Forth of July in the Badlands

Setting out early the next day, I continued along Route 29, better able to get a feel for the toll that the Missouri River had been taking on the region. What first appeared as small areas of flooding along the highway quickly turned into massive areas of water completely covering farm fields, side roads and even properties. Telephone poles, now half covered with water, looked like rows of crosses receding into the distance, and homes that once looked out onto endless acres of land were now held hostage by water that surrounded them like packs of hungry wolves.

Connecting to Route 90 in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, I was beginning to feel the most noticeable change in the landscape since my trip started. As I started across the interstate, the prairie opened up before me, and the honesty of the land made me truly feel as though I had stepped back in time. Even on a motorcycle traveling a modern highway at speeds unimaginable over a hundred years ago, I started to feel like a pioneer myself, blazing my own trail across uncharted territory.

I made excellent time, astounded by the view and basking in my new-found sense of pioneer spirit. The light winds blew the tall grass along the sides of the road in undulating patterns that would make a Pixar animator put in a months worth of overtime to try to replicate, and I could feel the land slowly change. Small patches of earth sporadically appeared weathered and bare, and that, along with the constant billboards along the road, reminded me that the Badlands were getting closer.

I pulled into Badlands National Park as the sun was starting to meet the horizon. The air was thick with nervous energy, the clouds creating yet more patterns that I again couldn’t decipher as friend or foe. I drove in as far as I could before the strong hint of a storm forced me to settle for the closest campground I could find. I was reminded by the proprietor that since it was the Forth of July, fireworks would be starting any moment right down the road, and that I could watch them right from my tent site.

A barrel-chested fellow named James on a Harley Davidson, who was tenting several sites away from me,  sauntered over with a slow-drawled Midwest greeting of “What‘s going on here?“, making small talk with me as the nighttime sky behind us lit up with streams of colored lights. We walked to the edge of my site to watch, swatting what felt like an endless stream of mosquitoes attacking our arms.

The fireworks display went on forever, amplifying the awkwardness of two complete strangers standing in the dark together with nothing more to say to each other. Finally, after the third or forth pause in the fireworks that erroneously led us to believe that the show had ended, James abruptly announced that he had had enough of the mosquitoes and, turning quickly on his heel, headed straight to his tent.

I looked to my left, picking up on an amazing display of lightning that was constantly flaring up behind the clouds that stretched across the horizon. Small, silent blips of light endlessly poked through the holes of the cloud layer in what looked like someone tapping out some sort of visual braille in the nighttime sky; a secret form of communication that, although I couldn't decipher it, somehow made perfect sense to me, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand how no one was interested in this light show; far more beautiful and profound than anything a pyrotechnician could concoct.

I watched the lightning until I could think of nothing other than how tired I was. I crawled into my tent, falling asleep with the promise of more amazing sights to come the next morning.