Holla. Long post.
Shoulder report
I haven’t had a big problem with Sturgis, the motorcycle rally. Some people suggested before I came near here that it’s better to totally avoid the place when it’s happening. I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s mostly funny to witness the spectacle.
The roads are great out here. It’s the wind that will break you.
Territorial pissings
I swept down the Bighorn range and entered the high desert of eastern Wyoming.
In Buffalo I stayed with John, a retired environmental historian. He’s eccentric, with a sharp wit, a keen eye for bullshit and 100,000 miles of bike touring under his belt. I could write a book on him. That evening I tagged along with him to a local meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous in a church, where I sat with seven others around a plastic table. I’m not an alcoholic, but I’ve long been curious about AA. I won’t write about the meeting out of respect for those in the group, who are truly inspiring people.
Next I grinded through my first “century,” or 100-mile day, to Gillette, on highways 14 and 16. I began that day near 6 a.m. under the expanse of an indigo storm cloud dropping fat, cold pellets of rain. I outran that storm and traversed a placid country of modest canyon walls, jagged hills posing as mountains on the horizon, irrigated meadows. The road was almost completely empty until 10 a.m., when the skies cleared and I spotted a white pickup parked in the distance. When I arrived there a man held a handgun and a pair of earmuffs. A whitetail deer laid shaking in agony in a ditch near the road. A car had evidently just maimed the creature. “Keep moving,” he shouted wearily, waving me on. “I’m putting this animal out of its misery.”
I shouted back. “You hate to see it.”
His companion, a woman stood near the truck. Her face was screwed up in pain. “We hate it too,” she said to me. “It’s so sad.”
I pedaled past and looked behind me. The man donned his earmuffs, squatted, aimed the handgun, and shot the deer in the head. It immediately stopped its convulsing.
A black storm cloud coalesced above and began pouring rain on the land. In a rare moment of perfect timing, I crested a hill and spotted the Spotting Horse just as the first drops fell. It’s the only building within perhaps 40 miles of road there, on the high prairie. About two dozen wet bikers stood in their leather underneath the awning of the bar. Inside were another dozen.
This was my first brush with the thousands of motorcycle riders flocking to, or from, the colossal Sturgis Rally in South Dakota. You hear them, then you smell them, then you see them.
I ordered a Bud Lite — it being about noon at that point — and watched as the storm passed overhead. The small U.S. flag in front of the bar began blowing due south. Never wanting to waste a tailwind, I chugged the beer and took off immediately.
The wind carried me 30 miles to the great coal mines of Gillette. The statistic I’ve heard is that 40% of the country’s coal stocks are mined here in open pits. The size of the mines is astounding. They’ve been extracting coal for about 45 years now outside of Gillette from a 70-foot-thick slab beneath the surface. The city is also surrounded by a vast oil field. As such, the city’s economy is heavily dependent on fossil fuel extraction.
With coal becoming less economically attractive and, to a lesser degree, oil, the future of Gillette is very much in question. I’ve gathered this from newspaper articles and from my Warm Showers host there, Jim, who recently retired after long working for the mines. He said Gillette and other Wyoming cities are currently vying for a new nuclear power installation. I’m pro-nuclear — and if you’re miserable in this budding climate breakdown, you should be too — and I was happy to hear this. That said, I don’t have faith that any Democratic administration will successfully steer economic diversification efforts in places like Gillette. Republican lawmakers refuse to see the writing on the wall, even if mining companies themselves do. If I had to bet, I’d reckon that Gillette will wither in the coming decades.
The next day I rode to the Devil’s Tower and I spent my last night in Wyoming. The sky was hazy and, in the early afternoon, I battled heat and a headwind. Out of the haze rose a ridge line peppered with pine trees. Here I knew that I was entering the hill country of eastern Wyoming and western South Dakota that would swell into the legendary and sacred Black Hills. Biker traffic became impressive and then annoying — thousands of them descended in a swarm, roaring past me, blaring their Boomer anthems, “Don’t Stop Believing” and “Jukebox Hero.” I swept down and around a corner and there it was, the Tower, in the haze.
This was one of my favorite natural marvels since Yellowstone. To borrow a phrase from Samwise Gamgee: by rights, it shouldn’t be there. The hills surrounding the monolith are pleasant and modest. There’s no nearby reference point for the slab of stone.
In the evening I was weary of the bikers and found a campsite just underneath the Tower. I slept fitfully for an hour and woke up to find my sleeping pad literally pooled with sweat. I’d also planned poorly for the evening and, for dinner, I ate a bowl of ramen and then a can of chili, which didn’t cut it. I began reading a biography of Che Guevara. For dinner I had four Starbursts.
At sunset I decided on a whim to hike the loop trail around the Tower. This decision was a stroke of genius. The sunset was otherworldly, and I picked my way through a prairie dog town, them all squeaking and side-eyeing me before pitching headlong into their dens. I reached the talus slope at the bottom of the Tower on the west side and sat on a boulder the size of a bus for some time. I felt very strongly that I should wait for the rock to speak to me in some way and, when I relaxed enough, it did. The sun set and I hiked back in the silent dark, cleansed.
There are ongoing politics related to the name of the Devil’s Tower. The name’s origin, unsurprisingly, is rooted in a misinterpretation of a native term. The Lakota, Kiowa and other tribes have many names for the Tower which should be represented in the Park’s lexicon — at the very least. I’m currently educating myself on Land Back, the collective tribal call to return the Black Hills and sacred sites to the various tribes with deep cultural roots here.
In the morning I woke up very early and rode to the hamlet of Hulett, WY. The time was near 8 a.m. and few bikers were up. My tactic in navigating the hordes of Sturgis was the same I’ve employed since June: I wake up early as hell and ride my bike while everyone else is asleep or lumbering around their RV making coffee. I figured correctly that the aging bikers comprising the rally would be hungover and largely off the road. So Hulett was virtually abandoned.
It was Sunday and nothing was open. While I searched Google Maps for a convenience store, I glanced to the hill above me and found that I had parked beneath a Best Western. I docked my bike, walked in, and ate a huge, free, continental breakfast. Everyone in there was friendly.
I drank two cups of coffee and hit the road again. A hard ride against headwinds and hills then. The mercury hit 90 just after noon. I braved a biker bar just after crossing into Beulah, South Dakota, for a pulled pork sandwich. The PA system blared “Don’t Stop Believing” and a few dozen haggard-looking senior citizens in leather vests shot Jack Daniels. A woman in a bikini, an employee of the bar, waded around an empty swimming pool built with composite plywood into the outdoor counter. In the middle hung a series of beer bongs. No customers were in there yet. I glanced at the fetid water in the pool and shuddered. She smiled at me. I hope they tip her well.
Until then I’d figured that all of the bikers were too senile to actually party for the ten-day duration of Sturgis. Color me impressed.
I felt microwaved by the heat when I made it to Spearfish.
The subsequent two days were sublime. Lauren, a friend of mine from Denver, met me in Spearfish. Andy, a newly-retired physics professor there, graciously allowed us to use his beautiful home as a basecamp. This man also deserves a book.
We drove around the Black Hills for two days in Lauren’s black VW bug. The area, like Yellowstone, has so much to offer. We were floored by Jewel Cave and, although it’s very developed, Wind Cave. We cracked up as we realized that the only way to escape the roar of Sturgis is to literally go underground.
Mt. Rushmore was mediocre in our estimation, although we met some awesome bikers there. In one of my favorite moments, Lauren started doing backflips in a field near some spires we climbed. She’s an ex-gymnast.
We since decided to get to the Badlands and spend another night or two there together before splitting off. This requires some logistics and patience on her part because there’s no way my bike could fit in her car. We’re currently not sure where we’re going to sleep, and we’re frugal, and it’s getting really hot out there, so we’re holed up in a cafe in downtown Rapid City. I believe I have another 100-mile day tomorrow. Pray that the wind blows east.
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