Until we camped on our honeymoon in the Black Hills in the seventies, my only jaunts away from home had been to 4-H camp and an aunt’s wedding in California.
Leading up to our wedding in late July, the temps had been in the upper nineties with heat indices into triple digits. The first thing that impacted me was the change in temperature, which dropped into the fifties at night. I don’t think I had more than a sweatshirt for a jacket. But it was a good excuse to cuddle.
Bill drove a sixties Lincoln Continental with suicide doors and we pulled a pop-up trailer. The campgrounds looked considerably different than the ones in our twenty-first century. More than once, we drove down close to a mountain creek, only to look at the other campers while we made a circle and drove away. We’re talking hardcore drugs and motorcyclists much different than the affluent and Christian bikers of today. The motorcycle rally was held during the first week of August so we were there and heard the rumble of Harleys quite often. We stayed away from Sturgis on that trip.
We did the normal tourist spots, easily found with a search on any browser. Wall Drug and the Badlands, Dinosaur Park, Chapel in the Hills, Reptile Gardens, a gold mine tour, the 1880 train in Keystone, and I still believe I saw a wolf just inside the edge of a forest as we drove along.
Deadwood was probably the most memorable, and we’ve returned several times since. Back then, we took a tour under the main street and saw things visitors don’t today, including an opium den, and a wax museum. Mount Moriah was set up totally different and overall, the town was much more rugged and true to form than at the present time.
There’s something special in the Black Hills. Scenic drives include Spearfish Canyon and Needles Highway. The air is fresh, the mountain streams clear and sparkling with the sun’s dappled light. The whole area seems set apart and unlike our normal day-to-day routine. Naturally, Mount Rushmore is a sight to behold. We stayed away from the bison in Custer Park, and were delayed by the friendly burrows who wanted a handout.
We still talk about an incident when we camped at Ft. Robinson in northwest Nebraska on our way home. I had the iron skillet ready for whatever I was cooking and all of a sudden a wobbling tumbleweed caught my eye. It shook back and forth, side to side. We couldn’t believe our eyes. What a video that would have made! Then the weed was sucked into the ground an inch at a time. Once below the surface, little paws reached up and filled the hole with dirt. To this day we have no idea what that animal was, but it certainly gave us a story to tell.
God has made some beautiful places, and The Black Hills top my list of favorites.
LoRee
Redeeming Grace with a Sense of Place
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