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Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

The Good, the Badlands, and Wall Drug

By Bob Wire, 7-08-08

	The kids and me take shelter and wait for help to arrive, in the form of Barb with an ice chest.

After our post-Rushmore lunch, we pointed the 4Runner east once again, and the antidote to my euphoria of natural beauty lay ahead in the form of Wall Drug. As we neared the Badlands, the Wall Drug signs multiplied like scabs on a ten-dollar hooker. We would have to stop, of course, although there was no way it could live up to the hype. I mean, a six-foot rabbit? I haven’t seen one of those since, well, I can’t remember, but I’m sure Jäegermeister was involved.

We hung out there for about 45 minutes, time which would have been better spent, oh, French-kissing a road-killed porcupine. What a colossal circle jerk. It’s a huge maze of third-rate curiosities constantly leading you to more cheap tourist gee-gaws, with everything from switchblades to swim diapers emblazoned with the Wall Drug name. Okay, so I bought a couple of postcards. But the capper was when we were leaving, and I asked a pizza-faced kid ringing up a rubber tomahawk where I could find some Advil.

“Oh, I don’t think we sell drugs,” he said. Wow. So I guess peyote would be out of the question.

I was so dumbfounded that I forgot to have Barb stop to buy beer and gas on the way out of town. She had spotted a Dairy Queen on the way in, though, and she stopped there and bought us all a cone. Man, I don’t care how old you are, sometimes an ice cream cone just makes it all better.

We drove until we got to the entrance to the Badlands, and after a brief discussion decided to spring for the $80 National Park Pass. We were credited for our Devils Tower entrance fee, but now I will become obsessed with us visiting at least six more parks so I won’t feel like we’re getting screwed. Speaker leaned up from the back seat. “Is this the Ranger Station?” she asked.

“No, honey, this is the Money Toilet,” I said with a smile for the Park Ranger in the booth. She just looked at me, sitting there in her Phillips-head hat and a big government-issue smile, and told us to have a nice stay. I could almost hear a sidewinder rattle in the background.

We proceeded along the loop through the northeast section of the park, which was unusually lush and green from all the recent rains. The contrast of vegetation with the stark, sculpted sandstone was striking. It also made me thirsty. I nixed all requests to stop and hike, because I really just wanted to get to the campground already and snap open a cold beer.

We found the campground, and it was hot, dusty, bug-infested, sun-baked and desolate. The campsites consisted of a sheltered picnic table next to a widened spot in the dirt road. I was blacktop-weary, hungry, thirsty, and grouchy as Dick Cheney with a toothache. The kids ran off to explore while I set up the tent. My sore shoulder was not getting any better, and every time I set up the tent it’s a new adventure in pain. Barb tried to help, offering suggestions.

“Do you want me to get the tent stakes?” she asked.

“Don’t need ‘em,” I said through clenched teeth, trying to poke the end of a long fiberglass pole into the proper grommet.

“What about the rain fly?”

“Fuck it.”

Cussing and fuming, I finally got it erected, and hauled the air mattresses inside. While the little electric pump whined away, I discovered the last two PBRs in the bottom of the cooler. I virtually shot-gunned my penultimate beer, and felt the cold relief spread into my gut.

Then I finished with the tent, somewhat light-headed, and rolled out the sleeping bags and got all our duffel bags stowed. I plopped down into a camp chair and rewarded myself with my last beer. This was the Badlands, baby. There would be no beer run. A pair of turkey vultures wheeled overhead, and I savored that cold PBR like a man smoking his last cigarette before facing a firing squad.

After a dinner of salad and canned chili, I felt much better. We attended an astronomy talk at the amphitheater, and the kids were enthralled by Larry, the Park Ranger who obviously knew and loved astronomy. He kept the crowd laughing, and astutely used his laser pointer to locate the various constellations as the stars became more visible in the desert sky.

“That guy should have a tip jar,” observed Rusty as we were walking back to our campsite.

We all brushed out teeth and turned in just before midnight. The tent stank like a junior high math class after P.E. We were ripe. Four days, no shower. We decided that the next night, if we made it as far as Sioux Falls, would be spent in a motel. With beds. And a shower. And a TV. Oh, man. It was enough to give me hope for the future. I fell asleep and dreamed of Orion coming down from the sky to vanquish a six-foot tall rabbit.

[Next: Hell, I don’t know. I haven’t written it yet.]

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