In essence, our road trip begins here. The Badlands. A truly lunar place of cracked and eroding jaggedness, in layers of red and ochre, where golden grasslands flow between formations like a great sea. As we winded our way to the Sage Creek campsite, some distance from the visitor center, we encountered miles-large towns of wagging prairie dog tails and excited barks. Bison grazed beside the road.

Maps can be deceiving. Pick a place, whether a city or a campsite, and instantly you develop some picture in your mind of what to expect. So far, we’ve found that this image and reality rarely correspond (except in Iowa and Nebraska, that is, because they were just as flat and corn-filled as we had anticipated). The drive to our campsite was much longer than we thought and was nowhere close to the formations for which the Badlands are known. It was instead deep in the prairie grassland, heavily-worn so also very dusty, primitive and secluded.

Although the site, in some ways, was missing some of our desired features, that it was primitive and secluded suited us perfectly. Tyson took a few photos before we settled down for the night, and Meredith assisted in holding down some photo equipment in the breeze.

The breeze was cool; the night was cold. It was dark by 8 o’clock, and we buried ourselves inside our sleeping bags soon after. Tyson proposed that we sleep out, and it was the first time Meredith had done so since Girl Scout camp in fourth grade. It was wonderful.

The stars appeared fainter in the sky than we expected, only because moon was so brilliantly full. Shadows lingered through the night, and coyote howls woke both us in the middle of it.

The sun hadn’t yet risen when we awoke for the day. Just gradations of blue to orange to yellow touched the horizon.

After breakfast, we packed up the car and began a meandering drive out of the park. A herd of bison here, white-tailed deer and bighorn sheep there, a Swainson’s hawk floating overhead. We pulled over several times for photo shoots and short hikes into the land.

We left that evening for the Black Hills, bypassing the well-advertised Wall Drug.

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Oh, my. What can we say about the Black Hills. The granite spires of the pine-covered mountains were stunning. The relentless billboards for kitsch roadside attractions were not.

We arrived there at dusk and, after a quick bite to eat at a Custer pub, slept out in the moonlight.

One thing we had discovered the night before at the Badlands, is that there is a difference between Tyson’s 600-fill down bag and Meredith’s six-year-old synthetic one. Tyson wakes up cozy, warm and hooded, and Meredith wake’s up with crazy hair and a cold face. Yes, it is no longer the bag it used to be. It will be laid to rest later this week in Missoula after our visit to REI.

Again the bags were tested, and we warmed ourselves with piping hot pancakes and fresh-boiled coffee the next morning. Had it been up to Meredith, we would have eaten cereal, but Tyson brought enthusiasm to the table and we cooked in the cold. It was worth it.

We devoted the day to viewing our nation’s monuments, and Crazy Horse was our first stop. Although the $20 entrance fee seemed steep, we didn’t ask any questions. Certainly, we thought, the money was funding something of great worth.

Or, maybe not.

The view of Crazy Horse’s face from the road is much better than the one you see inside this sad roadside attraction that desperately poses as a serious monument. However, if you expect to see paintings of Native Americans on velvet canvases, you wont be disappointed. With Crazy Horse in our rearview mirror, we turned to our Lonely Planet guidebook for insight into the monument. After all, maybe we had missed something. There it was described by Ian Frasier as “a ruin only in reverse.” Hmmm…

An hour and $20 poorer, we were somewhat disenchanted which led us to a drive-by viewing of Mount Rushmore. Hell no, we weren’t going to spend $6 to park and more for who knows what. Absolutely no standing, stopping, or parking were allowed, but by the grace of God we got a red light in front the park, and Tyson whipped out his camera and snapped a few through the car window. We felt didn’t miss much; even from the road we had a premiere—albeit distant—view of our nations’ fathers. Thank the Japanese for the Canon zoom lens!

We pulled over a few miles past Mount Rushmore to stretch our legs. It was still cold. Really, really cold. Rather than brave the elements for sites of unknown promise, we decided to drive onward to Buffalo, Wyoming.

We detoured to witness Devil’s Tower, driving along the rolling landscape, into the forests, and finally up around the tower itself. It looked like the stump of a giant tree. According to Indian legend, seven sisters walking in the forest encountered a vicious bear.
They sought refuge. As the bear approached, the land on which they stood shot up into the sky. The bear clawed at the rising land, giving shape to the tower we know today. It is known to native cultures as The Bear Den. It seemed to be as good an explanation as any; we stood before it in awe.

We drove into the night to Buffalo.

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We were delighted to find two of our three expected packages waiting for us at Buffalo’s Comfort Inn. The third would arrive Monday. This meant we would have to spend three nights in the small town of Buffalo while we were eager to drive onward into Yellowstone and the Tetons. We frowned with the feeling of slight disappointment.

This would be, however, a fortunate turn of events. Northeastern Wyoming is as rich in natural beauty as it is in charm, and we’ve spent the last few days exploring it.

Les, a hotel clerk and WWII navy man, recommended Saturday breakfast at Pistol Pete’s. We found it epitomized the American West, thoughtfully adorned with elk and deer trophies, plaque-mounted pistols, plastic eagle statues, and a dinosaur head. It was a fried-eggs-brisket-and-toast kind of place with smoking in the front and none in back. The food was delicious. Service was efficient and honest—though friendly might not be the first adjective that comes to mind. Tyson came close to buying a Pistol Pete’s T-shirt, but they didn’t have it in the color he wanted.

We drove to Sheridan that afternoon for the purpose of visiting an outfitter. Socks, gloves, hats, long underwear, and perhaps a new sleeping bag are all needed for the cold weather up north.

Again, maps can be deceiving. Sheridan was not the “po-dunk town” we might have imagined it to be. It is a beautifully historic one with a charming downtown area. No over-the-top tourist boutiques or small-town junk shops here, but an authentic medley of cool shops you’d expect to find in downtown Austin but with a small town flare.

Our visit to Mountain Works outfitter was a notable one. Not only did they have an impressive selection of gear, but the owner was bomb ass—and a woman! What she didn’t have in the store she found for us in newly-arrived boxes. She stayed open half an hour later and even threw in a few pairs of SmartWool socks. She recommended a great place for dinner—Oliver’s—which added to our awesome Sheridan, Wyoming experience.