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)