Western States Day 4: Bierstadt Lake Loop

The Hike

So, we've got a pre-teen triathlete in the house who works out compulsively and can do possibly twice as many pullups as me (no kidding) who proclaims "I'm not all that into hiking." So that's a little backdrop to our strategy of when & where to explore in the park. We know that, above all other places, Lake Superior has a quality that can just still her soul. Where she is otherwise driven and anxious, she can just sit on the shore of that magnificent lake and look out for a seemingly endless time. Our great hope is she will find the majesty of the mountains similarly inspiring. But we decide to take it relatively conservative on day one, both as a result of the unknown of "what are these kids up for (emotionally, more than physically)?" as well as with respect to easing into the whole altitude thing. Our plan, then, is to take the park's tremendous shuttle system (free shuttles to and from some of the more popular trailheads), and hike a point-to-point from Bear Lake Trailhead (about 9,475 ft elevation) to Bierstadt Lake and out to the next trailhead, a total of about 3 miles. Definitely some climbing (and at 1,000 ft above our campground), but nothing too rigorous, considering where we're at.

Now, I'd done much reading and cross-referencing of book and my topo map in advance of the trip (no way!) and planned out possible- to likely- hikes, based on a combination of feasibility, potential awesomeness, and lack of crowds. Many sources had recommended getting "an early start" both in terms of good wildlife viewing (dawn, no surprise there) and also to beat the crowds. Based on my experience (primarily in MN State Parks, and never before, actually, in  a national park), however, I figured "Hey, it's sort of peak season, but since the work week just started (this was Monday), the foot traffic should be pretty light." Also, based on pretty much every hiking episode I'd ever had in publicly-owned lands, my assumption was that as soon as we were about an eighth of a mile from the trail head, we would be lucky to see another person. The eye-opening contradiction to both of those assumptions was to be my second great rumination of the trip.

The reality is that LOTS OF FUCKING PEOPLE VISIT ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK. And they're not just there for the weekend (duh - it's their summer trip). They are there all week, and they're there to hike. Many of them, anyway. Now, there are plenty more people who are just there to mob Trail Ridge Drive (see future post), and probably quite a few more who are there to buy a sweatshirt that says "Estes Park (see past post). But when you're hiking a point-to-point that begins from  probably the most popular trailhead in the fifth most popular National Park in the country, you're not gonna be alone. I had a growing sense of this, as we rode, crammed on a shuttle bus that was standing room only, but it was ramrodded home as we disembarked amid a crowd of hikers, photographers, and day-trippers of all ages, nationalities, and (seeming) preparedness. You are SHOCKINGLY, JARRINGLY not alone. I mused to myself whether golf "tee times" would help space things out at the trailhead, but that would have been an impossibility (had it not been silly in the first place) as there was too steady a stream of folks issuing off on the trail. Now, in fairness, the Bear Head trail branches immediately off in a few options, ranging from a leisurely half-mile nature stroll on a flat wood-chip trail to a rugged overnighter that traverse 12,000+ foot peaks and continue on to cross the Continental Divide. We were somewhere in the middle (well, a little closer to the former end of the spectrum), but in reality a number of people left the trail we were on as we climbed a couple of hundred feet and wound our way through aspen and ponderosa & lodgepole pines for a long, higher-altitude stretch of our hike. Even so, we were rarely in a position where another party wasn't visible somewhere in front or behind us.

Miraculously, just Sharon & Rose, here.

As is probably pretty evident in these words, I was really pretty shaken by the reality of how busy the trails really were. I was beginning to realize how truly I had counted on solitude as a necessary part of my Rocky Mountain experience. It was a somewhat bitter irony, remembering the solitude (not a soul!) we'd had in a park in the small town of Rushmore, MN, two days beforehand, before I'd even left my home state. As in so many instances in life, I tried to put my cynicism on the shelf for the sake of my family, but I was probably making a few (too many?) asides to Sharon. There was a particular family that we were jockeying back and forth with that we just couldn't shake. Or, we wouldn't shake. For, you see, when you hike with kids you hike their pace. Period. And they didn't give a rip. Thank God.

Now, there was a "T" right before Bierstadt Lake, at which we made the decision to take the shortest route to exit the hike without actually seeing the lake, owing partly to time (we'd had a pretty leisurely pace which, again, was kid-driven) and partly because we could see some gathering clouds and we were faced with a 500 foot descent down the mostly exposed side of a mountain and didn't want that to coincide with one of the Rocky's famous & frequent afternoon outbursts. That last descent ended up presenting the most expansive, striking views of the day and, incidentally the greatest degree of solitude, as we only met a couple of parties traveling either way (up or down) for the final mile or so. We did, however, perfectly coincide with an afternoon thunderstorm. I'd been carrying Rosie on my shoulders because "(her) legs hurt," but when the storm looked imminent, I put the kid down. Everyone donned our raincoats and we instructed the girls to speed along ahead, and try to reach lower ground. A sprinkle began, followed by thunder and a steady rain, and then light hail, as we were all trotting along, realizing that (in spite of feeling like we were in the upper echelon of general equipment preparedness vs. most of whom we'd encountered) ponchos would have probably been more practical  than raincoats, which we ended up stretching out over our daypacks. I do regret that the storm (which ended up being brief, with things clearing completely, minutes after we arrived at the trailhead shelter) disrupted what would have probably been by far the most inspiring and rewarding part of the hike.

Beginning the descent, with clouds gathering, pre-storm.

In any event, here is the rumination, which is of such significance to me, that it, alone (had our Rocky Mountain adventure not been rewarding in any other way - which it ultimately was), may well be worth the great amount of effort, expense, and time that this trip consumed: I value solitude in my exploration of this world (and, perhaps naturally, especially in my experiences in nature). Possibly above all other things. This doesn't seem all that groundbreaking. Doesn't everyone? Well, maybe not to the extent that I now realize I do. 

Sharon and I have had the recurring discussion about labeling people "introvert" and "extrovert" and how, although it is fundamentally based on where you get your energy, it can be a very unhelpful categorization, because the layers are too many and too nuanced to unpack. I think a lot of people would call me an extrovert. After all: I love a good party. And I certainly don't mind being the center of attention in many situations, whether as frontman of a band, or merely when regaling the assembled in a social gathering. In contrast, such events (or the prospect of them) is absolutely draining to my wife. We can finish a night out with friends after which she needs recovery time, whereas I feel energized. But I can't go to the State Fair. I just can't do it. It makes me want to curl up just thinking about it. Same for super busy airports, museums, sporting events, concerts (I KNOW RIGHT) and, apparently, national parks. Claustrophobia. Knots in the stomach. A weird negative and poisonous-feeling focus on the differences between the people I see and myself. Just awful. Sharon would prefer having a place to herself, of course, but can apparently pretty easily separate herself and have a personal experience that is not diminished much by the presence of others. 

Anyway, I find this whole thing fascinating. But the ramifications, if I really think about it, are astounding. I'd always figured that, were money not an issue, I would probably get around to seeing many of the "great attractions of the world." The Sphinx, perhaps. The Blarney Stone. Abbey Road. The Liberty Bell. Whatever. Suddenly, I realize that - quite to the contrary - I would be wise to not go NEAR those places. Or else to approach them from the other side (North Rim of the Grand Canyon, for example) or in an off-season, if that's possible (per my earlier post: I'd seen Mount Rushmore when it was just me and one other guy, in November 1996. It was pretty cool!). The prospect of being in Times Square when the New Year's Ball drops ranks only slightly below having a candiru gnaw the wall of my urethra in my list of least-preferred pastimes. The reality is that everybody who can, is going to see the great places of the world. Worse yet, the rich and privileged (among whom I never feel particularly comfortable) are over-represented at those place. Better, I think my re-calibration would be to find the quiet, yet beautiful places of the world with (consider Rushmore, MN. well...one out of two ain't bad...) the former as the primary pre-requisite. As an unexpected aside: our campsite would prove to be the location in which we found the most reliable solitude, repeatedly throughout stay. Nothing wrong with having those moments to close your day out, I say.

Lucy finding her own quiet moment, as day wound down.

Western States Day Three: Arrival at Morraine Park

Crazy Horse

Our intent the next morning was to head out of the Black Hills to the west by way of the Crazy Horse monument farther down the road. If you're not aware, the monument, also being carved out of a mountain, is a private, non-profit undertaking (no Federal funding) that began in the mid-20th century and will eventually be the world's largest sculpture, at 563 feet high. By way of comparison, the faces on Rushmore down the road are about 40 feet high.

Fuck me? No, fuck YOU!!

I was heartened by the number of visitors to the monument (each of whom were paying a hefty admission price that will help support continued building of the monument), and then discovered that the site also plays host to the Indian Museum of North America, and the Native American Cultural Center, two attractions filled with art and artifacts of North American Indian history (and, of course, the requisite gift shops). I also saw the book, American Presidents: American Indians (which, I should note, I have now checked out from the library and am reading) again, as well as this super cool map showing the historic locations of many of the tribes of North America. Alas, we were on a schedule and had to hit the road again, as we were to make CO before dark. Back into the car and off onto the byways on our way towards the great, windswept, cowboy state of Wyoming - which, by the way, reveals another thing about crossing the Missouri River. You start to see people wearing cowboy boots for a reason other than fashion which to me, as a Minnesotan, is downright exotic.

A LITTLE BIT OF WYOMING!

There's some pretty amazing natural places in Wyoming: the Bighorn Mountains, Medicine Bow National Forest and a little place called Yellowstone. But we were only to be skirting the western side of the state by way of Interstate 25. All the same, we were clearly in territory that was vastly different from where we originated. The high plains, literally. Open gates on either side of the freeway that can presumably be closed in times of snowstorm. Rest stops in vast, wide-open, wind-swept spaces. Distant, treeless rock formations. And an utter lack of cultivation. Then, as we approached the southern border of the state, I saw it off on the western horizon: what was almost certainly Laramie Mountain of the small range that bears its name. At 10,200 ft above sea level, not anything compared to the giants of its larger, western brother, The Rockies, it struck me quite powerfully as the first peak I'd seen since my youth that topped out over the treeline (about 9,800 in Wyoming), a full 3,000 feet above the highest mountain I'd seen in my adulthood (Harney Peak of the Black Hills which, incidentally, is the highest peak in the USA east of the Rockies and far, far older than any mountains outside of its own range, taller or otherwise). [Well, I guess I'd been in the mountains with a couple of friends (Pat M & Cory L) in 2006, but we were more passing through high-wooded ranges on our way elsewhere. Never above treeline, and never really in a position to do much "peak-gawking"].

One wind-swept rest stop and one Laramie Ultra on the horizon.

From that point on, it was another race against time as the day was getting on; the actual immense immersion of the full-blown Rocky Mountains seemed worlds away (in fact, a state away); and we really, really wanted to set up camp before dark. We continued on, speeding along at 80 mph (the speed limit, I've discovered, in pretty much every state west of my own). We crossed into Colorado, and it really took no time at all to reach Fort Collins. OK, now for one of the great realizations/ruminations of this trip...

Finally, Colorado

So: some of my closer friends know that my brother, who was 14 when I was born and who moved west before I reached kindergarten, basically just sought out liberal college communities in mountain states for the next 15 or so years of his life. Fort Collins, Boulder, Albuquerque, Corvallis. One of the very fondest memories I had that was drawing me back to the mountains was a visit to my brother during his time in Fort Collins. The haze of years (and me being possibly around 10 at the time) had me remembering Fort Collins as this little mountain town nestled among the peaks. I remember my brother telling me stories of the floods of the mountain streams wiping out Loveland (which, I assumed, was also nestled among the peaks). Even Denver (with its famed Eisenhower Tunnel through which I'd passed in the rain at breakneck speed in the dead of night back in '06), I'd assumed, straddled some high mountain pass, with various white-capped peaks at its very doorstep. What I now realized, as I sped through Fort Collins and slowly crawled through in Loveland (stopping at every red light in what seemed more like the world's longest strip-mall than an actual town), was that these cities were actually quite FLAT. Mountains still just a ridge, if a little higher and stretching, now, the length of the horizon. And then it struck me: Duh! Of course you wouldn't build a city IN the mountains! How impractical! I mean, maybe a resort community, like Estes Park (which I would soon see) or Vale (about which I am making an assumption). But not one depending upon trade & commerce, the ability to actually zone & build and deliver public services with some degree of normalcy. You build in the last flat space available before the mountains. Mind = blown. Or, at least, 34 year-held assumptions, falling away.

Anyway, it did take forever to get through Loveland, which was the point at which the road finally turned and headed directly towards Estes Park and the heart of the mountains, themselves. After a last bit of wide highway, we entered the foothills, inducing a series of memories: lying in the back of the station wagon as we weaved through mountain roads, my father (seeming infinitely wise about such things) establishing the notion of "foothills" and their relation to "mountains" and showing me how you can sometimes think you're just going straight along, but if you look out the back window you can see, in fact, that you are climbing up (try it: it works!). And then: a true mountain road. traveling along the fast-racing torrent that is the Big Thompson River. Bare-faced, rocky slopes that minutes ago were named "foothills" suddenly skying above to a height that I  didn't dare remove my eyes from the twisty road enough to see. Scattered homes wedged narrowly between stream & cliff for which people could not possibly have been able to secure insurance. We traveled along this way for about half an hour till things opened up into the valley that held little Estes Park with it's 5,000 residents and tourist population many times that.

Ah, Estes Park. I immediately sensed this little town was to become a battleground between my love of quaint, quirky villages and loathing of places overrun by tourists. But no time to ruminate. No time to slow down and ask a passerby (possibly in a British accent), "Excuse me, sir...But I've been having some trouble trying to locate a sweat-shirt that says "Estes Park" on it!" It was on to that last final destination of our journey: Rocky Mountain National Park.

When they say that Estes Park is right outside RMNP, they're not kidding. Literally, five minutes outside of town and you're passing through the main entrance on the east side of the park. Only a few more minutes and you're winding your way into the world-class campground of Moraine Park. Ahead of time, I'd been a little concerned about the immensity of the campground itself, as well as its innumerable electric sites and the certainty of 30'-40' RVs and their accompanying generator noise. But resource after resource had assured me "No, Morraine Park is great." I was often thinking, "Come on. I'm from Minnesota. I know great campgrounds." But it's no joke. Morraine Park is super. Just make sure that if you plan on tent camping, you choose something in the tent-only loop of "D," And you really want one of the sites on the far west side (and very specifically, you want either one of the two we stayed in).

As it turned out, we reached the campground at near dusk, so there was very little time to dick around. At least for the adults. We set about getting the tent up and getting supper started as the kids got out and began to explore our environs, which were amazing. We were within sight of one or two other campsites, but quite a bit back from the main loop, and nestled right up to one ridge of the moraine after which the campground was named. A just a few feet past our own private bear locker was a large rocky outcropping, perfect for kid exploration & down-time, and not a bad spot for a cup of coffee and some contemplation. The view below is this first site (which was to be our site for our first four nights there), with a view the opposite direction of the climbing boulder. You can see the start of the moraine of to the right, though the general steepness of its slop is not done justice in the picture.

Our Big Agnes Big House was made even more kick-ass with the recent addition of this vestibule.

Oh, and for the record: our campground was at 8,300 feet above sea level. Throughout the trip, it didn't seem to cause much trouble for any in the party. Maybe if you had a load in your arms and ran a bit with it, you might give a little "Whoo!" exhalation at the end, but that was about it. 

So, supper. And then night fell. And then a campfire. And that was that for that day.

Western States Day Two: Rushmore, et. al

That Damned Hotel

The hotel was called "Presidents View," as it was nestled halfway up the rugged shoulders of one of the Black Hills in and around which the small town of Keystone was located. So named, as some of the more expensive rooms actually afforded a distant view of the famous mountain pretty much everyone was there to see (this is true: we went there the next day and EVERYBODY was there). We were not in one of the more expensive rooms. A hotel with prime real estate such as this one could have really gone one of two ways: luxury suites/resort or "cram as many people into substandard rooms as possible and be the cheapest rate in town." We stayed there because they were the latter. And because they had a pool (a major selling point for the kids, of course). It was basically Tiki Tom without the waterpark. And somewhat more cramped quarters. But whatever; we were there to let the kids swim for a bit and then crash for the night before a day's adventure in the surrounding community.

So, swim swim swim. And then to bed. Whereupon I lay down and attempted to get comfortable. Too hot, then too cold. Then, the beginnings of a belly rumble. Then, that moment where you first start thinking, "Wait a minute...is this building to vomit?" To a few minutes later, kneeling by the toilet and "HUUAGH." And so began an evening that I recall as involving no less than 15 trips into the bathroom, continuing to expel every ounce of beer and nachos in my system. Luckily, things never did get too watery, so I don't think I was dehydrating myself as is often the case. Also, everything about it felt it was so squarely about the beer and nachos (and, I don't know, the 4,900 ft elevation?) that I didn't really avoid drinking a little water to absolutely sure dehydration would not be an issue the next day, when I would be needed. And that was that. Somehow, everyone else managed to sleep through this all. I finally got to sleep around three or so and felt like a bit of a ghost at the beginning of the next morning, but I was still up before everyone else and pretty much ready to go.

Rushmore

So, how to approach this...I will start by saying I think my love for this country (and, dare I use the loaded term..."patriotism?") would surprise many people. I have actually had conversations with my kids, explaining the wondrous thing that freedom of speech is, and general affluence. And these points are made starkly evident in my reading with Lucy of "I am Malala" (Nobel Peace Prize winner Malala Yusafzai's story of her quest for education for Pakistani girls under the Taliban). A student of history at some level, and having actually studied our nation's presidents a little more in depth in the past couple of months, I really should have been primed for this visit.

But man...I came immediately face-to-face with a perfect storm of a few different pieces that are among my greatest turn-offs: crowds, ugly parking situations, overtly "touristy" places, and chintz. No getting around it: we were headed for one of America's peak tourist attractions at peak season. Just. Not. My. Fucking. Thing. Everything about it made my fibers rebel and I had to muster all my energy to avoid exuding and cynicism. I used the trick of tunnel-vision: tunnel-vision with regard to my kids' experience, actually looking at the damned mountain and reflecting ("that's quite a mountain!"), and making note of some really fascinating books in the gift shop (including one exploring the various American Presidents through Indian eyes that is now on my GoodReads list.

I'd been to Rushmore once before, alone in November of 1996, when there was literally one other person on the grounds that I could see and I pretty much had my run of the place (albeit with a gift shop that was closed for the season). That is an experience that I hold pretty close to my heart. Not sure I needed to go again, but there I was. Sharon and I guided the kids on a nature path around the perimeter on which we saw few other families (the ol "5 Minutes From the Visitors' Center" theory), and we had the chance to talk with a NPS naturalist about buffalo, which was informative. But ultimately, you are there to see IT. And it is pretty damned impressive, when it comes down to it. And how can you leave without that classic family photo?

The King of Men poses in front of what are presumably some other world leaders of some renown.

Look, they made some really good decisions on the four presidents they included on the Mount. Four of my favorites: Washington: Wow. How many military generals in the history of the world would have abdicated a crown? Jefferson: From his role in the drafting of the constitution to the Louisiana purchase, to the design of the "Jeffersonian grid" to his role in the Lewis & Clark expedition, his influence was immense. Teddy Roosevelt: The most quirky of the selections, it's a great one. One of our last great true populist presidents, and the creator of the National Park system. And then Lincoln: About which nothing even need be said, right?

All that said, they do a lot at the monument to remind you of the sacred history of the Black Hills to the Indians and of the repeated aggressions, encroachment, and deceit that wheedled it away piece by piece. I couldn't help but reflect how the building of a monument celebrating The White Father smack-dab in the center of their once sacred lands was a final "FUCK YOU!!!"from my European Ancestors to the people they displaced. Sigh.

Back to Keystone

The plan was to spend a last day in "civilization," doing Rushmore then maybe giving the kids a chance to swim around in the pool again. Well, we'd not counted on the extend to which Keystone truly exemplified the notion of "tourist trap." In its purest form. Zip lines (not a bad locale for this, the Black Hills, I will concede), gift shops, go-karts, etc. etc. And my kids are at a perfect age to be absolutely enamored with the notion of doing any or all of them. Had it been Sharon & me without the kids, we would have headed to the local ranger station and found some public access trails & gone on a hike. Or maybe explored into Custer State Park (which I've also visited in the past, and which is a wildlife bonanza). But...we had our Wild Place ahead of us on this trip, so we gave them Keystone for a day. Cynicism back on the shelf. Steeling myself against the onslaught of The Typical American Families that thronged the attractions. In the end, the kids got to do a mirror maze (which remained one of the highlights of the trip for Rosie to the bitter end) and a zip line (Sharon & I did this, as well), and get a treat; and then retreat for some more swimming at the pool.

This qualifies as a zip line, technically, I guess.

I will merely leave you with this one awesomely stupid find of Lucy's: Possibly the very worst missed-opportunity, inexplicable "poke your head through and take a picture" sign on the planet.

This missed opportunity and overall stupidity needs no explanation.

You may recall a bottled margarita phone camera share. That was the meal this night. Then back to the hotel.

I will mention one other note: Lucy had been diagnosed with ringworm (actually, not a worm - a fungus) on her arm a week or so before our vacation. Contagious, but not overly so - and treatable with over-the-counter Lotrimin. So she was in the midst of treatment. But on this second day in the hotel, Lucy started noticing some additional bumps: "My ringworm is spreading!" A little here, a little there. Neck, back, belly, along with some other red spots. We didn't outwardly show alarm, but we were starting to freak out, Sharon & I. Why were we not warned this was a possibility? And where would it end? And what was the implication of hotel bed sharing and sleeping bags and not changing out of camping clothes every day? erg...

Western States Day One: To Keystone!

First stop: Rushmore MN

Trying not to overspend too terribly, we packed some picnic supplies for our traveling lunches. On day one, we were able to get enough driving in before lunchtime to make it to the sleepy, western MN prairie town of Rushmore. OK, believe it or not - I never even made the Rushmore, MN: Mount Rushmore connection until this moment. In any event, it was time to eat and we wanted to eat in a park. We saw the little hamlet of Rushmore (pop 342) a few miles off I-90 and sought out the town park, which was a lovely little time-out-of-place, complete with metal slides, teeter-totters (the real kind) and a ballfield with an awesome old-fashioned scoring system (where you'd hang numbers on pegs under each inning).

They don't make em like this any more.

Being a city boy, I am always struck by the deafening quiet of the still places of the world, when I get out of my car in the middle of nowhere. Actually, I don't know if it's because the silence of those places and the ambient sounds of my city are that different, or if it's just because I usually experience those quiet moments shortly after a number of hours of interstate travel with its accompanying compact car travel noise. I imagine it's a little of both; but in any event, daytime solitude is a little tough to come by where I come from, and it was remarkably peaceful on that hot summer day in the shade, in the country, with the sonorous rising and falling chirr of cicadas. In moments like that, I risk losing myself and thinking "I could live here. This could be all I need." Which is not true, of course, But it's sure a nice chance of pace.

Into The West

After that, it was back into the car and off through a number of uneventful miles broken only by the heralding of change of states (MN to SD). Each new state was an adventure for the kids, with them only having experienced, in their memory, MN and IA (Lucy traveled to KS when she was one, but whatever).

Also notable: The crossing of the Missouri. The crossing could be notable for anyone at any time, but it was particularly so for me, having recently finished William Least-Heat Moon's River Horse, about the author's journey by water from the Atlantic to the Pacific, in which the Missouri River played a major part. As a geographer by both hobby and partly by trade, the river is also significant to me as one of the primary distinctions between our notions of East and West in this country. One might suggest the true distinction between East vs. West is really a function of rainfall - but if that is the case then it only bolster's the river's case, as it is strikingly evident how amazingly GREEN the land is rolling on down to the eastern shores of that great river and how amazingly BROWN it is rising into The West on the other side. Green to brown. Plants to pasture. Growing to grazing. The trip was one running "teachable moment" for my kids where geography was concerned, but I made particular note of that sort of dry, broken pasture land as we encountered it, so foreign is it we Eastern Minnesotans with our lakes, woods, and river valleys. And, as I've documented in the past, though I share almost nothing, politically, with ranchers, I have a place for pasture in my heart. That damned Kansas thing.

In any event, I should not suggest there is no cropland in the West, of course. Where the cows are not, there is generally wheat. And wheat, and wheat, and hay. Lots of hay. And also - and it dawned on me at the time that (it being mid-to-late August and all) we might be traveling during a singularly perfect time of the year for it, but....SUNFLOWERS! In full bloom!!! Field after field in south central South Dakota.

I'm just wasting space, here. This doesn't capture it at all.

I can't imagine being a sunflower farmer at harvest time and being unhappy. It was one of the more cheery scenes I've ever personally beheld. Many sunflower fields, and on both sides. Good, thing, too - for I was to soon feel a chill that would strike me deep and near to the heart. Out of sunflowers and past some more hay, a mere hour or two later, we passed right under the shadow of....Weathertop. Holy shit!

Amon Sul of the Northern Kingdom of Arnor, where once dwelt one of the Seven Palantir of old.

The Badlands

This section won't actually be all that long. Up until a few days before we left, we'd considered camping night one in the Sage Creek Campground in the Badlands. Partly out of desire to save money, but also to expose my kids to an amazing environment that was home to one of my top five favorite camping experiences of all times (Fall of 1997 with Gibbons). It was Rosie's desire to see Mount Rushmore, both of our kids' interest in having a hotel swimming pool experience and, perhaps, my own interest in the Firehouse Brewpub of Rapid City that resulted in a change of plans. Anyway, we made time for a mere swing-through of the scenic route. I could share lots of pictures of cool rock & soil formations, but better pictures than the ones I took could certainly be found elsewhere on Google. I'll simply share one image of Lucy, considering the vastest open space she has experienced this side of Lake Superior.

"This is worth getting to the hotel 45 minutes late for!"

Firehouse Brewery

The scenic detour through the Bandlands is not short. Upon emerging, we were in a serious race against the setting of the sun that rivaled the harrowing carriage chase in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Ultimately, we reached the Firehouse while the last glowing rays of the sun were touching rooftops and I had a curiously large flight of beers (eight samples of maybe five ounces each). I downed the samples in and around a rather large order of nachos (in a world where a man can expect to get four or five measly mozzarella sticks for $7, curiously gigantic heaps of nachos for no more than $10 is a comforting, consistent, and countervailing force). I then decided it would be a fitting end to the meal to also have a full pint of their IPA selection. Though I very responsibly asked Sharon to take the wheel to wind us southward through the Black Hills to the tiny tourist trap (and home of our night's lodging) of Keystone. But only looking back now do I tally that beer total to see I had drunk somewhere around 56 ounces of beer...