Blodgett's Creek Trail

This trail follows a west-east canyon in the Bitterroots, and from some of the reviews I've read last night it's one of the prettiest in the forest here. A creek follows the trail most of the way, which is why I chose this one for today so that Sadie stays refreshed. It's going to be a hot day, as it's already 58F at 7:38am.

There are waterfalls, steep granite walls and more trails to explore from Blodgett's Creek. One can easily get eight miles on this hike, which is my goal, so that despite the heat we still will have some cool time. Elevation start is 3471'. According to the Forest Service website, snow is still lying on the peaks as low as 7500'.

My odometer is now reading 4000.5 miles. I've driven over 1000 miles since Bozeman.

***

We started the hike at 8:37am. The trail is just outside the free campsite, which posted a "FULL" sign by the entrance. The creek roared nearby, as it would for the next four miles along the trail.

A careless camper started a wildfire here in the summer of 2000, burning most of the old growth pines in this canyon for the first three miles. New growth, especially the pines, where no more than 15' high at best, offering little shade for us despite the morning hours.

The golden currents, blue elderberry and western raspberry shrubs, however, were still berryless. This hike would be awesomely sweet and delicious in late July when everything is ripe!

Parts of this trail were indeed beautiful, as rocky crags on either side of the canyon reminded me of parts of Yosemite. I can only imagine what this place must have looked BEFORE the wildfire took out so many of the old trees. Many still remain as burned sticks, ready to break like pencil sticks after the next windstorm blows through.

A team of three USFS personnel passed me. They had been camping out along Blodgett's Creek, starting at the lake 11 miles uphill a week ago, to remove fallen trees along the way and to repair water culverts. Kudos to them as they did an excellent job, and I made sure I stopped at the USFS office in Hamilton to tell their supervisors. There were no fallen trees along the entire trail.

Old growth began shortly after passing the footbridge. Here is where the hike truly became beautiful again with tall shade trees to keep Sadie and I cooled. Rocks along the waterfall kept me steady as I rested on a ledge to take in the sounds.

I saw more people coming up the trail on our return hike at 11am. After resting 15 minutes at the second waterfall a mile upstream from the footbridge, we returned, making this a very pleasant summer morning hike without too much effort. The water was cold, clear and cascading and Sadie never had to suffer from thirst along this hike, which is why I opted for this rather than a more strenuous mountain hike. This is an ideal dog-friendly hike and there were indeed quite a few dogs along this trail.

It was 80F when we got back to a full parking lot. Only three cars were not from Montana. One sedan was from New York, another truck from Wyoming, and then there was the Doghuis from Arizona.

We are now going to cut across the forest east of here, along MT38, a mountain road taking travelers into the Beaver Lodge National Forest. We will perhaps camp out there for the night before hitting Anaconda, diverting from the original plan of going to Big Hole.

I have taken 9570 photos since arriving in Wyoming, with only around 400 more to go before I must either download all my pics or get yet another 8MG memory card!

Missoula and the Bitterroot Valley

A Forest Service dump truck woke me up at 7am; I was out the site by 7:30am to start the Wagon Trail, a 6-mile trail that at one time led pioneers over the ridge into Idaho. Sadie was in good spirits, enjoying the chilly air. I could see elk tracks in the dried mud.

Somehow, though, I was not on the right trail. Two miles into my ascent I was in a timbered section of the forest, with pine debris across the trail and seedlings growing where years ago trees were downed. I turned around here and drove west on US12 into Idaho six miles away, only to learn that the Lolo Pass Visitor's center (5235') was closed for the July 4th holiday. There were a lot of disappointed people in the parking lot!

This pass was unquestionably a beautiful drive across northern Idaho. Lolo Peak at 9296' was still snow covered. If only I had the time to drive across the state to Lewiston and back! But I came back to my senses and stayed at the center, hiking a short access trail to the Grave Creek trail where Lewis and Clark had camped out 13 September 1805. The creek was untouched and allegedly much the same way as it was back in 1805. Stephen Ambrose, the famed historian-writer of the Lewis and Clark journey, had lobbied and paid to keep this area pristine and away from the timber company's hands. Although I was no more than a quarter mile from US12, I couldn't hear any traffic. I was alone.

Indeed most of the Bitterroots in this section is heavily logged. Logging trucks came and went on this section of highway. Many vacant swaths of mountain side now show signs of barrenness.

We lingered here for an hour. I watched a woodpecker hollow out a stump, I heard birds, saw picahs dart here and there. The sounds and sights of the forest here were therapeutic. I can see why so many people are drawn to this part of Montana.

We made more stops at several more valley stops along this north-south route along the mountains, even hiking sections of the original Lolo Trail that the Nez Perce and US troops dredged on years ago. This trail was barely a foot wide. Many downed trees from a 1995 windstorm lay rotting on hillsides.

The Corps of Discovery made two more camp stops along this valley stretch after leaving Traver's Rest, a popular spot for many ancient travelers. I paid my $5 to see this spot, which was disappointingly just an empty field surrounded by private homes and barking dogs. (The accompanying guide one gets when paying admission more clearly explains the area's hidden treasures.)The reason this camp site is now a new state park, according to Mariah the ranger on duty, a blonde 35-year-old woman originally from Worchester, MA, was that this site is the only archaeologically confirmed Lewis and Clark site along the entire river. Mercury vapors were recorded in an old latrine pit that the crew used, mercury that was then given to people suffering from cramps, diarrhea, etc.

More enjoyable was talking to both Mariah and Walt, an older gentleman originally from Flathead Indian reservation, a white man born on a farm there. He was Old School, expressing his concern with the Native population today not wanting to assimilate, as the discussion went from the Native Indians then and now. The Bitterroot Valley is an important area for the Nez Perce Wars of 1877. This was their land they fought hard to maintain.

Walt was an interesting character regardless of the topic we were discussing. Wearing a white long-sleeved shirt, jeans and a white cowboy hat, he exuded Montana rancher. He was a 1944 Navy Veteran who has lived all his life in Montana except when he was in the Navy. He still loves to travel and told me of some of his adventures taking back roads across the country. One year he and his wife set out to travel to Memphis and ended up in Savannah, GA before turning around. He's taken a cruise to Alaska and next year plans on taking a cruise to the Mediterranean. He clearly does not let age slow him down.

"You'll find Montana is a state full of diversity" he said. So when I asked him what Montanans call Southwesterners who come up here for the summer, he replied "Tourists!"

It was now early afternoon and the heat was on again, hitting 87F. I still had to see Missoula in the daylight again, but once back in town the traffic and heat were too much for me. I located the Big Sky Brewing Company, had my four free taste samplers, bought a growler of Moose Drool, and drove on toward Hamilton. Here I stopped at another brewpub, the Bitterroot Brewpub, tried two beers but wasn't impressed with either to buy a growler.

"Montanans are proud of their beer" told me the bartender, "so we tend to support our breweries here." Since Montana is the third-largest barley grower in the country, it makes sense to support this industry. Barley and hops are cool-climate crops which grow well in the Pacific Northwest. That also explains why some of the best beers are made in that region of the country.

Sadie and I finished the day with a short hike (2.8 miles) up Blodgett's look-out west of town. We made it to the summit before the sun set behind the crags. This was a short but scenic hike, as at the summit one could see the eastern valley darkening in the mountains shadows, and the western peaks with deep canyons below. The peaks here still have snow on them. Back in 1995 a wildfire burned the pines on these slopes. New growth is in the form of younger pines and black aspen, but dead stumps still line the ridges here. It doesn't take much to destroy a forest, but it takes over a generation to regrow what was lost.

Where to tomorrow? Hopefully a morning hike up Canyon lake nearby and then a short drive to Big Hole. I should be in Butte in two days, Bozeman in three and leaving Montana in four days. As much as I have been enjoying Big Sky Country, I still have Wyoming and Utah to explore!

Great Falls and the Missouri River

The only route from Helena to Great Falls was via I-15 northbound for the first 20 miles. Then I turned off on the Recreation Road that wound for 36 miles through Wolf Creek Canyon. Here the river tightened and crashed through narrows, passed steep cliffs and tight turns. This was an anglers, boaters, floaters and kayaker's paradise. And it was a beautiful drive for me.

But then the mountains gave way and the valley widened out into the high plains 30 miles from Great Falls. I was now in the High Plains again, surrounded by wheat and alfalfa fields.

Temperatures rose into the 90s by 1pm and we were miserable. Warnings of 35-mile gusts were also expected.

The town did not impress me. Unlike the other towns I've seen so far, including Billings, Great Falls was more of a silo town with refineries. Even the down town was deserted. I abandoned plans to stay the night at the nearby air force base.

The one worthy landscape was the river, both the breaks and the dams. Even the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center was worthy of a visit but I didn't go in because I had spent enough time at the interpretive center in South Dakota. Nor did I want Sadie to suffer in the heat.

As soon as we got to the Breaks 14 miles NW from town Sadie darted for the water to drink water. She kept lapping up water as if this was her last water on earth. The shore was smelly and full of discarded fishing lures, but white pelicans floating in the river seemed oblivious to the trash.

The dams, built in the 1930s, are quite an architectural miracle, with the power of water behind them. "Abandon area when eight short blasts are heard" said one sign to visitors.

It took the Corps of Discovery almost a month to portage this section of the cascading river, averaging a mile a day in July 1805. I can just imagine both Lewis and Clark screaming "Holy Shit!" at the first cataract, "Fuck!" at the second and "@#$#@$#" at the third. Yet they persisted. They had Jefferson's orders to follow, to find a Passage to the Pacific Northwest, anyway.

Had it been 20 degrees warmer I would have enjoyed hiking the 4-mile North Shore Trail from one dam to another, but in the heat and over the dry plateau it would have been miserable for Sadie, who was barely walking as it was. That's when I knew I had to get out of these windy high plains. I could only imagine how this area would be in the deep of winter, as the north winds blow over the plains. From Great Falls down to Pierre the river flows down a plain. I've seen the best parts of the river.

I didn't stay long in town. If it hadn't been for the falls I would say the long drive would have been a waste of gasoline, but once back in the foothills east of Lincoln on MT200 I was happy again. I could see the distant outline of Glacier National Park. I was now back to rolling hills, dark-brown barns, dairy farms and fertile buttes. These mountains were the edge of the roaming buffalo two centuries ago.

We stopped at every historical marker, stopped at a few river access points to walk around. The Bitterroot River came out of the mountains as I approached Missoula at dusk, as flyfishers were still thigh-deep in the cascading waters.

I made it to Missoula after 8pm, with just enough light to walk the River Trail out and back, enjoy the end of a Native American flute festival in the city center.

And then I did the unpredictable: I decided, after a quick google search, to head west on US12 toward Idaho and camp out at the Lee Creek Campground. And that's exactly what I did, driving at night for the first time on my roadtrip (only because I'd be driving the route back the next day in daylight). This was the Nez Perce Trail through the Lolo Pass, which even at near full darkness offered a spectacular aura of pine-studded mountains, curvy roads and warnings of moose crossing, but alas the moose remained unseen.

Off to Great Falls

My odometer read 3442.50 miles this morning as I left the Cromwell-Dixon campground and the Continental Divide. I've decided to head out to Great Falls, see the cascades and spend the day there, then drive on to Missoula Monday.

The heat is back. After two cool days in the 70s, temps in the Helena area are expected to hit 80F.

I stopped in town before heading out. I had a craving for a real cappuccino and sipped one at the Bagel Company. I will now get on the road as Sadie looks bored. We will stop at every Lewis and Clark exhibit along the way. The Missouri river here is wild and beautiful.

From Bozeman to Helena

I will admit, I like Bozeman. The old red-brick buildings on Main Street, the people, the diverse groups of outdoor enthusiasts (like me), ranchers, farmers and wealthy oilmen out for a drive all meet here in Bozeman. The downtown streets are wide (as they seem to be all across the West) and offer quite a variety of needs.

Even Sadie didn't mind the walk across town. Up and down Main Street we walked, looking into windows, stopping in the Montana Ale Works for a bison burger (well-done and quite lean) and a try at the Bozeman Brewing Company where everyone brought in their own growlers to get filled. State law allows customers only three pints a day, but growlers are limitless but must be consumed off the premises. I liked the Select Amber; the Belgian Wit less.

The skies broke out though and a light rain fell shortly after we were done with our Main Street stroll. Where to go? We headed north into the Bridger mountains, passed the College "M" up Highway 86 to the first camp site, the Bridger Ridge campgrounds where in 1871 the Sioux fought and killed several settlers.

I took the last site open and stayed there for the night, taking a breather with Sadie on some very wet ski trails. She seemed delighted in the cooler temperatures, frolicking around me as if to entice me to play with me. For a desert dog she sure does love the cooler climes.

When the sun set we stayed in our van for the night. The rest of the campsite, surprisingly, was quiet. Even the kids and dogs were quiet as I slept another night under the pines.

It was 45F this morning when we awoke at 6am. I was in no hurry to go anywhere, and lay on my cot a while longer. Sadie did her usual whimper to go outside for her bathroom break. It was still quiet when we drove off, back down the mountain toward I-90 to resume our drive toward Three Forks and the confluence of the three rivers: Madison, Jefferson and the Gallatin.

The wide valley breaks open west of Bozeman. Wheat fields spring up in all directions, and the farm fields form brown and tan fields as we drove in a northerly direction.

We spent over two hours at the state park, driving the park road and stopping at every roadside site. Sadie was patient with me, drudging along as I ran up, then down limestone bluffs to look over the river basin. It was like being back in South Dakota again, but this time in the company of white pelicans, marmots, eagles, meadowlarks as the dry limestone cliffs hugged the river below.

A camper with Arizona plates pulled into the state park as I left. Which had Kevin asking me "If we call snowbirds from the North down in Arizona, what do Montanans call Arizonans in the summertime?"

I now followed the Missouri River again, north this time as I made it to Townsend and then Helena, stopping at every L&C site along the way.

And when I hit Helena in the early afternoon, it was like seeing Bozeman for the very first time: a small town nestled in the hills, a pioneer town of the late 1890s. The Malstrom AFB was showing a free show with its fighters across the sky, dipping and flying high above Helena.

I stopped in the Back Stage outfitter store (Montana owned), then at the Blackfoot River Brewing Company where I finally fell for the Montana custom of bringing growlers into the "taproom." I tried the Organic Pale Ale and the Amber Ale. It was the Amber Ale I bought a growler for.

Kevin called as I was writing this, and I told him of all the sites I've explored in Montana. He would have enjoyed most of the stuff I have seen: Military battle sites, Native American sites and the old pioneer spirit up here near Canada. Montana is beautiful, no doubt, and I hope SOON I can bring Kevin back to most of the sites I've seen. He's even expressed an interest in South Dakota, too.

The natural beauty and the people who live here make the Northwest so inviting. I will enjoy every day I have here.

I plan on making a loop around western Montana so that I will return to Bozeman next Monday before I head back south into Wyoming.

At the advice of the salesman at the Back Stage, I took Sadie on a four-mile hike up and around The Helena City Park, with trails of all abilities right up against the National Forest. It was 5:36pm when we started out, not too late for others to hit the trails after dinner as well. Oh, the joys of summer's late hours!

We met other cyclists and dog walkers and over two hours later I felt refreshed after the brisk work-out. We definitely got more than our six miles a day today and I was feeling a little exhausted, but dinner today was another Swiss cheese and spinach tortilla. I will have to make another food stop shortly as I am running out of caffeinated sodas.

I took another walk around Helena and its hilly streets. An art fair/music festival was going on in the city park and people were lying in the shade to listen to the music across the street. It was getting late, though and I needed a place to stay. A quick google search revealed that there was a fee campground in the Helena National Forest just 13 miles west on US12. That is where I pulled in for the night, just off the 6325' Continental Divide. I took a view of the meadow, hoping to see elk or moose saunter across at night, but no such luck.

Gallatin National Forest

The heat was getting to me, too, and so was the driving yesterday afternoon. Once I passed Billings I could see the forecasted cold front move in, and wind blew strongly in several gusts. But the temperature didn’t drop much. At 2pm it reached 100F and an hour later it dipped to 90F only to rise again to 93F.

The Beartooth mountains, those mountains that guard the Yellowstone to the north, were now clearly close by. The interstate was following the Yellowstone River and the old Bozeman Trail as it snaked along the valley dotted with burned-out trees along the highway, collapsed barns and crowded horse corrals in the smaller communities, and patches of blue sky interspersed with dark grey.

At the 3pm news Fox Radio reported that Michael Jackson had been rushed to an LA hospital after a heart attack. He was reportedly not breathing, which did not bode well. An Hour later he was reported dead. Admittedly no fan of “The Gloved One” despite some very good songs in the 1980s, his latter years were rather freakish. But to die so suddenly at the age of 50 from a heart attacks? This was quite a shocker!

Where was I going? I had no concrete plans for tonight other than drive toward Livingston, but I hadn’t had my walk in yet. And what better opportunity than to stop in the Big Timber Forest Ranger office for some information on the Gallatin Mountains and to choose a trail and campsite nearby.

This was the Montana I wanted to see: small towns nestled in the mountains as roads meander uphill into the wilderness. I picked up several road maps of the forests ad opted for the closest one: MT298 that traveled south and stopped short of Yellowstone. I wanted to get out of the hot van and hike with Sadie in the cooler mountains.

I lucked out. We stopped first at The Natural Bridge over a cascading waterfall, a short 1-mile leg stretcher. We explored the trail but then moved on up the road until I found a perfect campsite at Big Beaver Campground, a small 5-unit site big enough for small RVs at 5300’.

There were no RVs there, though. I had the campground to myself. I claimed Site #1, with a small “beach” next to a fire pit and a table. Kevin would have loved this site, too, despite the closeness to the road. Sadie helped herself to water as she pleased.

It was close to 6pm. Five minutes later I took Sadie with me on a walk up the road, now called Old Boulder Road where private property tracts bordered the National Forest and Independence Peak, a glacial rock outcropping to the south. Other campgrounds were also along Beaver Creek, with most campers preferring the Fee Sites for some reason.

Sadie was eager for a walk, too. We walked an hour up the road and an hour back, walking passed the Clydehurst Christian Ranch and Church, Aspen Campground, an Elk Winter Range, Chippy Park Campground and the Shipping Corral Picnic Site. Several private church camps were further up the road. We turned around shortly after crossing a creek that rushed into the river. The sun had just slipped below the western peaks but the pine-studded tops of mountains were still bright green or golden. Drivers waved at me as they drove passed us.

I wish I could have had this camp site my entire time on the road. It offered solitude and beauty all in one, and convenient water for Sadie. And what a deal to get such a lovely site for free!

I was expecting it to rain overnight, but at midnight, when I had finished writing my notes about such an eventful day, it was still calm. The outside temperature read 60F.

My odometer read 3085 by the end of the day, another short day. Now that I am in the mountains I don’t want to be driving so much anymore.

Today I woke up to 53F at 7am. I was in no hurry this morning, as the overcast sky bode for rain. But I was also drawn by the peaks, and at 7:30 we left our cute little site and drove another 12 miles south on Boulder Road to the Placer Basin trailhead, a popular horse trail up a switchback with vista views of the southern peaks.

We were alone, but I walked along cautiously in case I came across a bear, cat, moose or elk. Sadie was fine, so I walked on. At first the trail followed the Main Boulder River, and then Hawley Creek as we kept going up a rocky narrow trail. I turned around at the Breakneck Plateau, a wide meadow sprinkled with wildflowers and close views of the peaks. This was almost two miles one-way, or 1:15 hours, so if we were to get rained out later, at least we got some exercise in today.

The beauty kept getting better as I continued the drive to Livingston-Bozeman via the West Boulder Road and then Swingley Road, both alpine roads with intimate vistas of the snow-capped peaks. Beautiful homes were nestles here, and wide, expansive green fields that only a happy cow could love. I wouldn’t want to be here in a snowstorm as parts of the road was getting re-graded, but for now this was beauty. This was the Montana I had envisioned.

I made it to Livington at 12:30pm but didn’t see anything exciting other than the pretty downtown and its many brown-brick turn-of-the-century buildings. Old men walked the streets not in business shoes, but in hiking boots and shorts. Everyone looked athletic, even the kids and dogs.

I took Business 90 to Bozeman, 25 miles away, across the vast valley with snow-capped peaks in every direction. I passed the Bozeman trail, drifted into town and realized that yes, this is a town worth spending some time in.

Little Big Horn Battlefield

It wasn’t much of a campsite, mostly a place for those with boats to spend the night. RVers were lined up along the banks and I pulled in as far away as I could from the others because of Sadie. With nothing else to do for the rest of the day, I sat in the van in the shade and read a book about the Crow Indians as I’d gaze toward the mellow-flowing river. Twice I took Sadie down to the riverbank for a drink of water, which was a short 15-minute hike.

Despite the cool breeze outside Sadie preferred sleeping inside the van. Record highs were predicted for Thursday with storms and high winds moving in by late afternoon, followed by a cold front for the weekend. Just my luck that when I need to have Sadie in the van the temps rise to record level. Forecasters were predicting triple-digits for the Billings area.

I didn’t stay up past sunrise. I saw a sliver of the moon set shortly after dark, saw two deer meander past, then a feral cat strut by, and then silence overcame the camp.

25 June

It was colder overnight than expected, although it didn’t get cold until early in the morning. The sun rose after 5am, I was up an hour later, took Sadie down to the river and back for a quick drink, and moved out to the Little Big Horn Battlefield, cutting across the Crow Reservation on BIA road 313, then turning on BIA2 toward Crow Agency and then the park.

The local Billings AM station announced the death of Farah Fawcett this morning in LA after a long and very public battle with anal cancer. Her long-time partner Ryan O’Neal had asked her to marry him and they were supposed to have gotten married as soon as she recovered from her last bout, but obviously she never did. I was no big fan of her talents, but my old high school friend Jill Sabin was a big admirer of her during the late 1970s when she hit the TV screen with “Charlie’s Angels.” Farah’s death was imminent as her cancer was terminal and she was resting at home waiting to die. But at the tender age of 62 she went from blonde beauty of the late 1970s to a quickly-fading former actor 30 years later.

BIA 313 is a north-south narrow two-laner across the Crow Reservation. It meanders along Little Big Horn Creek, pass quaint trailers, fields and rocky hillsides. Other drivers were following me, surely they were all early birds to the park today. A short construction job slowed me down for a few minutes but I made it to the park at 7:50am. It was already in the 70s.

People were already meandering through the park. Although opening hours at 8am in the summer, it looked like the park opened earlier today. The parking lot filled up fast.

I watched the 8am showing of the battle movie. The small theatre was packed. It was 8:15am when I finally made it down to the Ravine trail, a .75 mile stretch of path that took visitors down to where the Lakota were hiding out for Custer’s men. After walking these grounds it’s hard to image Custer getting clobbered. He had the high ground yet he was outnumbered 1:10. The fields are now covered in wildflowers.124451
I talked briefly with an older rancher from Oregon, Bob Colter, who is traveling all the major national parks this summer. He lost his wife of 38 years this past January.

I returned to the visitor’s area to listen to the first speaker scheduled: Enos Two Bears II who spoke passionately about the new Native American memorial near the Custer Memorial. He traveled earlier this week from the Pine Ridge Reservation. Soon to be 50 years old, his brown hair hung from both sides of his head in two braids that reached down past his hips. When I spoke to him after his speech I noticed he was missing half his teeth and was smoking Marlboro cigarettes.

I liked Enos. A few other “non-tribal members” (as Whites in the audience were referred) spoke the truth when he said that the Battle of Little Big Horn was not a battle based on hate toward the Whites, but a battle to preserve the Lakota culture and lifestyle. Custer was only following orders of President Grant anyway.

Enos, understandably, is no fan of the Crow Indians, who were on Custer’s side during Little Big Horn (only to be thanked five years later by having their reservation cut in size to one-forth its size to appease ranchers in the area)

“Everytime I stop on the reservation to get gasoline, I see them looking at me as if they want to kick my ass” he said to me silently. But he also understood why the Crow names were on the memorial as the Native American Memorial is to symbolize unity and understanding of all tribes, as there were victims on all sides at the Little Big Horn massacre.

Yet Enos and the rest of the speakers were not reimbursed by the National Parks Service for their travels. Lucky for Enos he was reimbursed by a company in Billings that hires Native Americans as consultants on various projects across the West.

There were many Lakota in the audience, many staying with their immediate groups under shade trees scattered around the canopy. After Enos and a few other Lakota spoke, the audience departed, but the Lakota tribes gathered together, cheered and hugged one another. Many had traveled in their beat-up cars from their reservations in South Dakota. One car’s windshield was badly shattered on the driver’s side from a horse.

It was now getting hot. When I got back to the van at 11:30am the temperature outside was 93F. Sadie was in the shade with her water, but she was clearly stressed from the heat and panting heavily. The air conditioner didn’t help either. I drove the five-mile park road to the Breeten battle, walked the short trails there, looked over the rolling terrain and at 1pm we were on our way toward Billings and points further west via I-90.

The heat was getting to me, too, and so was the driving. Once I passed Billings I could see the forecasted cold front move in, and wind blew strongly in several gusts. But the temperature didn’t drop much. At 2pm it reached 100F and an hour later it dipped to 90F only to rise again to 93F.

The Beartooth mountains, those mountains that guard the Yellowstone to the north, were no clearly close by. The interstate was following the Yellowstone River and the old Bozeman Trail as it snaked along the valley dotted with burned-out trees along the highway, collapsed barns and crowded horse corrals in the smaller communities, and patches of blue sky interspersed with dark grey.

At the 3pm news Fox Radio reported that Michael Jackson had been rushed to an LA hospital after a heart attack. He was reportedly not breathing, which did not bode well. An Hour later he was reported dead. Admittedly no fan of “The Gloved One” despite some very good songs in the 1980s, his latter years were rather freakish. But to die so suddenly at the age of 50 from a heart attacks? This was quite a shocker!

Billings, Montana

OK, granted, it's not the best town in Montana but its city life is above par. Last night we walked around downtown and the center was bustling. You wouldn't see this in a southern city for a town this size.

But the city's main business, the oil refineries, are making the air here smell like Whiting, IN or Stockton, CA. And that means horrible. The nitrogen oxide that the refineries emit are giving me a headache. I almost drove away to points further away until I discovered the Heritage trail along the Yellowstone River where I took Sadie for a walk at 10am. From the paved trail along the river's northern banks we walked .25 miles to the Double Moon County Park where several miles of network trails allow hikers pristine walks along the muddy banks of the swift-flowing Yellowstone river. It was here in 1806 that Lt Clark (he was never officially promoted to Captain by Congress) encamped on his way back to the Missouri, while Capt Lewis explored rivers further north.

It was a nice hike, just over an hour. We hiked along the river, along the Jeune trail until that trail met up with the Dull Knife trail which was flooded over. Bullfrogs croaked in the reeds, birds of varous plumage flew over head. My feet got muddy and so did Sadie's paws, but she didn't mind as she used the river to drink from. It was quickly getting warm and a heat wave is predicted for tomorrow

Once I realized that the free admission to Little Big Horn wasn’t until the next day, I bummed. What to do? It was too hot for a city hike (and dogs aren’t allowed in city parks) so I decided to get an errand done and shop for a cheap cell phone. I found a Target on the north end of town and got a Tracfone and a few other goodies. A paved Heritage Trail was nearby, a paved multi-use trail I had seen from I-90. Here it meandered around a smelly water plant. Walking Sadie here was as good as I was going to get for now.

It wasn’t a very scenic stretch along this section of trail as I walked eastward. Two refineries were visible from my vantage point. Cyclists rode past me, and other dog walkers were coming in either direction. I was ready for an hour walk, out and back, along this stretch, just to get some exercise and so that Sadie wouldn’t be so bored.

Just my luck that about .5 mile down the trail I came across the Two Moon County Park, a small reserve right on the northern banks of Yellowstone River with pristine shoreline. This was perfect as the trails offered some shade.

We hiked along the Mallard Trail, a .7 stretch that came right up to the river’s banks. Parts of the trail had recently eroded into the swift-flowing river, and at the trail’s easternmost edge it was flooded over and muddy. I had no choice but to turn around here.

Despite the muddy water (not to mention what kind of chemicals the refineries are dumping into this river) I saw plenty of wildlife: winter geese, mallards, bullfrogs, and a few songbirds. Sadie enjoyed her 1.5-mile walk off-leash before we got back on the Heritage Trail, back to the van, and then south toward the Big Horn National Recreation Area. This was a nice option for wilderness camping without being too far from tomorrow’s battlefield tour.

I had started today with 2702 miles on the odometer and ended with 2846, the shortest distance so far on this road trip. I pulled into the first campsite I could find on the north shore (which doesn’t have much, but I was in no mood to drive another 70 miles toward Sheridan)



More later...

Waking up freezing, entering Montana

The cold got me up at 1:15am, again two hours later. Sadie seemed OK next to me but I could never get rid of that cold draft through the sleeping bag. I couldn't wait for sunrise to get up and leave.

And when the sun finally rose, there were no elk! When I let Sadie out for her morning pee however, she gave off the most unusual bark, a rapid-fire bark such that I've never heard fromk her. When I drove off down FR15, she, instead of running after the van, ran the opposite way up an OTV trail. What was going on? Where the scents of elk, bear, cat scaring her? I thought for a split second she was going to take off and disappear into the dark forest, but she did come back down afterall. I was very relieved. Her behavior reminded me of John Steinbeck's poodle in "Travels with Charley" when he drove through Yellowstone.

I drove the end of FR15 and exited, finally, back on Alt14 toward Lovell. This was truly "High Country" when snow packs still on northern slopes. But no elk. I saw a few in the distance, but no flocking herds grazing through. They must have heard us coming or they were so wellcamouflaged in the forest.

Outside temperatures swaggered between 29F and 31F. Even in the sun it didn't warm up.

I stopped at the Medicine Wheel, a pre-historic mound of rocks that archeologists think was a symbol of inter-tribal travel and commerce. Located at 9800 this wheel is a pleasant three-mile hike r/t, a perfect leg stretcher. We arrived at 7am. I put on my winter hikers,grabbed my fleece jacket and took off for the hike.

There was definitely snow here as we scaled two snow mounds along the path (FR12). Mountain bluebirds and what looked like a groundhog chriped an chatted for us to get away. As the first people on the hike, Sadie was off-leash and enjoying the smells and freedom. The cold didn't seem to bother her.

Breath-taking views of the Big Horn Basin were on one side of the hillyop, and lush green vallies were on the other. Religious cloths were hanging on the wooden fence around the wheel, prayer beads on several posts. We let everything as is. If it weren't so coldI could have stayed longer.

Another group of women from Montana arived as I hiked back. One woman fell on the same spot I fell going out. At the parking lot at 8:20am the first two USFS personnel arrived, and then the lone archeologist assigned to the western Big Horns came in his large USFS truck, wiping coffee from the outside of his driver's side.

"The western Big Horns are full of archeology woners" he told me as he gripped his coffee mug. "Across from this mountain is a find of over 75 mounds." The problem is that no one knows for sure what everything represents. He works solo, has no crew. and drives from site to site to make sure nothing has been damaged. He used to work at two separate sites in his younger years, in Tempe and Roosevelt Lake in AZ, but he's happiest here in northern Wyoming.

"It keeps me out of the bars" he lamented. "These last three days have been the first days of summer; I've been figting wind and rain up to then." and then we bid eachother a good day and I continued on my downhill drive. I'm lucky the weather has been cooperative for me so far. This high hike would have beem miserable in rain or snow.

My breaks started to overheat. Luckily I noticed that at a rest stop, then waited ten minutes, then again another ten minutes at the next rest stop, then pulled over for 30 minutes at the third stop to let the brakes cool off. By the third stop we were almost off the mmountain and went on a short walk along an old, overgrown trail in the dry foothills.

And thus ended my 23-hour stay in the Big Horns, a lovely mountain range worth another visit.
My detour brought me on the more western slope toward Little Big Horn. I drove through the small town of Lovell, then headed north on USHighway 312 as I entered Montana at 11:30am at the small village of Frannie, an old western woman. My entry into Montana was anti-climatic. The next town was also named after a Montana settler, Bridger. The Edgar, and then I saw a sign to the "Chief Plenty Coup's State Park" and took a sharp right going east here. This I had to see. I drove for 17 miles on a gravel road with views of lush green hills, rocky hilltops, the distant mountains and rustic brown barns. So this is what Montana looked like. It looked just like eastern Wyoming!

It almost seemed expected that the first people I spoke to in Montana were from the Crow Indian reservation. One woman, Barbara Bulltail, was the granddaughter of Russell Thorntail, who in the early 1900s had to fight Montanan senators to keep land for the Crow reservation. The current senators at the time were taking more land away from the Crow.

I spent more time talking with the women than I did exploring the park itself, which preserved the house the Chief lived in. His land was given to the people as a remembrance, and now all non-state residents pay $3 and Montana residents get in free (their motor vehicle registration fees help fund the state parks). He lived in a comfortable western-still two-story home with a southern view of the mountains.

I took one of the women's suggestions for a campsite outside of Laurel, west of Billings, after a quick stop at a nearby state park, Pictograph Caves State Park. The pics here were so badly eroded I couldn't see any of them, and even other visitors commented on the same thing.

"What a shame" said one man.
"Disappointing" said another commenter on the free tour guide.

Now my quest was to find a shower as I needed one. But where was this campsite this woman had recommended? I ended up driving over 20 miles out of my way, and finally gave up and washed my hair at a rimrock overlook of the town to the north. From here one can see the three refineries. The town isn't very pretty and clearly makes its living from the oil and railroad that rides through town.

But it's a town nonetheless with all the amenities, and even has several brewpubs. The first one I encountered was "Carters" off historic Montana Avenue, and here's where I stopped for a beer.

The young bartender told me that under state law brewpubs could only stay open till 8pm because the brewer and owner, Mike, does not yet have a full beer and wine license. There is also no food served here, which meant I had to watch what I drank on an empty stomach. And by law only three pints were allowed per customer. A small chit on which the bartender kept track of the pints was given to every drinker. These are archaic laws for a state that lauds itself on its progressiveness. I don't even like to start drinking until later in the evening, so a 8pm cut-off is weird.

Kyle, a young man next to me who works as a medical lab technician for all of Montana, said this was his favorite brewpub in Billings. "There is another one that serves food, the Montana Brewing Company" but this one is my favorite. I didn't even know it was here until a friend took me to this place a year ago and I've been coming here ever since. My favorite is the Derailed!"

I tried both the Hefe and the Derailed Ale, a full-bodied ale at 6.5% alcohol, a bit strong for me.

The clientele left as the bar closed, and then it was just me, the bartender and an older man who apparently came out of nowhere to talk to me about laptops. He can't get his to work out on his ranch and wanted to know how the WiFi operates. Or perhaps that was just his come-on to me.

He was admittedly drunk. But he was likable enough. Born in South Dakota, he dropped out of high school at 16 and rode all across the country on his first Harley. Somewhere in Canada his bike broke down, and he returned to the US.

"Had I known any better, I would have continued on my ride" he said, "but I came back, finished school and rode the rest of the state." He makes his living fixing and collecting tractors, but work lately hasn't been that good. He's been trying to sell his business but hasn't gotten any buyers.

Dan Dooley is his name, a 66-year-old rough-looking man who lives on his own land east of Billngs. He still rides his "scooter" across the country and at night he simply throws out his sleeping bag for the night. So to him, my vancamping is not totally unheard of, but for a woman, very unusual. I never saw myself as being on an unusual journey.

...

Spearfish, Northeastern Wyoming: Devil's Tower, High Country and the Big Horn Natl Forest

We were up early yesterday, Monday morning, to explore the Spearfish Canyon Scenic Byway. It was as if we had Paradise to ourselves for about two hours. The Canyon is worth a more deep exploration if I had more time, but since Montana beckons, I had to push ahead.

This deep canyon slices through limestone with the Iron Creek running through it. At 7am as,we drove through, the sun hadn't yet pierced her light through the pines, and I carefully meandered along the highway with the creek cascading along us most of the way. No wonder the Lakota called these hills "Black Hills" as the dense trees let no light in and kept a chill for us.

I missed the trailhead to the creek, which a local write-up deemed the prettiest hike in the area, and instead I drove on to Savoy, which, had I continued on, would have brought me back to Deadwood-Lead and perhaps had given me the streets to myself on a Monday morning.

The Doghuis, however, had other plans. It turned right toward Rimrock Falls, a mere one-mile hike o/w. It was early, and I took the risk of walking Sadie without a leash as we followed the rushing creek under pines, birch, and reeds. The sun was just then showing her colors.  It was a cool, refreshing walk that never left the creek

6/23

Bear Butte State Park

We finished our drive through the northern Black Hills by 3pm. My next destination was Bear Butte State Park, a sacred place for both Lakota and Cheyenne. Dogs are not allowed on the Summit Trail to this 4242' peak so to get Sadie some exercise we walked the Bear Butte Lake first, a three-plus loop hike around a small lake.

Signs warning that "Buffalo can be dangerous, do not approach" signs adorned the park. But all I saw were happy black cows grazing on prairie grasses.

"It shouldn't take but an hour" said the park ranger. It took us 1:20 hours because we walked the entire route and finished off on the highway back to the trailhead as the eastern side has no official trail. The "official" trail ends at the southern part of the lake. We continued on a smaller trail that lead to the camp grounds on the northern side.

And what a pretty trail this was. The winds had picked up, refreshing us both and giving the prairie grasses a nice "wave." Sadie was off leash for once and took liberty to help herself to lake water. She minded the water fowl along the shore. And there were plenty! I spotted a sandhill crane, mallards, coots, seagulls, geese, killdeer, red-tailed hawk, plenty of red-winged blackbirds and wrens. By the time we neared the end Sadie went into the lake up to her belly and splashed around. She clearly had fun.

This brought us to 5pm when we got done and it was still 78F outside. Sadie didn't look hot today but I didn't take any chances. I drove into Sturgis, three miles away for a dinner at Burger King. I had my usual Spicy chicken sandwiches and Sadie had her Whopper Junior plain.

I contemplated going back to Bear Butte to hike the summit now. I am glad I did.
I started the climb at 6:26, met a young couple hiking back down near the top. The woman was carrying a small child and was wearing flip-flops, shoes that clearly are not meant for this rocky and narrow trail. (I wore my Keens, which were slightly better)

The 1.85 mile hike to the top took me 40 minutes. I was expecting this hike to take longer since the ranger said it was a strenuous hike. "Give yourself three hours to do this" he said before leaving for the day. The rangers do not encourange night hikes but will not stop anyone from attempting one. This butte would be awesome as a full-moon hike. The views in all directions are spectacular. The High Plains live up to their name from this vantage point. Only the Black Hills show any mountainous features. I think I saw Devil's Tower from the summit, toward the northeast.

I rested for ten minutes before descending. I missed the rush hour, as there were four groups of three to four people in each group heading uphill for a sunset view. I'm sure the views are worth it, but I had plans to head into Wyoming tomorrow. And Sadie was patiently waiting for me in the van.

A fire in August 1996 scorched the top pines along the summit. The dead trees were still there and nothing new had grown over. What pines did remain contained prayer clothes from Natives who had come here to pray. I was also on alert for rattle snakes but saw only a few birds along the hike.

A sundance was going on in a remote section of the park closed off for these intimate ceremonies. I could hear the drum beat and four tipis were facing the mountain. People meandered around the tipis but that is all I could see. I did not stay to watch.

(The one drawback to this pretty hike were the ticks. I found my first tick embedded in my lower left facial cheek while still descending the butte. In the van I discovered two more on my shoulders, both also embedded. By midnight I had counted twelve total ticks all over my body that it got so bad I pulled into the first RV site I could find just to shower.)

I got back to the van at 8pm and together we drove toward Spearfish, our destination for tonight. My van reads 2030 miles. This was the shortest drive yet on this trip, a mere 170 miles, of which 30 were back and forth around Sturgis and the state park.

Tomorrow morning we will explore Spearfish Canyon, perhaps do a hike there to Crow
peak, weather permitting, and then head to Sundance, Wyoming by the afternoon. That will be our lay-over for tomorrow night.

And Wednesday we will hit Montana!

http://www.sdgfp.info/Parks/Regions/NorthernHills/BearButte.htm

Rapid City and the northern Black Hills

I will admit: I like Rapid City. It's big enough to provide anyone with the comforts of travel and yet be small enough to be enjoyable. Its downtown has character, with many original facades inviting the thirsty, the hungry and the curious. It's a cowboy town with wealthy bankers, chap-wearing Harley riders, outdoor enthusiasts and dumb-founded tourists with enough amenities to please everyone.

It's also the first city coming from the East with a truly western flair.

This morning Sadie and I strolled up and down Main and St Joseph Streets to admire the 35 presidential statues that welcome walkers at the street corners. Few walkers were out when we started at 8:15am. Some corners have four statues, others just two or three. She sniffed a few of them but soon learned these bronze men were not real.

She did, however, leave a nice pile near President Ford and I didn't think of bringing a plastic bag with me. With no one nearby to witness my embarrassment, I tore of several large leaves of the succulents and threw the three small turds into the flower bed. My apologies to
President Ford and his family.

These statues are still in the works. As money is collected from donors, sculptors are contracted to create one. Several sculptors create several likenesses. There are nine more to go, although the volunteer at the Presidential visitor's center told me that President Obama's has already been commissioned. I wonder who he will stand across from? Clinton and George Bush43 haven't been cast yet, either. And how will Clinton and Bush pose? Clinton will have at least three women by his side. Bush I can see wearing a cowboy hat scratching his head in a what-do-I-do-now-Pappy? look.

(Meanwhile the shit's hitting the fan in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iran. A car bomb killed two more US troops in Afghanistan today, 70 were killed in another car bomb in Iraq.)

I will soon leave Rapid City to explore Deadwood, Sturgis and then perhaps start my drive into northeastern Wyoming to see Sundance and Devil's Tower. I only drove 200 miles yesterday and most of that was in a loop with no further distance made. My mileage right now stands at 1860 from where I started earlier today. I should hit Montana by Wednesday.

I was able to get ahold of Kevin for Father's Day but then lost connection a few minutes later.
We kept hearing another conversation in the background anyway. My cellphone still hasn't dried out completely yet so I'll give it some more time to dry out. I really don't want to give Sprint any more of my money by getting another cell phone. They are already making a great profit lately with their two-year contractual agreements they make consumers restart with every upgrade.

It promises to be a nice sunny day today although I've learned that "nice and sunny" doesn't mean it will last all day. I've encountered rain just about every day so far and except for a few minor drizzles we've managed to stay dry. No major wet-doggie smell in the van YET! The rest of the Midwest, however, are once again getting clobbered with rains. Iowa and Chicagoland haven't been able to dry out yet.

We finally left Rapid City at 11:30am to head into the northern Black Hills vis SD44. I drove through the Twin Mining Towns of Lead and Deadwood, where Wild Bill Hickok lies burried in the town's hillside cemetery.

My first impression of Deadwood, however, was the severe erosion on some of the hillsides. It wouldn't take much for one hill to collapse and take out part of the town. The hills around the Days Inn looked especially menacing.

Deadwood has been nicely restored and is registered with the National Registry of Historic Landmarks. It's worthy of further exploration, but not on a busy weekend. I would have stopped here for an hour or so to walk around, but the town was crowded, traffic was slow, and all parking was paid parking. Since Deadwood resembles Bisbee in many ways (except Deadwood is cleaner) I didn't try hard to stop. My destination was Bear Butte State Park to hike up the sacred mountain peak.

I must admit that I have enjoyed the northern Black Hills more than the southern Hills. Here the towns look more natural, there is less kitsch here and the scenery is breathtaking. Another day here would be ideal.

Sturgis, however, was a bit of a disappointment. Its only claim to fame is its biker bars. One claims to be the biggest biker bar in the world. There wasn't much else in town worth exploring.

The Badlands, Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills Natl Forest

I awoke in time to watch the sun rise over Wounded Knee, but was still too tired to get up. Jerald was right: it was quiet all around me and traffic was minimal. The dog from yesterday was gone, and after a quick camp shower, I was gone, too.

I drove north through the rez, heading toward the southern entrance to the Badlands. Trailers were scattered throughout the rez, and small farm patches showed up as well. Some signs warned tourists to KEEP out of the sundance areas. Cows and horses grazed over rolling hills. I listened to KILA radio, "Voice of the Lakota Nation" as I drove the countryside. (I was able to pick up this small station's signal all the way to the Badlands) To my surprise, there really where pine trees here, sprouting up in the small draws. The further north I drove the more prominent the badlands became, until the green and yellow hills gave way to grey alkaline dead mounds.

I stopped briefly at the Badland's Visitor's center and talked with the ranger and read some of the Oglala history. A second ranger was vacuuming the room, drowning the flute music. Yes, assured me the younger ranger, half of all entrance fees are given to the Sioux tribes. Since most national parks are on lands once held sacred to various Native American tribes, this is the right thing to do. But tribes don't get enough of this money.

The southwestern part of the badlands is jointly managed by the NPS and the Sioux tribe. This was once an aerial gunnery range and vistors were warned not to pick up any metallic objects.

I was now on BIA Route 2 driving westward, a wide dusty gravel road. I could see the distant Black Hills. A few birds showed up: a yellow meadowlark sang from an electric wire, a smaller black-white bird from concertina wire. Pronghorn antelope pranced in the Windcave National Grasslands and one very dead cow, still in rigor mortis, adorned one range near Beaver Creek. Few people were out in this part of the country.

I was now back in the Black Hills and it was approaching noon. I was itching for a decent hike but the clouds didn't want to cooperate. As soon as we settled for French Creek Natural Area in Custer State Park (he found gold here in 1874) it began to thunder and then the rain came, although it was still faint rain. Darnit! I was so in the mood to hike in a remote area and to have Sadie off leash for a change. The second trail, Iron Creek trail, looked lovely but Sadie did not want to ford the swiftly-moving creek.

After ten minutes along the creek we turned around and drove on. Now it was really raining hard. Might as well see Mount Rushmore, I thought, and joined a few thousand others along USHighway 16A to the monument. This was now the Norbeck Scenic Byway, driving through pigtail tunnels and steep switchbacks while the rain came and went. I stoppd to gawk at the monument and to take pictures. After seeing Crazy Horse yesterday, this monument looks small!

Mount Rushmore was not one of the national parks offering free admission this weekend. At $10 a car I was in no mood to contend with other crowds and drove on through the Black Hills national forest. Everyone who was visiting the Black Hills this weekend was in this part of the forest. Rock climbers, equestrians, dogs, kids, RVs were all out in the parking lots. I did stop at the profile view of George Washington, where once again half of the Black Hills visitors were parked.

I finally found a decent trail at Horsethief Lake and hiked Trail#14 for an hour out, an hour back I wanted solitude. "You're not going to find it this weekend!" said one rock climber at the Wrinkled Rock trailhead lot. He was right, so I left that area to come to Horsethief, one trailhead further west. It was 4pm and I had two good hours of hiking in. As soon as I heard people, I had Sadie on a leash.

A couple with a curious-looking little Shits-Poo dog ran toward Sadie. I didn't want any anger with anyone and held her tightly, telling her to "be nice" but both dogs wanted to get closer. The Shit-Poo came nose to nose with Sadie who by now was with her camelback. The couple kept yelling at their dog to stop, come back, don't go. To no avail.

The Shit-Poo owners yelled at their dog to "Stay!" (like that was doing any good) but dind't put her on a leash. I finally yelled at Sadie

"Sadie, that dog is not your dinner!" and the man quickly scopped up the little Shit-
Poo and carried it past us. I finally learned what I have to say to get other dog owners to put their dogs on leashes.

After the Shit-Poo we had some solitude. We were now climbing along granite crags among healthy Ponderosas and aspens and beeches. The fresh rain softened the trail in parts, and the nearby creek was swollen. This was a horese-free watershed.

I had no idea where I was going (I failed to study the map at the trailhead) but turned around after an hour when more thunder rolled over. I didn't want to be too far from the van if a storm broke out. It drizzled lightly. My large floppy hat kept my head dry. Sadie stayed close to me, but was alert to new smells: a reddish small animal darted across our trail and into the brushline. The sun was now coming out, casting its last strong rays across the tall pines and bringing the birds out one more time to sing.

The Horsethief Trail was a lovely trail that I would have enjoyed finishing, but today's weather didn't want to cooperate. Maybe tomorrow I can attempt a longer hike in the northern Black Hills, such as Crow Creek Trail, Bear Butte or anything around 10 miles.

I was now tired of fighting rains, looking for a decent trail, and dealing with traffic and congestion. Hill City was another decent town but a "live" shoot-out off Main Street drew a large crowd around Main Street. I see these kind of 1880s reenactments all the time in Tombstone, AZ, they no longer appeal to me. I opted instead to drive back to Rapid City and call it a night. Dinner tonight was at Hardee's with two double cheese burgers. I gave Sadie the extra patties which she devoured. In the morning I'm going to walk Main and St Joseph's STreets and walk te Presidential sights. For a town of 67,000, Rapid City is a fun, lively town. But one must be aware of the many one-way streets!

Crazy Horse Monument, Pine Ridge and Wounded Knee

Elders from the Lakota tribes picked this location in the Black Hills for Crazy Horse. Crazy Horse is pointing toward his land, but this monument represents all Native peoples. A lot has still to be constructed, and at the rate the monument is getting completed, I won’t live to see it completed. But I left this place much enlightened.
Artists still live on this property owned by the sculptor’s family. A Native American heritage center is also on the grounds, as well as vendors from the Sioux nation. I got to meet the designer of the t-shirt I bought yesterday in Chamberlain, and his wife Misty is the great-great-great granddaughter of Sitting Bull. I could easily have dropped more money at the Native American vendors.
Talking to the Lakota made me now want to drive down to Pine Ridge, a place I wanted to see anyway (I just hadn’t planned exactly when) Since I was already in the southern half of the Black Hills anyway, the 100--mile trip there on US Highways 218 and 18 were a no-brainer.
The drive was quite pleasant. The road is a divided four-laner over rolling hills and several old mining towns. I gassed up in Hot Springs for $2.55 a gallon of super-unleaded. Once I passed the Wind Cave National Monument were wild buffalo roam, the terrain became more flat and soon the Black Hills were in the rear-view mirror. Smaller alkaline hills popped up but soon the land resembled more of the wavy grasslands I drove through yesterday, only less yellow and more bland.
A small casino outside the western boundary of the Pine Ridge Indian reservation welcomed people to this place. Standard BIA housing dotted the landscape: weather-worn trailers and stray dogs along the road let passers-by know this wasn’t the rich Black Hills anymore. Why doesn’t more money from the Black Hills make it back to this reservation? Why don’t more Lakota work in the Black Hills? More and more such questions raced through my head as I looked at either side of the road directly into abject poverty. The Pine Ridge Indian reservation is the poorest reservation in the US and the US government is partially to blame for the continued suppression of the people living here.

I didn’t stop in Pine Ridge. I now wanted to see Wounded Knee where we massacred Sioux Indians to get back at Little Big Horn. A lone Indian walked along the side of the road heading into Wounded Knee. I gave him a ride to Porcupine, a town five miles north from Wounded Knee. He introduced himself as Two Eagles. Sadie growled at him but then quickly warmed up to him and laid her head on his lap as we talked. She acted as if she were tranced by Two Eagles.

Two Eagles is all Lakota. He works as a horse breaker although the money isn’t steady work. He lives in an abandoned home with neither electricity nor running water overlooking Porcupine. He had spent the day at Pine Ridge to try to get the electric company to turn on the power at his home.

He pointed at trailers in the distance that were the homes of descendants of Big Foot and Red Cloud, Sioux Chiefs of the Wounded Knee massacre. He also talked about the seven directions Lakota pray to twice a day: east, north, west and south, the skyward, then downward and then to oneself.

Two Eagles was hard to understand because he was missing half his teeth. He was telling me stories without me asking him too. I quickly learned to listen and let him speak.
It was as if he wanted to tell me the truth. And when he kindly asked me for $10 I gave him $20. I felt good to be able to help him out.

I drove back to Wounded Knee as that was the purpose of my drive here: to walk the hallowed grounds of the massacre. I wanted to see and feel the land as that is how one best learns the history of the land. Two Eagles said there was a sign telling visitors about the battle. I saw it when I returned to town.

It was a large and detailed sign. A young Lakota came up to me from the visitor's center nearby, a pine-pole stand covered in pine branches. He was there to give out any more information to vistors with questions. His entire family was selling bracelets and dreamcatchers.

"Come on over if you have any more questions, my uncle has plenty of photographs from the battle!" I finally bit and approached the Lakota family who were selling hand-made dream catchers and buffalo hide purses and some jewelry.

Gerald Elk, a grandmother with grey hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a Lakota turtle on her maroon t-shirt, brought out photocopied newspaper articles describing the massacre in great detail, and then added a hand-drawn map of the area. The ditch that was in the massacre and the treeline and hills were all still there. I was reliving the battle. Or better, I was reliving their massacre.

Gerald talked for a long time, mentioning names I was unfamiliar with (I found out today how little I know about Lakota history). I would have had to have read the entire photocopied article there which would easily have taken several hours.

I walked across the street to visit the cemetery in which survivors of the massacre are now buried. It was humbling to visit this little plot that has seen better days.

"The National Park Service wanted to erect a monument here but we refused" Gerald explained, "because you would have had to pay a fee to see this" And, I'm sure, very little money would go to the tribe and all to the NPS. The vendors were all on the spot where the Lakota chiefs had been rounded up for transport to Pine Ridge. The massacre was a quarter mile to the east from where we were standing.

Gerald talked about other struggles of reservation life: most people live way below poverty and can't afford car insurance. State and federal troopers know this and pull people over with Shannon County license prefixes on their plates: 65.

"Many people have to make a choice between feeding their family or buying insurance, so they go without insurance" she went on. "That is why you don't see any new cars on this rez, they can't afford them! The drive to Rapid City or Shannon, NE is 90 minutes and we have to go there to buy foods as there isn't anything around here."

"Cops will pull you over in town just to check to see if you have insurance"added Todd, her son.

"Most people here don't even own cars." That explains why Two Eagles had to hitch a ride.

Other woes she mentioned where the high prices for fresh fruits, meats, gasoline, or the three-year wait most rezidents endure to get their trailers fixed or proper medical care taken care of. Why didn't the tribe grow their own vegetables? I asked. Because the winters here are long and cold and few things can grow. Indeed it got cold fast soon after the sun dropped low.

"Last winter it was so cold here we had no electricity for three days. The snow was over our heads in some places" said one of Gerald's nephews.

"The power company built these electric lines without asking us" said Emerson, and yet charges us a lot to get power. We do without most of the time." I can't imagine living here in the winter. Living like this would be intolerable anywhere else.

"We have unemployment here at 95 percent" she went on. "I am grateful that all my kids have jobs."

Gerald also talked about "the dominant society" on the rez who are the Whites who lived here when the rez was created or who married into the tribe. By creed any Indian woman who marries a White loses all tribal support, a law that was created in 1934 when the Indian Reorganization Act was passed. This law is seldom enforced.

Gerald was like Two Eagles in that she was telling me stories and all I had to do was provide feedback or listen. Like Two Eagles, she spoke as if she had been wanting to tell somebody these things from her heart.

"We don't have elders here because most die when they are in their 40s" she went on. "Most of us get fat from the food the government gives us: salty, greasy meats. We suffer from diabetes, heart disease and many of the kids take drugs." But at least she agreed that there were no gangs in Wounded Knee although Pine Ridge had a few.

"All the crime happens in Pine Ridge." Her solution was better education for the children so that they have a better future.

Another man, who had been resting on his vehicle and watching us from a distance finally approached me to show me his wood-burned etchings that he sells. HE also teaches this craft at the Oglala Lakota College. He doesn't make much, he admitted, but he wanted to make sure that his children would have a better life than he did on the rez.

"I don't want my children to remember the suffering we did" he told me as he pointed out across the horizon. There wasn't much here, but people stayed because their ancestors were buried here and their ancestors are a connection to their past.

The sun was dropping low and I knew that we were going to spend the night at Wounded Knee.

"You can camp right here, no one will bother you" said Emerson, Geralds' husband. A little tan and white stray dog befriended me and stayed near the vendor stand the entire time. Even Sadie took a liking to her.

We talked about other issues, all issues that convinced me that these tribes are grossly discriminated against by the US government. And they can't get jobs in the Black Hills because "They don't want to hire us, they think we are thieves!" The long drive on narrow roads would also make the commute long, especially in the cold winters here.

Emerson pointed out the long line of cars coming from the East. "They are returning from a sundance" he explained.

And shortly after the convoy passed by, everyone I had been talking to got in their cars and drove home. It was 9:17pm.

The little dog stayed by my van, though. She followed me even as I drove off. I didn't want her running down the road after me, and gave her one of Sadie's chewbones filled with flavored stuff. She grabbed that with delight and sat down by the historical marker to eat in peace. This is when I took the opportunity to drive back to Pine Ridge for a late meal at Taco John's before this place closed at 10pm. My other options where Subway and Pizza Hut.

The Shell station at Pine Ridge is where the nightlife is. Open 24 hours a day, I went in to buy a large soda and to sit and write about today's experiences. People were coming and going, from tribal cops checking in to cops pulling people over. Homeless people sat in the corner; one even begged me for money. Teens loitered at other tables and a few even looked like what Gerald described as the "dominant society."

I was tired but kept on writing. One of the store workers asked me to leave as he was wiping down the smaller tables along the window. He wasn't rude, and he let me finish my sentence before I logged off, so I simply went into my van to write more. No one harassed me there.

Stray dogs walked around the gas pumps. No one bothered the pups as they carelessly wandered around. One black dog even sat near the store entrance and curled up to sleep.

I finally drove back to Wounded Knee after midnight. I was a little apprehensive about sleeping out here alone, under the clear sky where every star was visible. There were no noises and the only lights were from street lights. The dog that had followed me around earlier was also gone.

I crawled into the back of the van with Sadie. I was expecting a cool night and kept the windows up. It didn't take me long to fall asleep.


http://www.yankton.net/articles/2009/06/19/news/doc4a3b137c48eb3770970608.txt

Hiking Harney Peak in the Black Hills

2009
“It’s going to be a warm sunny day!” said the server at breakfast. “The first sunny day in a month!” The weather channel proved her words, whereas places elsewhere were still reeling from the storms of eastern South Dakota and western Minnesota from two days ago.
It was a perfect day for a hike and I was itching to get a few miles in my hiking boots. Today’s high was predicted to reach 77F in Rapid City, almost 15F cooler than it was yesterday in Pierre.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, so I tried Custer State Park first. On my way there, though, I stopped in the Black Elk Wilderness headquarters where the ranger, Ginger, enthusiastically recommended several good, moderate hikes of between 6-10 miles. Her first recommendation was Harney Peak, which at 7242’ is the highest peak east of the Rocky Mountains. At seven miles, a decent work-out with a view.
We got to the trailhead on the far northwestern section of the state park, paid the $6 weekly park fee (per person fee; dogs are free) and pulled into a vacant spot next to a car from Texas with a canoe on its roof.
It turned out to be Take-your-dog-on-a-hike day as we passed many groups hiking with dogs. Sadie pulled on her leash and barked at all the dogs, although she was friendly to people who came up to her gently. She did very well on the hike. And when we got to the look-out tower, where most of the hikers gathered, I went out on the exposed rocks with her for some solitude. Several other groups thought the same.
Goldenrods gave way to dandelions, iris, columbine and yellow lupine as I gained in elevation. Chipmunks scurried around us, a strange bird call echoed around us and in the water below frogs squaked. I could see in all directions: crags, badlands and dark green hilltops of dead or dying pines. What was causing so many of the pines in the Black Elk Wilderness to die off? They are potential wild fire kindle.
Then cold storm clouds pushed on ahead, I got cold, and when a woman nearby said “I felt a raindrop!“ I panicked and began my descent back to the van. I was already cold from the sweat now drying off
More people were coming up as we descended, large groups with many children. Several groups of hikers took a liking to Sadie, telling me what a beautiful dog she was.
“She’s very friendly, too!” I added.
The hike took us 3.5 hours. Sadie was tired, I was rejuvenated. I want to do a decent hike everyday I’m in the Black Hills.
A bus load of small children from Pine Ridge reservation pulled into the parking lot as I left.
From the trailhead I went to the Crazy Horse Monument that was started I 1947 by a Polish-American sculptor. When he died I 1982 his wife and seven of his ten children continued overseeing the blasting of the monument. Crazy Horse’s head is done and the top of his extended right arm has been blasted free, but there is still the painted outline of his horse in the rock.
Admission to this monument is $10 which initially took me by surprise. And all the attendants at the entrance were White. I was expecting to see more Sioux employees. And the bus ride to the bottom of Crazy Horse mountain is another $4.20.
I watched the 20-minute movie about the making of this monument and learned why the admission is so high: the family takes no federal or state endowments to build this monument. All expenses come from park admissions and private donations. That explains the high entrance fees.
Elders from the Lakota tribes picked this location in the Black Hills for this project. Crazy Horse is pointing toward his land, but this monument represents all Native peoples. A lot has still to be constructed, and at the rate the monument is getting completed, I won’t live to see it completed. But I left this place much enlightened.
Artists still live on this property owned by the sculptor’s family. A Native American heriage center is also on the grounds, as well as vendors from the Sioux nation. I got to meet the designer of the t-shirt I bought yesterday I Chamberlain, and his wife Misty is the great-great-great granddaughter of Sitting Bull. I could easily have dropped more money at the Native American vendors.

The Big Muddy, Native American Scenic Byway, and Pierre

I left Platte after a quick gas-up in town. The skies were still grey when I departed at 6:30am but soon turned blue and remained that way for the rest of the morning and afternoon. There was little traffic along this route.

I continued my journey northward, along SD50, the L&C trail and the Oyate Trail, or old Lakota trail that travels more western and vears off from the river further north. I stopped briefly at the Dock 44 restaurant for coffee, walked Sadie around the marina where we spotted a turkey strutting across the road, and saw a park ranger diligently making sure everyone parking at the boat launching lot had paid their daily $4 fee. (I made sure I was parked at the restaurant, where free parking was allowed for its patrons.) Small coves were all over the riverbanks here, ideal for fisherman to get lost in their own private bay. The sun hadn’t yet risen high enough to shine over the bay.

It didn’t take me but 90 minutes to make it to I-90, and stopped at the Visitor’s center for more brochures and information on the L&C trail. There are so many exhibits along the river, it’s hard to catch them all!

My first stop was the Akta Lakota Museum on a Catholic boarding school complex in Chamberlain. I toured the exhibit, noting that there are many similarities between Lakota and Apache when it comes to spirituality. Although the Lakota colors of the Earth, red, white, black and yellow are not the same as the Apache, who use blue and green, black and white in their rituals.

“So, what tribe to do you belong” asked me the attendant. He threw me off course with that question, but soon we started a conversation about Native American practices. Roger, who looked very much Native, is from the Crow Creek reservation, the second-poorest reservation in South Dakota. We chatted between his attending to costumers.

Roger seemed to be Old School about native traditions. “Women do all the work, but men go out and hunt and wage war, and sometimes they don’t return. That is the ultimate risk they take to protect their families.” He doesn’t agree that women should smoke the pipe as that is a man’s ritual, but I reminded him that Native women have picked up many practices from the White World, and they want more rights and privileges as more rights and privileges are bestowed upon all women.

We touched upon other topics, such as the sacred hills of the Black hills and other lands that Whites had taken from the Natives. But we had to watch what we said because, as Roger noted, he was working for a Catholic boarding school that historically beat Native children for speaking their native language or for practicing their native ways. It was all in sync with forced assimilation that was demanded of Native peoples after the reservations were organized late in the 19th century.

I could have talked longer to Roger but time was against me. It was almost 10am before I continued my journey northward, and Sadie by then was no longer resting in the shade. More ring neck pheasants darted from roadside grasses, a few prairie dogs popped up and more chipmunks raced across the road.

It began to heat up here and I had the AC on for Sadie the rest of the day as we drove along the very scenic byway north along the river. The bluffs weren’t quite so dramatic but the river was wider and more natural, and as I got into the Lower Brule Indian reservation the river was more like a wildlife refuge. Again, I saw few people but children who rode their bikes with dogs running after them. I meandered along some roads that followed the river, even stopping at a natural bend in the river where, for a few minutes, Sadie and I enjoyed some solitude. The river was peaceful here, and even clean, and various water fowl flew overhead.

The hills were covered in yellow goldenrods, as the tall flowers swayed with the breeze. The land looked flat but the valleys were all below eye-level. Black cows spotted the horizon. Few trees grew here, and the further north I made it, the more the hills became eroded; the badlands were slowly taking shape.

I never did find the road to Point Defiance and stayed en route to Pierre just to see the state capital. By now we were in 902F heat and both were unbearable. The town was surprisingly small for a state capital and the treeless roads did not bode well for an early afternoon hike. I couldn’t do that to Sadie. Nor did I find the historic downtown as it wasn’t clearly marked. The main route into town was all fast-food and motels and neon lights. Gasoline was also 25 cents higher in town, back up to $2.79 and up.

My drive along the Missouri came to an end just north of the Oyahe Dam, where the river forms a wide lake and offers expansive views of the river. The goldenrods were especially fragrant here and I could have stayed longer to take in the vista, but Sadie was uncomfortable even in the shade of a picnic table.

At 1185 miles into my westward road trip, I turned around. My love affair with the /Missouri River was now over as I began my more westerly drive into the Black Hills. I’ll see the river again in Montana.

My one day hike was along Pierre’s riverbank, along the Framboise Island Nature Preserve where in colder months bald eagles perch in the dead trees. This natural area contains 11 miles of trails along the edge of the peninsula and offers great sightings for birders. A hybrid cedar-juniper tree makes this island its home. Too bad the prairie trails on the far eastern side were exposed to the sun, making me want to turn around sooner than planned. Even I was miserable.
It was still hot so I only chose a two-mile loop with Sadie, watching her for fatigue. She didn’t last long, as she pulled toward any shade she could find and wanted to rest whenever she could. Both of us were attacked with ticks here, too, as I picked off those pesky guys off both of us even as I drove, and flung them out the open window at high speed. The ticks here are quite fast and more aggressive than the ticks I fought in Indiana.

I drove back to I-90 via US83, due south of Fort Pierre. This route was faster than taking a county road across the Grasslands, as pretty as that sounded , but I-90 from the central part of the state offers the same pretty views as the back roads here, as the land flattens out to more high plains prairie.

Local radio stations had been forecasting severe storms for northern South Dakota, eastern South Dakota and northern Nebraska, but clouds around me were high cumulus. I saw dark clouds far north of me. Yet it remained hot outside with Sadie resting her head as close to the AC outlet by the passenger vent as she could.

The land became more dramatic by exit 163, as hills began to take shape to the south, the Badlands became visible, and more alkaline hilltops appeared to the south. Kitschy Billboards also began to pop up, advertising everything from “Black Hills Gold” to dinosaurs, fossils, agate and rock shops. An “authentic 1880 Town was off one exit, which looked as fake as the Pioneer Village in Iowa, but at least the donkeys on the property were lively and came up to me for photo ops.

Another quick stop in the town of Wall also turned me off. Despite cute billboards pushing for the Wall Drug store, when I drove through the town it was nothing more than one tourist shop after the other. I drove through town, never stopped to look around, and got right back on the interstate to Ellsworth AFB.

The Black Hills were now visible, as they towered along the western horizon. Rapid City is nestled in the mountains there, but storm clouds moved in and covered the view. Wyoming and Montana are behind these peaks, with more adventures in store for me.

I finally got a shower for the day, walked Sadie around a fitness trail for one more mile as the base’s alarm went off warning of severe storms coming and to seek shelter immediately. Oh great! And here I was power walking around a small fishing pond on a paved fitness trail on a base I was not familiar with.

The storm came and went. Cool wind came in, dropping the temperature from 84F to 64F within 30 minutes. After lightning a full rainbow appeared in the east as I drove to the family camp sites ($10 a day, first come first serve!) and I took time to wash the dirty clothes I had already accumulated. Here I met an army wife, Debbie, whose husband retired in 1987 and she’s been traveling with him every summer somewhere new. A teacher in Sacramento, they chose the Black Hills this year, with their 19-year-old son.

Enthusiastic about traveling and the outdoors, she is also training for her first marathon this fall. Talking to her almost made me want to start running again. She didn’t look her age, either as she exuded a youthful attitude.

I drove into town to try out the brewpub, the Firehouse Brew pub and was no disappointed. This place rocked, with a live band that sounded like Neil Young. I didn’t stay long as I promised to come back tomorrow, and instead took Sadie around town where we walked up and down Main an St Joseph’s Street, where statues of all the presidents adorned the street corners. Sadie stopped barking at them when she realized those weren’t real people we were approaching.

I’m going to be in the Black Hills for a few days and plan on finally getting some serious hiking in. Unfortunately, I got here for the weekend and camp sites will be hard to find. I’ll make do. At least I know where the camp sites are on base.

But where to go tomorrow? There is so much to do here!