......on our first post-retirement adventure.
Spearfish, South Dakota. Nestled
bucolically on the edge of the Black Hills, within bowling distance
of villages with picturesque names like 'Deadwood' and 'Lead',
the town of Spearfish basks and vibrates with the ambiance of
wooded hills, burbling streams, annual conclaves of Chevy Impala
owners (in either envy or imitation of the more riotous congregation
down the road in Sturgis), and target of the most violent lightning
and thunderstorms on record, one of which broke overhead just
as we pulled into the Motel 6.
Now, what does one do, in an unfamiliar locality, sans electricity,
air conditioning, lights, television, phones, room service, and
Robert Stack? Well, odd and wonderful things begin to happen,
given the ingenuity of the American soul, which craves diversion,
the hallmark of our national character, and which displayed itself
in abundance on this unexpectedly enigmatic night.
Unforeseen, a paper airplane competition spontaneously broke
out. From balconies, windows, doorways, pick-up truck beds, U-Hauls,
and parking spaces, the young, old, male, female, English-speaking
or not, fabricated aerodynamic objects out of notebook paper,
old road maps, hotel stationary, styrofoam cups, cardboard containers
of every dimension, and commenced with an impromptu contest including
'longest flight', 'weirdest flight', 'ugliest plane', 'soggiest
plane', etc. Eventually the electricity came back on, but no
one noticed.
Bismarck, North Dakota. This
town is the last functioning outpost before embarking for the
Arctic Circle, where aurora boreali hover overhead even at high
noon. The main form of recreation appears to be floating down
the Missouri River on a rubber raft, dodging sandbars, bridge
abutments, and ravenous bands of mosquitoes known to randomly
slash tires and carry off unguarded domestic livestock.
But the town is not without its charms. For example, the haute
cuisine of choice can be found at establishments such as 'Caspar's
East 40' and 'River Meat'. Tenth-generation inhabitants still
speak with Norwegian accents and are proudly descended from glaciers.
The State Tree is sauerkraut. A big tourist attraction is The
Mute Singing Bridge. No, I have no idea, either. Crime rears
its inevitable and ugly head when, on occasion, young people are
heard to utter entire sentences without the requisite 'Sir', 'Ma'am',
'Please', and 'Thank-you'. I am tempted to mainline anti-freeze
and move there.
Butte, Montana. It is not easy
to satirize nor make jokes about this town, even if we were permitted
to lose the 'e'. At this moment in time Butte is undergoing a
severe economic depression due to shut down of mining, and the
accompanying unemployment. People are leaving for employment
elsewhere, and other than a thriving border along the interstate,
lonely emptiness reigns.
So, why mention it? Because the visual environment, resplendent
with Old West architecture and steeped in a history more compelling
than anything regaled around the campfire about Molly Brown or
Wild Bill could ever be, grabs the tourist by the throat and won't
let go. Sweeping, graceful porches, mullioned windows, leaded
glass and carved oaken doorways the size of locomotive portals,
undulating slate rooftops, precision brick and mortar supporting
the most massive and elegant mansions perched nobly on knolls
velvety with grass and fringed with fragrant robust vines, in
every direction, striking the eye without cease. It was another
world back when these ghostly abodes were lively, and it is to
be hoped that somehow they will begin again, because the whole
town is beautiful, even when, as now, plywood has been nailed
over almost every surface.
Grand Coulee Dam, Washington.
This dam is a huge, asymmetrical, and unwieldy concrete structure,
which is probably why it has been permanently anchored into the
ground. One cannot view it without whispering an involuntary
'whoa' at this heraldic assembly of productive engineering and
workmanship. This marvel was the brainchild of FDR, whose bronze
statue, at the entrance, looks exactly like Amelia Earhart. I
must presume that some unknown sculptor is punching out these
generic monuments to public figures by the cubic hectare.
Anyway, getting there is half the jolt. Equally impressive is
the dam's location; in the middle of wheat. Wheat. Miles of
wheat, horizon to horizon, forever it seems, oceans of wheat,
enough wheat to force a vegetarian into swilling quarts of warm,
mammalian blood before going into gluten overload. Who knew you
could coat the earth with wheat? 'Amber waves of grain' my ass.
There's a cereal tsunami out there.
Boise, Idaho. Here we encountered
what is affectionately known as 'wildlife', the kind that is lovingly
and sentimentally offered up in nature magazines and Wal-Mart
throw pillows. Please be advised that nature possesses endless
racks of sharp teeth, and is not afraid of putting them to work.
In Boise, doggie needed to pee (you can tell, because they tend
to dance around on two feet and throw themselves against the windshield,
eyes desperate and bulging). Well, there is an unwritten Tourist
Law that says our canine companions must refrain from taking a
dump on manicured, decorative, and well-maintained lawn thoroughfares.
Easy fix, as we pulled over into a weed-filled and trash-choked
vacant lot next to a strip-mall Domino's, doggie gratefully flying
bodily out the door for ten yards before hitting the ground.
Right in front of a badger. Now, I'm no authority on nature,
but have heard that badgers are second only to wolverines when
it comes to ferocity and fearlessness, and will happily chew their
way up to your femurs before drawing breath. Valiant discretion
was called for (doggie was blissfully distracted with reaming
her gut, and I found no sufficient weaponry more threatening than
a discarded McFlurry). It seemed that the badger had been engaged
in seriously sucking the marrow from a Strawberry Big Gulp, and
we had interrupted, resulting in said badger hissing like a siezed-up
turbine and hunkering down, ready to spring, on shoulders that
Jesse Ventura would envy. (Surprisingly, badgers are very flat-bodied,
as if pre-roadkilled.)
With visions of Filet of Stupid Tourist Ankles on the menu, the
only thing I could do was, well, hiss back. Yeah, real smart.
I damned near blew out my incisors, hissing at the thing. Anyway,
our nemesis turned and slowly ambled away, but it was giggling
and muttering mocking and unflattering observations as it did
so. And I've no doubt they were deserved, every one.
Ah and yes. We did indeed have a wonderful time.