Road Trip: Part Three

There is a lot to see and do in the Black Hills. We had already seen many of the standard sites, the Reptile Garden, the Corn Palace, 1880s City, Wall Drug. Truth be told, I have mixed feelings about man made tourist attractions of this kind. It’s hard to not see them when so many recommend it, yet I can’t say I ever fully enjoy being at them.

What lay before us now however, has me genuinely excited. The Mammoth Dig is first. What it must have been like to discover those first giant bones, I cannot imagine. Now, 27 colossal skeletons have been unearthed, knowing those creatures once walked our planet astounds me.

We tour Wind Cave, walking deep into cool damp earth, admiring Mother Nature as both carver and decorator. When we reach the belly, we turn off all the lights and experience the eerie sensation of zero light. I tease my son and tell him to sing hi ho, hi ho and pretend he is a dwarf.

At the campsite (home base!) my daughter lays an animal cracker down to lure a bunny, then sketches one as it munches. My son has to be reminded to not run after them so loudly, crackers or no, his noise will scare them away (eventually he learns to be quiet and still, and nearly bursts as a bunny crawls partly up his arm). I pick wildflowers with my daughter, yellow, white and purple blossoms are gathered with exotic long grasses, arranged in a Dixie cup to adorn our table.

The next day we visit Mount Rushmore. It’s a bizarre reveal, we are completely surrounded by the sea of hills and rocky outcroppings, and then there in the distance; we clearly see a manmade object in the rock. As we get closer and realize it is the carvings of men’s faces, I can’t help but think, how odd!

In the parking lot we read the license plates out loud; New York! California! Michigan! Canada! Inside the park, there are throngs of people here, whole families-- some of them generations long. I watch one whose matriarch has faded red hair among the mostly grey, a single toddler in the clan can be seen running about with red curls bouncing.

Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln, The Faces, as they are locally known, look out underneath a clear blue sky. They are majestic, and perfectly made. At the foot is a large pile of boulders, remnants of the original blasts of dynamite. As we walk closer, we can see the rock shimmer with mica.

We leave after eating buffalo burgers and head to the Crazy Horse memorial.

The Native American culture has always been a fascination for me. I respect their philosophy of being in harmony with the land and natural elements, versus manipulating and conquering it. The Crazy Horse monument encompasses that spirit.

We are privy to the transformation of the sculptor, Korzcak Zoilowski. We see a young version of him when he first started in 1948. He is smooth faced and well groomed. He starts working the mountain himself with little equipment, builds his own home. He marries, has ten children, a beard appears, his hair grows long and wild, eventually it all is threaded with silver, all the while working the rock. He died in 1982 at age 74 never having once accepted payment for his work.

Though it is not close to being done, many of Korzcak’s ten children and his wife carry on the legacy. I marvel at this determination and fortitude.

We head back to our campsite, hot and well spent. We will head out tomorrow morning, our last stretch that will lead us home. I can’t help it; I am excited by the thought of my own bed.