South Dakota offers plenty for the adventurous whether on four wheels or on two

Sam and I pull over at a gas station to load up on fuel and booze of the energy-producing variety. The Land Cruiser rolls to a stop at the pump and I swing my dusty boots out of the passenger side door and hop out with a stretch and a yawn. We have finally made it to the outskirts of South Dakota after the hellish stretch of land that is eastern Wyoming. After enjoying the god-like scenery of Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons we were dying as we dragged ourselves across the state. Everything seems to be concentrated into this one heavenly spot in Wyoming. Everything else is nothing. Nothing at all. Just barren land and my increasingly slipping mind as it ventures further into insanity with each passing hour of nothingness.

We make it to Custer State Park by sundown. We are catching South Dakota only days after the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. It drew well over 700,000 people clad in black leather, bandanas, and studded accessories. We spot a few Sturgis leftovers with their tents popped open next to their Harleys. Something about this picture feels a bit off to me but it makes me smile warmly anyway with thoughts of epic journeys and the Zen of Motorcycle Maintenance. The camp hosts are an elderly couple from our home state of Texas and share a kindness with us I’ve come to appreciate from hosts. We have run into many retirees this year and it seems like a great way to spend a few months. The hosts have a big “for sale” sign in front of their camper for firewood but we decide to enjoy the cool temps tonight. Their camper is the kind that can seem like a dream or a nightmare depending on who you ask. It’s massive and gently illuminated in the night by a lamp glowing in the interior. It is decked out with matching his and hers loungers and a massive TV. This house in the woods amazes me. I ask Sam if he wants to grow old together and host a campground for a few months at a time. He gives me an honest no to my retirement plan as he stares at their 60-inch television. I guess he falls under the “nightmare” camp. We settle down in our rooftop tent and are happy in our young able bodies for now.

 

Custer’s Wildlife Loop promises wonder and it delivers beautifully. This park is southeast of the black hills and is well worth the visit. We enjoy the large open fields and take a few winding detours just for the sake of it. We meander our way down a road and find ourselves stopped in traffic. This is bizarre, particularly since we’ve felt pretty well secluded during our visit. We peek our heads around the car in front of us and eyes quickly widen. Our dog, Red, starts to wail as she sounds the alarm: Bison. There are tons of them. I hop out of the car because my curiosity is like a disease that robs me of any kind of judgment and critical thinking skills. These beasts are enormous and muscular in a way that sends chills up your spine. A massive male rams his body against a rock as big as the Land Cruiser and rubs his side against it like a scratching post. Sam hits his max of my unintentional game of chicken and calls me back to the car in hopes of breaking whatever spell has taken me over to get a look at these creatures. Red greets me with excitement as she is still thoroughly losing her mind over these hoofed giants. I was certain I was at a safe distance from them until I got back in the car and realized what a fool I was being in my nature trance. That is until we make our way further down the road and come across a Bison Safari ride slowly making its way through the wildlife. The seating is an open cage and filled with nervous-looking visitors. I’m pretty sure I would be crapping my pants if I were them.

We pick up some maps and an OHV permit in town at the U.S. Forest Service office in hopes of planning a route. The map unfolds to comic size with trails upon trails at our disposal. We had been missing opportunities to wheel and now we had an entire buffet to choose from. We finally decide to just pick a road and start on it. The woods are thick and welcome us like gracious hosts. I play navigator until we hit a stretch of road that seems mostly composed of rocks and boulders. I swap roles with Sam after a while to “work on our communication” because apparently “there’s a rock over there” and “we’re falling!” isn’t good enough for him. This is some pretty decent technical wheeling and I make my way down this steep and rocky section. I try mildly unsuccessfully to keep from burning the back of Sam’s skull with laser beam eyes when he tells me bluntly how to do things. It’s hard being told what to do sometimes. We take a break and walk about the jagged terrain. We are surrounded by trees and plenty of prime spots where I could ditch his body. I want to hide but I’m found. Sam puts his arm around me and asks if we can hate each other together. I melt a little and bury myself in the crook beneath his shoulder; a place that was perfectly carved out for me many years ago. Just like that we make it through this crash course in couples therapy, overland edition.

 

We decide next on Camp Road 5 near Deadwood, on the north side of the Black Hills. It seems to be a great spot for numerous good trails. We should have just enough time to setup camp and start early in the morning. We come to a fork in the trail with a very tempting road that goes straight up a steep climb, disappearing out of sight at the top. Sam wonders aloud, “Where you s’pose that goes?” In other words, a title to a very stupid book we would soon be writing. The thing about overlanding on your own is that you really have to learn to temper your desire to explore with reckless abandon. Sometimes you just have to get out of the car and trek up a huge incline to see where it goes. Or you can do what we did, which is to just go for it and then find that it goes nowhere. The road just ends at a ridiculous incline with no way to turn around. By this time it is also nearly pitch black outside and you realize you have to reverse your way down this thing through trees and rocks and not kill yourself in the process. So you just kind of stare at this crazy obstacle and say “I don’t think there’s a way to capture just how effed up this is.” Then, in the most calm and frantic spirit, try to pull a driving and spotter combo that is rally-worthy as you try to beat the last seconds of remaining sunlight. Luckily, we had the day to work out our overlanding communication spats and managed to pull our best skills to date. We safely make our way down and spend little time finding a place to root ourselves down for the night with humility in our hearts over such a rookie mistake.

The heat of the sun on our canvas tent nudges me awake with an uncomfortable hand. It’s effective and we’re up for the day. It’s nice to greet South Dakota in the new light and we take the morning to enjoy our breakfast and the lovely seclusion of our home nestled in pine trees. We miss some of the more expansive views we’ve come to love on our travels but the intimacy of the woods feels wonderful in a different way. We spend the rest of the morning exploring the backcountry roads of hills and wildflowers with my head sticking out the window to gauge the location of our tires and truck positioning. I tell Sam how nice it must be to know he’s in good hands with a proud grin on my face. We find a similarly steep road and decide to trek it this time first with gusto and no complaints.  We stop for lunch and begin to prepare our meal on the tailgate. Our kitchen is the woods and Red runs around like a little crazy person before settling down with us to eat. We share one of those mix-with-hot-water lasagnas that taste surprisingly better than they sound and I dance to music from the Kill Bill soundtrack. Red buries a bone in South Dakota and I’m pretty sure this moment is called happiness.

Our time in the black hills feels short but satisfying. We steer the Land Cruiser back south again after having crawled our way up over the last few days. We see signs for something called Wall Drug about every few miles as we make our way toward the state border. Sam wants to know what it is so I do my most regrettable Google search of the trip. A horrendous gem is in our sight. Apparently, Wall Drug is tourist monstrosity in the middle of nowhere South Dakota. It’s so bad it makes us itch with desire to see just how bad it is. It’s kind of like turning over a dead lizard in the backyard with a stick when you’re 10. You know there isn’t anything prettier on the other side but you just have to. You couldn’t live with yourself if you never looked. It is, in fact, as awful as they say. There are rows of tiny shops in a cheap western theme and people are everywhere. We lick on an over-priced “homemade” cookie dough ice cream and walk by a South Dakota version of Zoltar called Pappy. I’m convinced that this machine could alter my life path like it does in the movie “Big” but I don’t have a dollar so I guess now I’ll never know. We stroll the little block as long as we can stand before getting too dizzy from trinkets made in China.

It takes us a moment to recover from Wall Drug. We navigate to a nearby restaurant for the evening only to realize that a) it’s 3:44 in the afternoon and b) it’s closed. I end up taking 45 minutes at the grocery store trying to figure out what we can eat for dinner and come out with orange juice and some turkey breast with no bread. Sam is a bit less than amused and I’m not sure why I’m quite so overwhelmed with choices at the grocery store either. Wall Drug got to my head. We get back to our senses enough to make it to Badlands National Park. It’s a sobering stunner of bluffs and striated formations. We pass a sign that says “no driving off-road” which is the saddest of signs with such epic scenery, but it was impossible to complain with such a beautiful sight. Prairie dogs pop up in the surrounding fields as though welcoming us to the park. There are bighorn sheep too. Red has another mind blow over all this wildlife and suddenly the gang seems back.

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