Day #6    Robert Leverett    Sep 06, 2006 07:57 PDT  ENTS, Day #6 of our trip: On day #6, we awoke in our small motel in Hot Springs, SD. In my last installment, I didn’t say much about Hot Springs. I should point out that it is a small resort town in the southeastern Black Hills that has special charms. Hot Springs has a current population of around 4,200, making it my size town. It has a lot of adobe-type architecture very appropriate to the natural surroundings. It also has some dubious attributes. Hot Springs lays claim to being the warmest inhabited spot in South Dakota with an average annual temperature of 64 degrees. If the statistic is true, then that is an amazing place. It is located at 43.43 degrees of latitude, about the same as Concord, New Hampshire. It sits at an altitude of over 3,400 feet. The combination suggests a cooler climate, especially considering that, as a whole, the state of South Dakota averages around 45 degrees. The average temperature for Massachusetts, which is a little south of most of South Dakota, for the period of 1971 to 2000 was 47.9 degrees. So what does an average of 64 degrees compare to elsewhere that might further arouse one’s suspicion? The average temperature for the state of Georgia (however NOAA computes it) based on the period 1971 to 2000 was 63.5 degrees. It boggles the mind to think of Hot Springs average temperature as equal to that of Georgia’s. Yes, I realize that I’m comparing a small area to a very large one, but ……. I remain skeptical about the Hot Springs claim. Maybe the local weatherman was recording the daily temperature while comfortably immersed in a nearby hot spring. He/she probably had a cool drink in one hand, a copy of Weatherwise in the other, and a thermometer in some kind of appropriately shielded container suspended from a nearby fixture. The area in an around Hot Springs does have hot springs, making the name of the town authentic. One spring called Evans Plunge holds a temperature of 87 degrees Fahrenheit. But there is more than the springs to attract interest. Hot Springs has an extraordinary ice age mammoth site that was discovered in 1974. Evidently, the huge animals slide into the hot spring with no way out, perishing. Their bones have been preserved over the millennia.   www.carlwozniak.com/earth/Mammoth.html has excellent pictures of the mammoth skeletal remains. An advertisement for the site reads as follows: “You can go on a guided tour, visit a working paleontology laboratory, watch films, and simply explore till your heart's content at the Mammoth Site of Hot Springs. Learn all about one of the greatest creatures to roam our continent, the mammoth. Discover how scientists work a dig and find out the history behind the Mammoth Site itself; from the mammoths to the early peoples who inhabited this beautiful area. You can even visit the areas where portions of the movie "Hidalgo" were filmed! This is not an experience to be missed!” Beyond springs and mammoths, the town of Hot Springs has done well to establish itself as classy place. In this aspect, it distinguishes itself from the gaudy, inappropriate displays of the town of Custer. Monica was duly impressed with the feel of Hot Springs. She loved the architecture, and very importantly, she was able to get her first coffee latte of our trip, and according to her, it was a good one. You see, for Monica, lattes are a necessity of life, like watermelon is for me. Monica without her morning Latte is nobody to be trifled with. However, our day’s destination prevented us from dallying, so after an unconventional breakfast, we hit the road. As we headed northward, we drove through Wind Cave National Park. The central attractions were scenery and abundant wildlife. We saw bison, pronghorn antelope (not actually an antelope, but a relative of the goat) and prairie dogs. The bison provided us with our best viewing. That great beast of the plains never disappoints. It is the most compelling symbol of the American West. But what of Wind Cave, itself? Uh, well next year. That is when we will actually visit the Cave. I had visited it years before, and while it is geologically interesting, it is not one of the more spectacular caves from the standpoint of large formations. Ed Frank may have something to say about that.    Heading on into adjoining Custer State Park, we saw more bison, perhaps the best that we’ve seen. They were beside the road. And the scenery continued to be topnotch. In that part of the Black Hills, the land is only slightly mountainous and the undulating ridges consist of alternate meadows and forests of ponderosa pine. It is about as pleasant as a countryside can get. However, the views were about to become wildly spectacular. That was my surprise for Monica. We were approaching an especially scenic area of the Black Hills called the Needles. The website http://pic.rhuseth.com/Dakotas/Needles.htm gives some outstanding images of the granite needles. Another excellent collection of needles photos is at http://www.teresco.org/pics/north-20030707-22/18/needles.html. Visitors who remember the Black Hills after years of being away from them often remember the Needles over all else, except perhaps Mount Rushmore – always a dubious memory for me. The only negative to the Needles Highway is that summer traffic and become very annoying. The elevations on the Needles Highway build up to around 6,000 feet. The Highway is narrow and closed in the winter. It is extremely scenic with its abundance of granite spires. As we left the Needles Highway, we passed by an aptly named Lake, Sylvan Lake. But development around the small lake partially compromises its character. It can get very crowded in the summer. So on we went, approaching famous Mount Rushmore, the National Shrine, However, I avoid Mt. Rushmore like the plague. When in the area, I only take friends there who beg me on bended knees. I see the carvings and the surrounding development as the desecration of a great mountain. We would have been better off to have created Rushmore as a Disneyland type place with amusement park rides, people dressed in presidential outfits passing out buttons and acting foolish, cotton candy, and fireworks. The current Rushmore may not be that gaudy, but it seems more like a little American ghetto than a shrine or maybe a zoo without any interesting animals. The multi-deck parking facility with all its concrete is a particular eyesore. It may have had some redeeming features when first created, but not any longer. Fortunately for me, Monica had no interest in Rushmore for similar reasons to mine, so by it we went and eastward on U.S. 16, to an old haunt of mine – Joe Dollar Gulch. That is the location of a small wilderness area and the wilderness part is adjacent to an area managed for timber by the Forest Service, so the greater region is a mix of areas with very old and very young pines, but all of it is esthetic. We parked and walked up an old road, leaving U.S. 16 behind. We then slowly climbed upon a small ridge to a spot where the view to the south was inspiring. I had chosen the spot to do a private ceremony for my deceased wife Jani. I had been waiting two years to do the Black Hills ceremony in her honor. As a brief digression, I met my first wife in October 1966 in South Dakota when I was stationed at Ellsworth Air Force Base. We quickly fell in love and were married the following April. Jani was of Indian descent. She had many friends on the nearby Pine Ridge and Rosebud Indian Reservations who later become friends and acquaintances of mine. In later years, she was regarded as a Native elder, revered by many, a leader. She once spoke at the United Nations. As I stood there preparing to do the ceremony, my life with Jani seemed so long ago and yet so recent. There we were, standing among the ponderosa pines, with the large form of Harney Peak rising in the distance. I was visiting sacred ground with the second love of my life and the two of us were honoring my first. It was a noble act that Monica was doing, but then, I will always believe that Jani’s spirit helped to bring Monica and me together. I have many reasons for believing that. On the way back down the mountain, Monica and I were caught in a sudden downpour with flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. It was a little worrisome, but then I thought to myself, Ah, this is Jani and the spirits of the land having a little fun with us. We quickened our pace and arrived back at our car a little wet, but no worse for the wear. The ceremony and rain had caused me to forget to show Monica a small outcropping of the mineral staurolite that we passed on the way down. Staurolite is the state mineral of Georgia, and when I lived there, I assembled quite a collection of high quality staurolite crystals. I have them in two basic forms: singles and twins. But it story is in the twining. Staurolite crystals twin at either 60 degrees or 90 degrees. The latter form the famous fairy crosses. The legend being that when Christ was crucified, the tears of the fairies fell as crosses. There’s a park in Virginia established for the protection of fairy stones. Well, missing the fairy crosses in Joe Dollar Gulch gives us another reason to return to the Black Hills. Retracing a small distance of our steps and then turning northward, we passed by Pactola Reservoir, a water source for Rapid City and other communities. I mentioned to Monica that on occasion I swam in Pactola when stationed at Ellsworth AFB. As we passed over the dam, I was lost for a brief period in thought. I mentally reassembled a past period of my life – my initial connection to the Black Hills. They were to become one of my spiritual haunts. They were important to other G.I.s as well, but not always in the way I saw them. Pactola brought back that realization for me. Weekend boating visits to Pactola in the summer and Terry Peak Ski Resort in the winter were the outdoor recreational mainstays for most of the G.I.s and their families who frequented the Black Hills. A few fished the other reservoirs in the Black Hills, but Pactola and Terry Peak were the names you heard most. However, a few of us on the base were mountain climbers, hunters, wilderness explorers, or a combination thereof. I fit the latter category. I was Ellsworth AFB’s unofficial wilderness guide and took small groups to some isolated box canyons that got no other visitation. I took people off the beaten path and some liked it and some didn’t. To my mind, we were the elite, the ones who truly loved the Black Hills. We appreciated their natural beauty, their wildness, their colorful western history. I recall that some of us looked down on the conventional recreationalists. Yes, it was snobbery on my part, but I freely indulged in it. We were the keepers of the faith, of the spirit of the Hills. As we approached the towns of Leads and Deadwood, I gave Monica a ten-cent account of the western history associated with Deadwood, especially the murder of Wild Bill Hickock by Jack McCall. Those were wild times in the Hills and they have been dramatized by Hollywood in entertaining, but seldom authentic ways. No surprises there. Hollywood has a way of capitalizing on the West and exploiting it, including the actions of individual actors and actresses. As an example, I imagine many of you remember the movie Dances With Wolves with actor Kevin Costner. But mention the name Kevin Costner to a Lokota warrior type on Pine Ridge Reservation and you’d better be ready to run unless you are lambasting Costner. The following is an excerpt from a Native American website that illuminates the kind of exploitation that rides on the coattails of Hollywood western sagas. “Kevin Costner: big name, big films like Dances With Wolves and JFK -- but apparently, just 'cuz one acts like a hero, fighting the good fight in dream-town celluloid Technicolor dramas, doesn't mean one lives that way in one's own life. The two articles below -- from The Circle, News from a Native American perspective... and the London Independent -- tellingly indicate where such "real life" stories like the Costner brothers perpetuation of the White Man's trashing of the Lakota's sacred Black Hills fit in to the hi-rollin' media cavalcade of "news" and "all things considered" important to the landed aristocracy. Truly ironical that, along with the subsidies given them by the state -- "... To help the Costner brothers build their resort the state of South Dakota voted to raise the betting limit at Deadwood casinos from $5 to $100, and has given them $14 million to develop their Dunbar Resort plan." the very people who helped Kevin get rich by playing the "red parts" in "Dances With Wolves" are now the ones hypocritically disrespected and ignored out of his yen to make more green on their sacred lands with the erection of "The Dunbar." How can white people so consistently live out in their own lives the repeated betrayal and disrespect of the peoples of Turtle Island who knew this place as home LONG before europeans ever arrived? Where is any understanding of The Family Of Man in this broken-record story?” Before leaving the Black Hills, I should mention that one of the key areas of the Black Hills is the Black Hills National Forest. It covers over 1,200,000 acres, and is in my opinion, well managed. I have not always held this view, but the more I see, the more I feel the management is doing the best it can. To my tastes, the Black Hills National Forest is a little short on its wilderness acreage, and its management pitch stretches the value of keeping the forest in a perpetually juvenile state, but the Forest Service cleaning up the logging operations well, and most importantly, it is staying on top of the outbreaks of the Pine Bark Beetle, for which I am grateful. After seeing some very heavy damage in old growth section, I have come to the conclusion that I would rather see a forest in which insect damage is controlled, as is being done in the Black Hills, than look helplessly at a standing dead forest of once beautiful mature trees. Passing from South Dakota and into Wyoming, we reached the historic town of Sundance, made famous in the past as the place where Harry Longabaugh (or Longbaugh), alias the Sundance Kid, once spent time in the Sundance jail. The Wild Bunch, headed by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, were notorious and were very colorful. Two films have been made about them that I know of. Of course Hollywood distorts history, but then so does the passage of time. The public comes to see these characters in a heroic light. Billy the Kid, John Wesley Hardin, Jack Slade, Jesse James, etc. become heroes standing up for the little guy. They take on a Robin Hood persona, which in reality they never even contemplated. From Sundance, we turned north for a rendezvous with Devils Tower, America’s first national monument, created by Teddy Roosevelt on September 24, 1906. The drive from Sundance to Devils Tower is very scenic, and other than thin line of cars on the road, the country is virtually devoid of humans. Although, there are no stark changes on landform, the mountain region transitions from the Black Hills to the Bear Lodge. In the distance one sees a remarkable sight. It looks like a giant stump on a ridge. It is Devil’s Tower. Native Americans refer to Devils Tower by names roughly equivalent to Bear Lodge, Bear’s Tipi, Bear’s Lair, and a few others. The name Bear Lodge is Lakota. The formation of Devils Tower or Bear Lodge occurred during the period of mountain building that dates back to about 65 million years ago when the oldest of the Rockies and Black Hills were being formed. The material of the rock itself is purportedly around 40 million years old. Although of volcanic origin, there are conflicting theories on exactly how the Tower was formed. Its composition is phonolite porphyry. I’m sure that will mean something to Ed and maybe he can give us an explanation of the rocks composition. The Tower is widely considered to be an intrusion into the surrounding sedimentary rocks, perhaps a plug of lava, which cooled while still subsurface. According to the prevailing view, the softer sedimentary rocks eroded from around the harder igneous rock leaving it exposed. The cooling of the magma, while still subsurface, led to the classic 6-sided columns. The displays at the visitor center show three possible models of formation. Take your pick. Bear Lodge, as Monica prefers to call it, is incredibly impressive. Standing at its base, I got slightly dizzy looking upward to its full 865-foot height. The sensation seldom happens to me was surprising. Standing and gazing at the sheer size of the Tower, I could well understand why it was used in the movie Strange Encounters of the Third Kind. The film needed a structure that directed the eyes upward along parallel line. Bead Lodge was the perfect land feature. Monica and I walked the trail around Bear Lodge, frequently gazing upwards and taking an occasional picture. We also enjoyed the old growth ponderosa pines around its base. There had been a recent forest fire. I remember hearing of it in the news. Some of the pines exceed 300 years in age, at least that was my guess by looking at them. I later confirmed the age with a surprised junior ranger at the visitor’s center who took out a cookie from a 310-year old pine. Neither he nor his companion seemed to understand that the ring of pines around the Tower supported many in the 300-year old age range. Their focus was on the surrounding rock, not the trees. At a location near the mid-point of the trail, one can look eastward toward the Belle Fourche River valley that lies about 400 feet below. The bands of red and maroon siltstone, yellow sandstone, and white gypsum lining the valley create a color scheme the envy of any interior designer. Here was nature at both its grandest and its most mysterious. The lowest point in Wyoming lies on the Belle Fourche as it flows into South Dakota – 3,100 feet. To put that elevation into perspective, Mount Davis, the highest point in the entire state of Pennsylvania, is only 13 feet higher than the lowest point in Wyoming. Our walk around the Tower gave me pause to reflect on what such an imposing monument might mean to the people visiting it. Of course, there are many reactions and levels of appreciation as there are visitors, depending on one’s love of nature, interest in geology, and receptivity to natural beauty, or lack thereof. However, something told me at the start of the walk that such folks were in the minority on the day of our visit. I could see it in their eyes, the way they walked. So only after I short distance, I started to listen and observe peoples’ responses to the Tower. I didn’t tell Monica that I was doing this. I didn’t want to intrude on her enjoyment of the great Bear Lodge. So my little Tower-appreciation experiment continued mostly in secret. Many of the athletic-appearing young males seemed intimidated by the sheer size of the Tower, so they proceeded to talk loudly about sports. That is to be expected from young males. Nothing to hear there, so I shifted my attention to their seniors and got something of a surprise. Several of the middle-aged to slightly older men, who I suppose fancied themselves in charge of something, wore slight grins and a judging look. They seemed to be trying to think of something clever to say that in their minds would reduce the giant Tower that stood over them down to their size, render it powerless, make it just an over-sized stone. That would be something they could deal with. Break that sucker up and haul it away as road fill. Make something useful out of it. A couple of comments that I overheard reinforced my belief that they dealt with their feeling of intimidation by envisioning it as crushed into gravel. One couple in their 30s seemed to be engaged in a kind of power walking. As they pressed on, they hardly glanced at the Tower. It was as if their purpose was to show the rest of us that it was really about physical conditioning. The trail network existed for their conditioning convenience. Human activities ruled. They reminded me of my military brethren in Quantico, VA who would run in the median of U.S. Route #1, gulping generously from the cloud of automobile exhaust fumes, but showing the rest of us how whimpy we were. I’ve never forgotten the image of those G.I.s. Did they really think the rest of us admired their athletic prowess? The operative word here is think. Other walkers were lost in a continuous stream of social chatter. Some were reliving business and others were discussing the behavior on neighbors, friends, and relatives. They too scarcely glanced at the hulking form of the Tower. Still others were clearly bored. They usually were part of a group and from the expressions they wore, they clearly preferred to be elsewhere. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. But what of the young, the curious? Weren’t they interested in this incredible monolith? I struck out on that score too. Children accustomed to passing hours in front of a television set or enamored with the constant action of video games were whiners. One boy balked when encouraged by his parents to catch up. Another young boy felt so out of place, so alienated from his surroundings that his sympathetic mother sat down with him on a bench, took out some kind of word puzzle and they went to work finishing it. The lad sounded bright, but felt no curiosity about the Tower, just intimidation. He would not look up at the Tower. My cynical side imagined that if he couldn’t move a joystick and watch as the image in front of him digitally disintegrated by some superhero fighting an alien life form, then there was no purpose to the endeavor, but a feeling of sympathy wafted through me. I did realize that the giant physical object before him had no relevance for him. An image flashed in my mind. I saw him as a frail boy who would have been one of those little souls who would have perished on a long trek westward across the Oregon Trail. Holding that image, I cut him some slack and moved on. Weren’t there any visitors there who were enjoying the Tower on its terms, who sensed its awesome power? Well, a few. Precious few, but a few. I saw a couple of women gazing upward in obvious appreciation of the Tower. Perhaps they were new-agers, imagining the giant rock to be extraterrestrial in origin. If so, while I wouldn’t have shared their beliefs about the origin of the Tower, I definitely could appreciate their appreciating it. So, I said silently: “More power to you and say high to the aliens for me, when they arrive.” Well, after multiple observations about the take of others on the Tower, I was on the verge of becoming a complainer. But, I managed to keep most of my thoughts to myself. Monica was able to drink of the essence of the Tower and didn’t deserve to have her meditative moments soured by criticisms of my fellow humans. However, for me, the end of the walk didn’t lead to any improvements. Back at the visitor’s center, I was clearly bothered by the lack of appreciation or understanding by the public of this place as sacred to the Cheyenne, Lakota, Crow, and Arapahoe. Bear Lodge is their church, their cathedral. They understand its spirit. What do they think of the larger non-Native society that seems so materialistic, so shallow, so self-absorbed? I could imagine many expressing their dismay to one another saying: “Why do these pale-faced tourists even come? What’s the point? They can’t hear the voices on the wind. They can’t feel the great bears breath on them. They are lost. We cannot save them.” But, I suspect the majority of Native Americans who make offerings at the Tower wait for the off-season to come. Then they visit the great Bear Lodge. But thinking back to my past four visits to the Tower, none had been this way. Maybe I could tune it out better then. Maybe I wasn’t as attuned as I think I was. But, I had not remembered as many tuned-out people on any of those earlier visits. Maybe it was our luck of the draw on this particular trip, the way the averages work out. Back in our car and on the road, I desperately needed to dissipate the negative absorption from the fog of human presence that surrounded the base of the Tower along the trail. Monica and I had negotiated our way through the fog and she had emerged unscathed, but I bore wounds. I had no doubt that the Tower was fine. The raw power of the Tower was more than enough to weather the daily invasion of the humans, including periodic concentrations of the unappreciative. But I wasn’t up to the task. I needed space and was finally getting it. The stark scenes of a past forest and grass fire that had raged on both sides of the road captured my attention. A column of smoke rose on the distant horizon and reminded us that Wyoming suffered from extended drought. I focused on the horizon and that smoke. It had a cleansing effect.                  Before long we intercepted Interstate 90 and were on our way westward to Buffalo Wyoming. To get there, we needed to cross the Powder River Basin, an area of vast energy resources that is rapidly being developed by our energy-hungry country. From my earlier recollections of it, I could see that the lonely character of the Powder River Country is changing. Looking at the unmistakable signs of human encroachment in the forms of oil and gas wells, I wondered if the ghosts of Indians, pioneers, and soldiers still retained a presence, albeit a fading one. If so, I feared that within a generation their impressions would be erased to all but the most psychically gifted. An integral part of the Old West would have disappeared forever. I feared that the wild land that the early transients knew, there were never any permanent residents, would pass and be replaced with newcomers, settlers who knew nothing of how it once was, nor cared save one here or there. As we approached Gillette, Wyoming, my worst fears were reinforced. Those hideous housing developments were spreading like a giant cancer, gobbling up space. I noticed the difference from my last visit two years ago. The glorious open spaces are diminishing. Yes, there is still plenty of physical space remaining, but a single modern human with multiple vehicles, power mower, power tools, and a boom box can shatter the tranquility of hundreds of acres. Increasingly, the surrounding hills will be pierced by the sounds of dirt bikes and all terrain vehicles. The Powder River of old will disappear. I had just come through an emotional bashing at Bear Lodge and now I was getting a second round. I needed respite. I turned my thoughts to the distant horizon where I expected to see the outline of distant peaks with patches of remaining snow, but the haze from the wild fires blocked what would have been a beautiful scene, that of the Bighorn Range of the Rockies. The Bighorns, or Big Horns as they are also spelled, rise just west of the small town of Buffalo. When living in South Dakota and driving westward to climb in those fine mountains, I had generously drunk of the scene of distant snowcapped summits rising boldly from the wide expanses of the grasslands. The Rockies. Yes, the mighty Rockies. We had made it, but I regretted that I could not share the captivating scenery with Monica. The persistent haze blotted out much of the outline of jagged granite peaks abruptly rising 8,000 feet from the surrounding plains. That unforgettable scene would have to wait for another day. The view on the following day would be from a much closer vantage point. Monica would be robbed one of the sweeping scene of the truly huge uplift that characterizes the Bighorns as one approaches from either east or west. Ah, but there was next year. As we approached closer to Buffalo, I pointed out the bold summit of Cloud Peak to Monica. At 13,167 feet, Cloud Peak is the highest summit in the Bighorns. It is one of only two summits that exceed 13,000 feet. The other is Blacktooth at 13,005 feet. But there are many summits that exceed 12,000 feet and mountains over 11,000 are common over a long stretch of the Bighorns that run for 200 miles. I will discuss the Bighorns at length on Day #7. We eventually rolled into the pleasant little town of Buffalo, Wyoming, location of the historic Johnson County cattle war, we found a convenient motel on the west side of town and settled in for the evening. The cottonwoods along parts of the main street had an especially western character. As the sun sat and darkness gradually enveloped us, I looked forward to day #7. I especially wanted to share with Monica this most elevated of my spiritual homes, the Bighorn range of the Rockies. Bob Robert T. Leverett Cofounder, Eastern Native Tree Society Re: Day #6   Lee E. Frelich   Sep 06, 2006 10:26 PDT  Bob: The 64 degree average in South Dakota sounds suspicious, and if you call up the climate statistics for Hot Springs SD on the Weather Channel Website, you find that they have a record low of -41, and a January mean of 24. The cold winter temperatures balance out the warm summers for a mean annual temperature of about 47. The 64 degrees must be from a site right over one of the hot springs. Regarding Devil's Tower, I'll bet a lot of those people who appeared not to be paying attention were actually big city people giving the appearance of being cool and uninvolved when they were actually impressed by the experience. Big city people do that a lot. They have perfected the art of looking up at buildings (or trees or mountains) without looking like they are looking, since anyone who conspicuously looks up at skyscrapers in a big city is immediately branded as a small town hick, which is the worst possible label that could befall someone. Lee RE: Day #6   Robert Leverett   Sep 06, 2006 11:00 PDT  Lee,    You could be right with respect to the composition of the visitors to Devils Tower. I hadn't thought of the explantion that you proposed.    With respect to being branded a small town hick, Boy, don't I know how that feels. Been there, done that. On my first visit to New Yorck City, I was perpetually looking up, exclaiming, and then stumbling over my own feet. I couldn't help but catch some of the glimpses sent my way. I'm sure some of those New Yorkers were convinced that they were seeing a real live Jubilation T. Cornpone, not merely a stage character from Al Capp's Li'l Abner. Bob   Home