Adventure in the Black Hills and Custer State Park, South Dakota

I like driving as long as its not in the city: the roads in and around Custer State Park perfectly satisfy my amateur driving needs.

The seventeen mile Iron Mountain Road runs from Keystone to Custer SP and is full of hairpin bends, horseshoe turns and tunnels carved through rock, which conveniently, and beautifully, frame Mount Rushmore. The road is narrow, windy and protected from the hot sun by a thick leafy canopy. It’s a wonderful way to be introduced to the Black Hills.

The drive is slow, especially with my car straining to gain momentum going uphill, but this gives me the opportunity to take all of this in – the present stretches and lasts long enough for me to appreciate where I am and what I’m doing. My heart is racing. Country music softly plays on the car radio and I am now able to sing along to some of the more popular tunes. The windows are down. The air is fresh. The views stunning.

The Needles Highway seems to be the most popular drive here. The road clings to the edge of the mountains, curves sharply and breaks through thin, one lane, mountain tunnels. The Black Hills are on display all along the way, showing off their rugged peaks and elaborate formations.

To see wildlife, I get up at five in the morning to drive the Wildlife Loop which takes me through bison grazing lands. I see pronghorns, wild turkeys, deer, wild burros and many birds, but not a single bison. I return to do the drive just before sunset and soon realize many others have the same idea. Now, the bison herd is out and sharing the road. I sit in traffic, inching forward as bison stop in the road to scratch or stare off into the sunset. Some seem to completely zone out, turning into statues in front of our bumpers before an impatient driver blows his horn. It doesn’t always work to wake the bison from their reverie.

The driving is fun, but the walks are spectacular. I hike, exploring the Black Hills, my muscles working hard to make it to the wondrous Cathedral Spires and Devil’s Little Tower. The hike up is good fun – blue arrows mark the trail along the rough rocks and through thin crevasses. In some places I stop and search for the arrow. In other places I perch low and use my hands to keep my balance. I forgot to change into my hiking boots and my regular shoes have no tread; if I slip and fall, there is no cushion to protect my body on the rocky path. In front of me is a family, two young kids who barely reach my hips included. The young girl is frightened by the trail, but she is excellent at motivating herself and frequently asks for her mum’s affirmation that she is strong and brave. I think the parents are brave.

As always, a storm makes its usual appearance.

Hail. Big. Tough. Uncaring. Some of it the size of quarters. It begins to fall furiously. And it hurts. A lot. Thankfully, I am near the end of my hike and the safety of my car.

Driving in a hail storm along the Needles Highway is dangerous. The car becomes my armour, but my tires are not feeling confident. Balls of ice litter the roads while others hit the car from all sides, and scariest of all, the windshield. The hail beats and bounces off the windshield and I begin to doubt its strength.

I pull of the highway at Sylvan Lake and head towards the general store. Many others have the same idea. We wince in pain as we pile into the store. Good timing too, because the storm worsens.

In the store, we all become quick friends – nothing like a big storm and shelter to make everyone friendly. We crowd around the windows to watch in wonder; we watch the hail collect on the patio, then look at each other to confirm that we’re all seeing the same thing.

“No one is going to believe me, even when I show them the pictures,” one new friend declares. She’s probably right – the pictures show small globules of white resting on the patio. They look demure. Quiet. Lazy, even. The photos don’t capture their violence, their chill, their noise, their riotous behaviour.

It takes a while for the storm to pass, and to allow others a view near the window I mill around the shop. Everyone is ordering burgers and fries. The smell of food makes my stomach tighten with hunger. I bulk and order fries which come in a portion much too big for a one person. I douse them in honey mustard and devour.

By the time I’m done, the storm has moved on. People step outside, careful not to slip. Many whip out their phones to take pictures of the dents on their cars – proof for insurance companies. My armour is spotless – the force of the hail has actually helped to de-muck the car and now it shines – free car wash! I did, however, leave my car window ajar and hail is neatly nestled into the folds of the sweater I left on the passenger seat.

Of course, the roads are windy and lead me to various parts of the mountains where I meet the storm again and again.

The hail melts and everything begins to steam. The air is thick with humidity.

 

Because of the weather, I take the opportunity to visit Mount Rushmore. South Dakota’s license plates boast the great achievement of man taming a mountain and, conveniently, the mountain turned sculpture is a short drive away. I learn to think of Theodore Roosevelt as Teddy, and am inundated with several pro-America slogans.

Because of the rain, the visages of the four presidents look as if they are crying – I reflect on the current political and economic climate and think the image fits.