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Continuing my drive yesterday, north on America’s Heartland Highway 83, I reached Pierre, the capital of South Dakota, late in the evening. I found a campsite next to the Missouri River. It was dark, so I didn’t really see the river, but I could hear it rippling.
I’m waking up slow this morning, with an occasional yawn. After making my coffee, I walk outside, promptly realizing this September day is too beautiful to waste inside. So I’m not.
After walking around a few minutes, I take time to sit at a metal picnic table overlooking the pebbly steep-sloping river bank, slowly sip my coffee and stare at the water swiftly flowing down the longest river in North America.
A variety of birds are flying over the banks of the river. Sparrows, Crow, and I think, Grakie. Others are pecking the ground for food just down from me.
On the subject of birds, South Dakota also has a good population of Ring-necked Pheasant. A dozen or so field hopped various points across 83 in front of ARGO and me. There will be a few less of those beautiful birds when hunting season comes around in a few weeks. Pheasant season is a big deal here and a boon to farmers offering hunting leases.
Sitting under the bright blue sky, I take it all in, breathing in the warm, pleasant September air.
I surmise the Lewis and Clark Expedition did something similar, watching the ancestors of these birds, when they arrived here in this same month of September, back in 1804, sans the metal picnic table of course. They camped nearby where the Bad River meets the Missouri.
However, the Lewis and Clark group didn’t relax for long. According to their journal notes, a little misunderstanding arose with the Lakota tribe, partially due to not having an interpreter. It was the first meeting for both. When weapons were drawn it almost brought a quick end to the whole expedition. Thank heavens for Chief Black Buffalo; he helps calm the situation. And everyone lived to tell the tale.
When I started this leg of my journey discovering America, I intended to drive on Highway 83 from Texas all the way to North Dakota. Stay only on 83. That was the plan, or as near to a plan as I got before setting out on the road.
However, you are aware, as well as I, plans made in the past do not always take into account the whims that strike us along the way. We have to deal with those internal pulls at the time they arise. I assume all of us who have at least a spoonful of wanderlust in our DNA have experienced this on our journeys. Right? Or is it just me?
I don't wanna be so rigid that I can’t alter my course, capturing a moment, or seeing a place I might otherwise regret passing by. Know what I mean?
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson knew this when he wrote, “In the end… We only regret the chances we didn’t take, the relationships we were afraid to have, and the decisions we waited too long to make.” He was better known by his pen name, Lewis Carroll. He wrote a few other things that are thought-provoking and fun, like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and Jabberwocky.
So, looking at the map, I realize Mount Rushmore is only a few hours to the west. The president’s faces carved there is an iconic image burned into my mind. The photo is in every school history book. Now, the real thing was within my reach. I knew I would regret not seeing it.
Mount Rushmore is symbolic of our great nation and of human determination; both the artistic renderings of the four president’s and the raw feat of creating it on such a majestic scale. Guys hanging by wire-rope on the side of the granite mountain, chipping away to create art and a message.
Strikes me as sort of funny, the mountain was named after a New York attorney and businessman for obscure reasons when he was sent out to check land titles in 1884. As my European friend would say, “Very American.”
So I turned ARGO that direction, due west from 83. I was altering my northern course answering the tug of my internal compass and a mysterious element I’ll tell you about later. It would be another bucket list item checked off my list.
Late afternoon was well underway by the time I arrived in Rapid City, South Dakota. Only a stone’s throw away from Mount Rushmore. Make that, throwing the stone, then a the thirty-plus-minute drive up the mountain. I debated going now or waiting till morning.
It was the weekend, so I figured it would probably be more crowded than usual. Although it was well past the end of summer vacation time with most kids anchored back in their desks. When I was finished debating myself, I decided even though it was late in the day, why not go on up there? Maybe the real thing won’t be as big a deal as the photographs of it. If so I can go back to 83 tomorrow and continue on toward North Dakota.
So, I headed southwest out of Rapid City on Highway 16, climbing the mountain toward Keystone at the base of Mount Rushmore.
Getting closer to Keystone, driving under the arch of the glued laminated timber bridges, and then passing through the short tunnel, I have to admit, the anticipation was growing to see this thing in person.
Both the bridge and the tunnel were built during the depression by the CCC, the Civilian Conservation Corps, during the Great Depression.
My first glimpse was from a turn in the road.
“It’s real,” I mumbled. Funny, that is what came into my mind. Guess we hear about so many things that turn out not to match the hype. Mind-blowing when something is as promised.
Pulling into the park, there the old guys were, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln, four presidents carved in stone on the side of the mountain. The sight was impressive.
I took a few photos, then lingered to absorb the scale of it, while sitting on the outdoor patio eating Buffalo stew from the park restaurant. The hot stew was filled with peas, carrots, potatoes, and tasty buffalo meat. The seasoned steam rising off it in the fresh mountain air transmuted the visual experience into one that reached all the way to my stomach.
Way to go! Thank you United States National Park Service. Good job making my visit to Mount Rushmore an easy, enjoyable and, surprisingly, tasty one. And, of course, a historical, educational visit also.
Dusk was approaching, so I hung around for the night lighting ceremony and ranger talk. It was fittingly patriotic and inspiring.
I decided to return the next day when I learned one of the guys who did work on the mountain in the late 1930’s would be at the park the next day. A CCC guy. Last survivor who worked when the talented genius sculptor, Gutzon Borglum, was directing the project along with his son Lincoln.
Driving up the next day, I felt the same sense of awe approaching the top of Mount Rushmore. I was excited to be able to talk to the last survivor of the Great Depression era work crew.
Nick Clifford helped from 1938 to 1940 build the wood studio for the sculptor, as a driller and as a winch operator on the top of Washington’s head. But he was mostly hired for his baseball abilities as right fielder and pitcher. You see, baseball was a passion of Lincoln Borglum. The teams were competitive, so Nick was recruited to bring in some wins for the team, the Rushmore Drillers.
Doing an interview with Clifford would be fun. Hear first-hand stories about the baseball team. What was it like to work on the sculptures? What was life like back then? He has to have a ton of good stories.
I met Nick at the gift shop at the monument. Told him I was excited to meet him and asked to do a brief audio or video interview with him now or at a later time.
He said, “No,” without any hesitation or an eye blink.
He wasn’t in the best of moods. I could tell it wasn’t a good day for Nick. I smiled, explaining how it would benefit children and history. He listened without looking at me. I asked again in the most sincere, gentle and polite tone of voice as I could summon.
He said, “No.”
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(I spent one more day in the Mount Rushmore area in the Black Hills at Grizzly Bear Creek. Tell you about my rude awakening there in my next post. Sign up for email alerts when I post on my blog and vlog at JohnButlersBuzz.com )
Tourist from China want a photo with a Texan - John Butler at Mount Rushmore