Black Hills, Mt. Rushmore
(August 25)
Our Mt. Rushmore day was a downer. After a terrible night’s “sleep” at the
Rafter J. Bar, punctuated by heavy traffic on the nearby highway, glaring headlights in our tent, and (worst of all) a yellowish, non-functioning jacuzzi, we packed up camp and headed toward
Mt. Rushmore. A 10-year-old neighboring camper had forewarned us that it was a little boring because “they didn’t move or anything,” but “the adults liked it.” I must be part kid still, because while I really liked it for a while, there’s only so long that I can stare at granite heads. It was cool. End of story.
That was the high point of the day. Just as we left the stone-faced presidents, it started raining. So much for our plans to hike in Custer State Park. That was OK though, because we had a 3:00 date with the Honda dealer in Rapid City for our fourth (count them: one, two, three, FOUR) car maintenance appointment in a week. Our roadtrip was turning into a series of car fixes strewn across the country.
So, after a drive-by of
Crazy Horse (it’s huge and probably won’t be completed in my lifetime), we headed to Rapid City. I hunkered down in Dunn Brothers Coffee while Aaron hemorrhaged some MORE cash getting our car fixed. Mechanic #1 created the problem, mechanic #2 helped the problem slightly, and mechanic #3 finally fixed the problem. After plummeting 15 miles per gallon, our fuel economy has returned to its 40 mpg range, much to our glee as we encounter $3.24 gas prices.
I grew more and more melancholy as the day wore on, which was unsettling to my dear husband as he still isn’t quite sure what to do with me in my irrational, melodramatic moods (the answer is usually to put me to bed). Regardless, it seemed bitingly fitting that we ended up in Deadwood for the night.
Deadwood. Think narrow gulch lined with casinos dressed up with old west storefronts. That’s all there is to Deadwood (minus the
HBO series). Except that last night was the kickoff of Deadwood Cool Nites, when middle-aged folks flood the little town with their antique hot rods. It was standing room only in the streets, where uninhibited ladies and gentlemen swayed and sloshed their “event cups” filled with cheap beer to the tunes of a classic rock quartet.
We dined on a cheap burger and fries at a greasy casino and then headed home, feeling nearly drunk ourselves from the stench of Bud Lite and the sensory overstimulation.
We tossed and turned for another night on a sketchy mattress at a rinky dink but rad hippie campground called
Fish ‘N Fry where our host ended almost every sentence with “right on.” (incidentl her name was September. hmm, 30-year-old flower child. we also met an Autumn today.)
Saturday morning, we beat it out of Deadwood and hightailed it toward Yellowstone. Right on.
-Alyssa
