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Published: July 31st 2009
Day Five: July 30, 2009 Black Hills National Forest (South Dakota) to Bighorn National Forest (Wyoming) Day four started in the Black Hills National Park about 40 miles north of Devils Tower. In all the Northern Unit of the Black Hills, located in Wyoming, are somewhat boring, offering little spectacular views (the range is not as tall as the S.D. sections. The rain continued straight through the night, with some brief stoppages in the morning. I awoke about 8 a.m., and, knowing that I needed a break, leisurely lounged in the tent, taking time to talk sweet to Sophie (and combing her). I continued reading, plotting, and writing. The rain stopping can be tricky, as I’ve been fooled many times before, restless in the tent, the ending of pitter-patter lulling me outside, only to be driven back into the tent. This time, I paced my potential boredom and waited to emerge only when the sun started shinning, at approx. 3 p.m. The tent, still damp, was balled up and tossed into the truck, and I high-tailed it out of there. I passed the camper who had snagged the one prized spot on the dead end road. He was kneeling,
fiddling with his guitar, and I commended him for actually bringing it out (mine’s still buried deep in the truck, near the bike).
Driving back towards the Black hills, through alternating periods of sun and rain (the temperature reached 70, although it was in the 50s most of the day. I made it to Spearfish, Wy., just off I-90 near the South Dakota border. Starving, I splurged on some slightly over-priced Mexican food, as I had a hankerin’ for cheese. The $10.00 veggie burrito was good, and I devoured it, along with a basket of chips. From there, knowing that the computer still had battery power, I discovered that I now had internet service with my Sprint air card, so I found a coffee shop that was open. I drank three cups in a cool place; it had a bike (bicycle1) store attached. I stole electricity, recharging the batteries on the computer whilst I posted the blogs (monuments, etc.). It was still raining, but I was pleasantly surprised that it had warmed up a bit from the previous night’s high 40s degree temperature. As it got dark, I knew that I was going to be camping in the
dark.
Leaving the coffee shop, I headed south down Alt. 14, taking me into the Spearfish Canyon. I could see in the moonlight huge stone walls, tall rocks surrounded by tall pine trees. When I passed back into the Black Hills National Forest, I turned off the first dirt road/trailhead, as to be able to enjoy the rest of the scenery in tomorrow’s (Thursday’s) daylight. It was the first time being able to employ the use of the backpack, albeit a short ¼ up the trail in the dark. To practice, I set the tent up in complete darkness, only about 15 feet off the trail. As with many “minor mistakes, that irk my last nerve,” I realized that I had forgotten the tent poles, facilitating a walk back to the truck at 11 p.m. I heard only one snort from outside the tent, and, on this night, heard no singing or music.
Upon waking, I took a short hike while the tent dried (even with no rain, a tent’s floor, with direct pressure, will become immediately wet). The uphill hike further into the forest revealed a nice meadow, and tall, towering exposed rock to the
north. Sophie was quite happy to be hiking, bounding around happily. Back near the trailhead, I picked up a Dairy Queen cup, some broken glass, and 5 “old-school” beer pull tabs. In general, though, much of the highways and parks are surprisingly clean, of which I’m grateful.
The drive through the canyon was great, and I headed through Lead (rhymes with seed) and on into Deadwood, S.D. I wasn’t sure what to expect, what with the flavor of the HBO series, but the town was a mixture of old houses and courthouses, with a few chain hotels thrown in. I stopped at the town’s grocery store to pick up some more “base food” for me dinners (i.e. Uncle Ben’s instant brown rice,” and I was surprised at how very expensive the food is—it’s much higher than Chicago prices. My “yardstick” for pricing is usually with Boca or Morningstar veggie patties, which in Chicago run about $3.79. This store, however, had no veggie burgers at all. I did buy some fruit, cheap cola, and some cheese curds, which I had for lunch. Mmmm…cheese curds. I also visited Mt. Moriah Cemetery, which provided excellent views down towards the town. The
town is the grave of “Wild Bill” Hickok and Calamity Jane. Wild Bill was shot in the back of the head, supposedly while holding four aces. The town remembers the past by offering many modern-day casinos.
In preparation for a short drive to Sturgis, S.D., I strategized as how to fit into the beginnings of America’s largest Harley Davison bike (motorcycle) rally, I donned my Chicago museum National Vietnam Veterans Art Museum t-shirt and popped in the Rolling Stones’ “Stick Fingers” cassette. To practice my potential “toughness,” after stopping at a scenic overlook in the Black Hills, I met 3 couples who had dismounted their hogs and were standing around chatting. After speaking with them (they’re from Wisconsin), I pointed at the pink half-shell bike helmet and said, “Sir, I like your helmet…” A brief pause led to laughter, as I explained that I was toughening myself up for the Sturgis visit (they had already visited and had opted to “leave all that craziness.” My strategy, when entering town, was to find the biggest, fattest, meanest biker, walk up to him and bust him in the mouth. Then, the other bikers would think that I was too crazy
to be messed with. Then, I remember that that was my strategy in case I ever went to prison.
I followed three bikers (and had already passed 1000s on the road thus far), sticking my head out the window to briefly feel like a brother. I do have some “street cred” regarding biker rallies, as I had, in the early 90s, visited one in the Cherokee National Forest. A high school buddy, Justin, owner of a red Honda, and myself, riding a Yamaha 750, watched David Allen Coe perform and gawked at the anti-feminist slant of the “hot dog race,” in which burly bikers maneuvered their bikes under a raw hot dog suspended by a string while their women, sitting in the affectionately named “bitch seat” stand and try to chomp on the wiener.
After waking up the next morning, my Yamaha was gone from sight. I meekly strolled over to the leather chaps-wearing, tattooed, (still) drunk longhaired group of bikers and asked in a high-pitched voice, “Have any of you fellows seen my bike?” “What bike?” said a wirily kick-ass biker. “You mean that piece-of-shit rice-burner?” “Yeah, I guess that was the one,” I replied to a
chorus of barking laughter. Pushing that g-damn bike outta’ the ravine was terribly tough, especially with a hangover.
Bikers in general, as everyone whom has met one can attest, are very sweet people, with strong psychological bonds to the idea of riding, freedom, American pride, Budweiser, etc. They’re much like a Dove ice cream bar, with a hard outer shell and sweet insides. To be sure, you wouldn’t want to piss one off, as the band of brothers runs very tight.
And bikers there were. In the mountain town of only 6,500, the population swells to up to 500,000 during the 10 day rally. Hundreds of tents, all with a variety of high-end biker gear, hawk “Sturgis 2009” t-shirts featuring skeletons riding Harleys or the ever popular bald eagle, talons gripping the American flag. You can get a tattoo, get Led lights put on your bike, purchase “I’m a bitch” panties (although, this is certainly a bad place and time to learn this of your woman), or drink from any number of stands. Needing a couple of good biker stories, I searched around to find the seediest bar, thus yielding the greatest potential to rub stinky
stories with a biker or two. I found one near the eastern part of the 8 block long and 4 block wide town, which was already overflowing with a variety of hogs and both varieties of bikers: the fat, bearded ones or the hopelessly scrawny ones (the scrawny ones in my opinion are more scary and liable to fly off the Budweiser-induced handle). A fat “teddy bear” biker was guarding the door, so I thought it a wise idea to ask if I could go in a drink. An affirmative answer led me down 15 stairs to a dank, smoky bar with about 20 bikers in attendance.
There, after ordering two Buds, I started eavesdropping on a man in a striped shirt telling the bartender (who kept reminding us, that like many of the rising prices at the rally, the cost of beer at 5 p.m. would rise a dollar to $3.50) a story of being stopped by the cops while he was parked on the side of the road reading a map. Even after a series of hopelessly complex sobriety tests, he was still forced to blow (he was at a 3.2, well within the legal limit). He
then showed me some pictures of bikini-clad bartenders/hostesses that travel the biker circuit to show some skin, flirt with the bikers, and make a hell of a lot of money. He was on his way home after visiting his grandkids in Arizona/New Mexico when, upon learning of the Sturgis rally from a biker in the middle of Nebraska, promptly turned his vehicle around and drove 700 miles to join the fun.
The man, Roger from Detroit, had a penchant for long, rambling stories, which fit well, seeing as, after retiring from the railroads in Detroit, had left out in a Chevy Suburban for a 10,000 road trip. He kept referencing different bars, and told me that “if I ever make it to New Mexico, and find myself in to tell ‘em that “Detroit” says “hello.” I also learned that in New Mexico, one can’t be popped for a D.U.I. while passed out drunk in the car if one leaves the keys out of the ignition. When asked what advice he had for recent retirees, he stated, “Just do it…take the trip.” Accompanying these words of
wisdom was a long story of a friend of a friend, etc. who was working…., then he died, never being able to enjoy his new gift of time. He also thought that there was too much litter seen during his travels.
Much to my relief, joining the conversation was Tom, killing time while his “girlfriend” was getting a new tattoo. A retired 68 year-old, we somewhat bonded over the fact that we were both from Chicago (he lives in, I believe, Norridge Park, a close suburb on the northern part of the city of Chicago. Dressed casually in chaps and a t-shirt donned with 22 Sturgis patches from the past 21 years worth of continuous Sturgis visits, Tom looked cool, calm and collected. He was on a 3-4 week Harley ride with his “girlfriend,” and was planning to head to Yellowstone, then south through Colorado and into Texas. He stated that, in general, he could ride comfortably up to 400 miles a day. When I asked him what he does when he’s not traveling, he stated that his “wife has a whole list of projects for him to do,” which prompted me to inquire why he left
his wife at home to travel with his girlfriend. He sheepishly admitted that they were one in the same, and that the two were inseparable. She, in fact, does not want a bike of her own, but prefers to ride with him, as “four eyes on the lookout were far better than two.” When asked, “How has the festival changed?” he noted the major increase in the number of bikers over the years. I asked him if the “true older bikers like himself” were in danger of dwindling out, he stated that the “young guns” were still taking an interest in biking. As the buzz of my 3 beers settled in, I asked the two to pose for pictures, which they graciously agreed. I gave them the address of the blog, which somehow has become an excuse to take pictures and ask pointed questions. The bartender insisted that I take her picture as well, and I’m glad I did, as words cannot do justice to this Louisiana-born woman. Working in no more than a tank top accompanied by impossibly-small lycra biker shorts, beer gut shamelessly on display, she insisted on me taking more photos once she had taken her hair
out of her bun. After a Stones’ song on the jukebox preceded Z.Z. Top’s “Jesus Done Left Chicago,” I knew it was time to leave.
Stumbling out of the bar, I stopped by the one tent that I had decided to make a “real souvenir” purchase, forking out $20 for a t-short, which was the Los Angeles Chapter of the Hells Angels. Having known about them from Hunter S. Thompson’s book on riding with them in the 60s (he got stomped in the end), I cautiously asked questions like, “What do you think of Obama?” (Answer: Well, it’s all kinda’ the same big machine, ain’t it?). This construction worker was nice enough, but the toughness and on-edge attitude made me realize that they had chosen to set up a bit back and off to the side of the other general madness.
Joining Sophie in the car, I left Sturgis at around 4 p.m. and raced west on 90, doing 80 to cover half the state of Wyoming on my trip to Yellowstone to meet “the hippies,” Vik and Suzie, who are friends from Chicago. I found my Mp3 player, which had been hidden in plain sight
only inches from my left hand in the door’s “junk space.” It was just in time to, as I had circled through most of the cassettes (yes, cassettes!) of old music that I had in the truck. During the cover of Woody Guthrie’s sad tale of an announcement of “fire” in an Italian Hall during Christmas (which killed 73 children, I grew sullen and teared up, the combination of setting sun, tiredness, hunger, and loneliness coming together for the briefest of periods. With the Mp3, I had access to (more) Stones, Vic Chesnutt, Radiohead, and Dylan.
My goal was to make it to Bighorn National Forest, from which I’m currently writing at midnight. The temperature on Bald Mountain (yeah—Bald Mountain!), according to my Wall Drug tent thermometer, is 46 degrees, at an elevation of approx. 8,000 feet. I was shooting for Owens Campground, which included a nearby old gold mine and sawmill (this according to my excellent Chicago Public Library’s book of all National Forest description, written by a botanist whose name now escapes me), but must have missed the campground, as I’m currently at least 15 miles past it. The sun had set at least an
hour before my 9:30 p.m. arrival to the National Forest campground (cost: $13, which I paid at the self-pay box), but there was still enough light from the rising moon to quickly set up the tent and drag the computer inside. The space is located at the base of, oddly enough, a large, grassy hill/mountain. There are wide expanses of space, which I will explore a bit tomorrow morning in the light. Too tired to set up the stove, I ate the rest of my jalapeño cheese curds on bread, with jalapeño chips from the store this afternoon. After 5 and a half days and 5 nights camping, my gray facial growth, dirty fingernails, lack of shower (although, I’ve been swimming twice), I’m growing a bit weary of the busy schedule, and look forward to an (at least) 3-4 day Yellowstone visit (providing the campgrounds aren’t sold out).
Thanks for checking out the blog...Dave and Sophie Last updated Friday, July 31, 2009 Cody, Wy.
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Ben Banks
non-member comment
Dead Mans Hand
Great Blog! Keep it up. Where's the photo of the beer-bellied bar maid? I was looking forward to seeing it. As far as Wild Bill's hand goes, wasn't it a pair of aces and a pair of eights? I think that's why they call it the dead man's hand.