Profile Shot of our First President, Mount Rushmore
I come from a traveling family. We went all sorts of places when I was a kid – from Plymouth Plantation in the Boston area to the monuments around Washington, D.C.; from Hemingway’s house at Key West to my cousin’s big skate meet in Dallas; from my grandmother’s house in the Adirondacks to my step-sisters’ father’s place in Tennessee to my aunt’s camper in Michigan. One year, we watched a baseball game in Philadelphia; the next, we climbed the observation tower in the Great Smokey Mountains. We did Six Flags (in Georgia and in Texas), Disney World, Sea World, and Bush Gardens. Heck, we even spent a week, hanging out on the beach, eating oysters and letting dirty old men teach us to play pool.
And yet, I had never been to Mount Rushmore.
As a part of our trek across America, The Coach and I decided that we needed to see Mount Rushmore. I mean, it *is* the pinnacle of Americana: humans defacing nature in the effort to make a monument to patriotism. Okay, maybe that’s a bit cynical, but we humans have a way of altering nature and it’s not always for the best. {Dr. Disenchanted steps down from her soapbox.}
I’m not sure what else to say about Mount Rushmore, other than “Well, I checked that off my life list.” I mean, we got up early, drove through Keystone, and paid our $10 to park (so much for that “free” monument). We ate breakfast in the restaurant, looking out at the monument. We walked down the Avenue of Flags, avoiding the crowds of tourists, and looked at the monument. We took the required pictures. We went down to the museum, watched the two videos, and poked around the exhibits. We looked at the monument some more.
And then we saw several parents having “Come to Jesus” talks with their children.
Mount Rushmore must be the turning point on most of the long road trips through the Black Hills. The kids have been cooped up in cars so long that they are antsy. Parents are sick of listening to whining, to complaints, and to fights. After all, my parents could only stand three or four rounds of “Stop touching me,” “Are we there yet?” and “I need to pee!” before the pick-a-switch threats started. I get it – everyone is tired, hot, and thirsty. They are sick of the crowds. And the monument is just so anti-climatic. [1]
If only we had been there a couple of days later – then we could have seen the Greenpeace protesters get arrested.
Since the odds of seeing Cary Grant hanging off the side of the mountain were zero, we decided to move onto the Crazy Horse Memorial where we dropped another $20. Yep, this is another mountain being carved to represent a hero, but hey, at least it’s not a dead white guy. {Oops, there’s that cynical attitude again!} Again, we took the requisite pictures, but we didn’t make a quick getaway because this site had tons of stuff to do. We watched the video. We looked at the Indian art. We ate lunch in the restaurant (Indian tacos, yum!). We even saw a film crew interviewing Ruth Ziolkowski, the wife of the (now deceased) sculptor. We roamed through their cabin (where she still lives) and peeked into the studio. We laughed at the lazy cat curled up in the sunlight by the door (left). We even dropped our spare change in a jar so that we could take home a chunk of rock, left over from blasting away the mountainside. 
We still had time to kill before our dinner reservations, so we decided to drive down to Custer State Park. We wanted to see the buffalo roam. We wanted to witness the deer and the antelope playing. We wanted the full Black Hills experience. What we ended up seeing were two antelope, three deer, and a yappy little Chihuahua. The closest we came to a buffalo was the sign warning us that buffalo are dangerous. We were a little disappointed, but vowed to come back and try again the next day.
As for the Chihuahua, we tried our best to catch the little bugger, but he wanted nothing to do with us or with our Nilla wafers. When we left, a state employee was trying to coax the dog – who was apparently an escapee from the campground – out from behind a building. I sure hope he was successful, otherwise that dog was going to be a mighty tasty snack for some wild critter.
Man is in the Forest! Run Bambi Run!
One of these little guys sprawled in front of our car like Bambi on ice.
Custer State Park, South Dakota
As you can probably tell, The Coach and I were committed to doing the whole tourist thing – so you won’t be surprised to find out that we decided to spend our evening at the Circle B Chuckwagon Cowboy Music Show. Don’t laugh! It was actually pretty darned fun! I have to admit, though, when I saw the driveway to the ranch, I was a little alarmed. It was all rutty and dirty and rocky – I wasn’t sure if poor ol’ Sally would make it up to the ranch unscathed (she did).
Since we showed up a little early, we had time to drink a Sioux City Sarsaparilla (which, according to the bottle, is actually distributed out of New York) and poke around the art shop. I wanted to buy a buffalo skull to hang in my office, but my inner tightwad wouldn’t let me drop the $60+ listed on the price tag. Instead, we took pictures of the ponies, donkeys, and goats, then hammed it up in the little jail.
Around this time, my stomach started growling, The Coach’s feet started aching, and the crowds started to line up near the chow hall. It was time for the big gun fight. The sheriff called all the little kids to come stand with him and told them the tale of the Biscuit Bandit. Pretty soon, he had them running down the dirt path, whooping and hollering the whole way. The Bandit appeared. The kids screeched to a halt, reversed direction, and went screaming back to the sheriff. Now, I don’t want to ruin the ending for you. Let’s just say that the guy in the black hat ended up rolling around on the ground. The Coach and I were laughing the whole time.
Sometimes, we act like we’re 12 year old. What can I say?
We claimed our seats for dinner, surrounded by more little kids – all giggling and fidgeting – and received our instructions on how to go through the chow line. Potatoes would be slammed on our tin plates (so hold on with both hands), followed by beans and meat (we opted for the buffalo). A little apple sauce would be added – and if we were smart, we’d hold the plates on that end, unless we had asbestos hands. Biscuits and ginger cake would be loaded on top.
The food was better than it had a right to be.
After we ate, the family that runs the place treated us to a cowboy music show. Well, first, we had to honor our veterans and sing a patriotic song, then we were treated to a cowboy music show. Actually, it was really quite good. It turns out that the Biscuit Bandit is also a pretty accomplished musician – who makes guitars in the off-season. Now, that’s impressive.
It was rowdy and joyous … and unlike Mount Rushmore, I’d pay to do it again.
Next: We Find Buffalo!
Note
- For the record, The Coach and I didn’t think any of the kids were that bad, especially after experiencing that little brat at Chimney Rock.
