Road Trip: Part Two

Morning. We get up, eat some cereal, pack up and hit the road. I am energized by new found alacrity and determined to make the best of it. The highway stretches out endlessly, I think about the arteries of our country, which are these same endless roads, invisible and unknown but for the semis that frequent them, carrying goods of all forms and nature, so that I may buy them in florescent lit stores at home.

We partake of another ritual, stop at a random park or truck stop, pull out our cooler and make ham sandwiches and apples for lunch, we all stretch our legs.

My husband studies the map, making sure we stop off at interesting sites. When we reach The Corn Palace, I am amazed at the imagery that can be made from, well, corn. Workers are busy nailing cobs and husks in various patterns to reveal the theme for the year, which I can’t yet discern. Inside, the kids both get their first pocketknife. They keep reaching for them in their pockets, proud of the ownership.

Later, we come upon it; the Bad Lands. Gone are the soft green prairies, replaced by unearthly, rocky gorges. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. When we get out of the car, the sun beats down on us, a blinding white heat that radiates back from the cliffs. The rocks remind me of bones, bleached clean by the sun. It feels stark. Nature of this magnitude always presses on me, shrinks me back to the insignificant being I truly am, a mere grain of sand. I feel humbled and right in the world.

We find a campground, and while I know we will be packing up again the next morning, I look forward to going to a night presentation to observe the stars. When the sun goes down, it transforms everything. The air cools, cicadas wake in the trees, start singing their night opera with startling volume, there are no misquotes.

At the night program we learn about some of the wildlife from a quirky young park ranger, Lydia; what to do when you hear a rattlesnake (stop, then slowly leave), the habits of prairie dogs, differences between horns and antlers (antlers shed, horns do not), the cycle of the evening primrose.

We are then introduced to an even younger astrophysicist, Jessica, who brings out large telescopes. Jessica explains we won’t be able to see as much as she had hoped. Light pollution from a full moon spills out over the Milky Way, dimming her galactic examples. No one seems to mind. We all stand in line to view through the telescope, the equipment is so accurate, Jessica must read adjust it very two people to track the star movement. I am able to see the rings around Saturn.

The next day we make it to the Black Hills. This means two whole nights (maybe three) in one location! I am ecstatic. Ecstatic!

As we approach, and then enter, I understand why they are called the Black Hills. Unlike the lush and vibrant greens of Minnesota, these hills are covered with the shadowed darkness of the ponderosa pines. Bare trunks are exposed on the lower reaches; plentiful needles sprout on top, the color of what our pines would be, if dipped in reflections of deep black waters.

My favorite is the discovery of gems the size of small buildings. As we drive on the meandering roads, we see random arrangements of rocks encrusted with mica from top to bottom. They are dazzling, glints of gold flash at us in the sun, I imagine fairies had bejeweled them with mischievous intent.

We reach our campground, set up. The air feels good up here, clean and much cooler. There are wild bunnies everywhere; animal crackers are sold in the office, as the bunnies have grown accustomed to eating them straight out of human hands.

We eat dinner, roast marshmallows, everyone is happy and content, including me. I feel settled knowing we will be here for a few days. We chat about what we will see and do while we’re here, faces warm and diffused around the campfire, as the moon spills her light across the Milky Way.