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

Close Encounters of the Tourist Kind

By Bob Wire, 7-03-08

	Now where did I put the Gold Bond powder...?

Day Four. Badlands. We drove the loop at the northeast end of the park, then spent the night at the Galigo Wanblee (Lakota for “Only Game In Town”) campground. I’ve seen roadside picnic areas that are more lavish than this $10-a-night weed patch. But what’s worth every nickel, the only redeeming feature, is a brick-and-mortar bathroom with running water and flushing toilets. When you haven’t showered in four days, it’s quite a luxury to ride that porcelain pony and then wash up afterwards. Giddyup!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The second morning of our trip found us at a sweet little campground up in the Big Horn Mountains, alongside the Tongue River. We built a fire and had a fine breakfast of cantaloupe slices and grill-toasted bagels slathered with cream cheese. Barb, my ever-thoughtful (tea-drinking) partner, had made camp coffee using my tiny, four-cup pot. I climbed out of bed and saw it perking on the grill over the fire, and I wanted to marry her all over again right then and there. Maybe someday we will renew our vows, but first I need to find out when they expire.

We broke camp in no particular hurry, and wound our way back down the mountain to Sheridan, stopping at Steamboat rock formation to buy some buffalo jerky from Steamboat Sam at his roadside trailer. The jerky was excellent, and we tried tiny samples of a dozen different varieties before buying a half-pound of the sweet ‘n spicy. Steamboat Sam waggled his eyebrows at Rusty and Speaker and said, “Kids around here think I’m special!” I scanned the desolate horizon. No signs of life for 30 miles in any direction. I wonder if he meant “special” like, you know, s-p-e-c-i-a-l.

Cracker’s first album provided the perfect soundtrack as we motored on to Sheridan, where we stopped at Big K to snag some essentials we’d forgotten. Then we gassed up for $3.94 a gallon and drove through downtown Sheridan, which is an exact duplicate of downtown Bozeman. Our destination for Day Two was Devils Tower, a place I’d wanted to see since I first saw Richard Dreyfus build his mashed potato version of it in Close Encounters. We stuck to I-90, where we saw the first of many Wall Drug billboards. “Free Ice Water.” “Great Coffee – 5¢.” “Live T-Rex.” If that last one were true, I was going to need something stronger than ice water and coffee.

When we caught our first glimpse of Devils Tower over the horizon, I was a bit under whelmed. It looks like the world’s biggest stump. But by the time we paid the $10 entrance fee and crawled up the windy two-lane through the surrounding trees, I was under its spell. The buzz of spiritual energy coming off this edifice is palpable.

There’s really no way to adequately describe the stately, unearthly visage of this stunning formation. I’d seen photos, sure, but nothing prepared me for the powerful vibe that surrounds it. We parked, and the kids got their Junior Ranger kits from the visitor’s center, and we embarked on the easy, 1.3-mile loop around Mato Tipila (“Bear Motel,” in Lakota).

Halfway around the base trail, we spotted a climber about halfway up (or down; it was 5:00 PM). He wasn’t about to let any silly Native tradition screw up his chance to peak Devils Tower. Asshole.

For thousands of years, Native Americans have revered the healing powers of the Black Hills in general, and Devils Tower in particular. It is a sacred area. Of course the first white man to “discover” it said let’s conquer that son of a bitch. It has since become one of the holy grails of the climbing fraternity, and now is riddled with anchors and bolts driven into it by idiots whose only focus was the personal accomplishment of vanquishing this rock. The Park Service, in a magnanimous gesture, has asked that climbers voluntarily refrain from scaling Devils Tower during the month of June, out of respect for Native tradition. Wow. A whole month. How very generous. I wonder how the Park Service would feel if 4,000 Native Americans a year were scaling the Statue of Liberty.

Along the trail, two groups of people we chatted with were either coming from Missoula, or on their way there. I also ran into a friend of mine in the parking lot, an ex-Griz player who actually played in the NFL for the Dallas Cowboys. He didn’t see me, at first, so I lowered my hat over my eyes and said to Barb in a loud, twangy voice, “I hear tell ol’ Tom Landry actually built a vacation home on the top o’ this thing.” The guy peered around the corner of his SUV and smiled when he saw it was me. “Hey Bobby!”

I tell you, it’s a small world. But, as Steven Wright says, I wouldn’t want to have to paint it.

We piled back into the Toyota and drove back to Rapid City, where we picked up I-90 and continued east. Our goal was a state park named Bear Butte (the kids giggled uncontrollably when I kept saying I’m gonna pitch my tent on your bare butt), just outside of Sturgis.

We were a month too early for the big motorcycle rally, but it was fun to see all the biker bars, like Knuckles (“World’s Biggest Biker Bar”), Full Throttle (“We’re Even Bigger Than Knuckles”), and Cactus Jack’s (“Those Other Guys Are Pussies”). Soon enough, we reached our destination, which looked like a skimpy KOA, but without the shitty putt-putt course.

Since we first entered Wyoming, we’d noticed how hazy the air was, and with no population centers nearby, couldn’t figure out what it was. Then we found out: mosquitoes. We got out of the vehicle at the campground and were immediately assaulted by hoards of the whiny little bloodsuckers. We quickly doused ourselves with bug spray, which kept them from landing and biting. But we were constantly surrounded by a small cloud of the bastards, like a fart that refuses to uncouple.

We set up camp just as the sun went down, and as it started to get dark, an ultralight appeared out of nowhere and buzzed over the campground. I was hoping he’d crop-dust the joint with Malathion, but I think he was just drunk and lost.

It would be two more days of driving before we finally entered a state that is not adjacent to Montana. I’m already questioning my sanity even more than usual, but we’re having the time of our lives as we begin to avoid the interstate and explore the two-lane blacktops between landmarks. At this point we’re barely halfway to our destination in North Carolina, but there have been no divorce threats, no crippling injuries, no meltdowns, and no breakdowns. Sure, we’re hemorrhaging money, but if we have to live on Top Ramen for a month when we get home in late July, it’ll be worth it.

Besides, we can always stop for free ice water on the way back.

Next: shitty roads, endless corn, and a lil’ piece o’ heaven in Sioux Falls.

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