlooked part of the country.  If I haven’t overstayed my welcome, I’d love to visit again someday!

-Friendly lady behind the counter at the gas station/general store in Interior.

Further Watching/Clicking:

-Learn more about Dan's Wild Idea Buffalo Ranch.

-Hear Dan talk about Curly Bill, one of his bulls.