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.