Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Real men are not in short supply in Montana, how about this Cowboy from Butte?! But leaving friendly Butte, and then Hardin the following day, both layover towns, caused no particular disappointment. They are difficult enough to tolerate in summer’s heat, but really hard to imagine in a wintertime setting; the word desolation comes to mind. They are the kind of places that someone is better off being born into. Love of the home team comes easier that way. But a very large percentage of the worlds coal resources are found under these two locations. The word is, while it’s there; it ain’t easy to bring to the surface.
Hardin’s greatest tourist asset is its close proximity, (about 20 miles), from The Little Bighorn Battlefield, and National Monument. This memorial is also a National cemetery for soldiers (shown on left), from various wars dating back to the Spanish American War. All of The Little Bighorn Memorial exists within the confines of a Crow Indian Reservation.
The sense of history at Little Bighorn (left) is palpable, and since the battle occurred in the relatively recent past history, it remains fresh in the minds of most Americans over 50. To the left, I’m standing in front of the mamorial to nameless US soldiers who fell in the battle. There are other graves of soldiers, native warriors, and civilians who were identified . Custer lost two brothers in the battle.
The reason the battle occurred is fairly simple. The Indians and the US Government signed a treaty in 1868 in which the Government set aside a large section of what was then the eastern Wyoming Territory, as a permanent Indian reservation. A typical teepee of the time is shown at left. In 1874, Gold was discovered in the Black Hills, and thousands of gold mad fortune seekers illegally violated the treaty by entering Indian lands. The Indians defended their turf, the Government ordered them to stop, but they did not. In 1875, a military force was sent out to enforce the order. The Indians were successful in many encounters with the military, and in June of 1876, combined forces of the Lakota, Arapaho, and Cheyenne through the vision of Chief Sitting Bull, (left), and the leadership of Crazy Horse, claimed a decisive victory at Little Bighorn.
A photo of Chief Crazy Horse…many are thought to be fakes.
After the battle, the Indians scattered to several different locations with most of them coming back to the reservation, and surrendering. But after such a success, one wonders why they didn’t keep up the pressure, so to speak. It wasn’t until the early 1990’s that the US Government included Native Americans in the Little Bighorn memorial. (shown left) Another oversight by a government that has and continues to do a poor job for those individuals from whom this country was flat ass stolen.
The road from The Little Bighorn, to Sturgis, South Dakota, Route 212, carves through Indian Reservations, and classic western landscapes that come right out of every cowboy and Indian and pioneer movie you have ever scene. As I passed the settlements, all of which have a depressing similarity
be they in Montana, South Dakota, or Eastport, Maine, I wondered what the dreams of Indian children might be? There are no photos of these settlements because I didn’t have the heart to take them. I’d rather photograph the land where Indians live rather than how they live. But from a motorcyclists perspective the ride on Rte. 212 was spectacular. Every time I thought there was no way I could tolerate more incredible scenery, more appeared to electrify and surprise me.
Arriving in Sturgis last Friday, I was amazed by the amount of vendors that had set up shop in every empty lot and space on either side of Main St. I immediately got with the program and put a new set of Metzler tires on Harvey, and bought a couple of T-Shirts. I then saw these two charmers walking down the street handing out info packs for a local tattoo parlor. These lyrics came to mind, “She’s a very kinky girl, the kind you don’t take home to mother”.
The cross section of alternative lifestyles seen at Sturgis, is, if not a bit contrived, quite entertaining.
Hey, everyone was having a good time dressing up, or simply not giving a shit, like this guy.
Here’s two real degenerate bikers for you. Myself, and Mark Davis, a long time rider, great character, and very talented man with whom I had the pleasure of working in my business in New England. Probably because I’m older now, my over -all reaction to all of this Sturgis maddness was, “I’ve done this before”.
Take a cup of Mardi Gras, add a tablespoon of Provincetown, three ounces of Jazz fest, then throw in a load of motorcycles, and presto! Bike Week in Sturgis. This ain’t no big deal, really, and the town has clamped down on public outrageousness, tut tut, (Ex: Krew de Vieux would definitely draw a citation). It is now driven by hard core revenue generation rather than the pure joy of just behaving badly and enjoying unmitigated debauchery. I prefer “The Gras”.
Took a ride over to Deadwood, which I think has become a “D Ticket” ride at Disneyland, but hey, at least it’s a good one! I think Virginia City , in Montana, is a way better version of what’s going on in Deadwood. Deadwood is touristy as hell.
On Sunday morning I left Rapid City where I’d holed up for a couple of days and headed for Sioux Falls, SD, but not without first seeing Mount Rushmore. I’m delighted to have seen this staggering work of art, and the ride to Rushmore was quite a bit of fun as well. Lot’s of speed and cornering, and eye popping vistas!
Once back in Rapid City and on to Route 90 East, which goes all the way the hell to Boston, I settled in for 350 miles of very windy super highway boredom as I crossed the full width of South Dakota. Jesus Christ, does it ever go on and f-ing on! The only entertaining thing about the ride were the nutballs seen at gas stops, and the Billboards! Reptile Farms, Petrified Fossils, Kiddie Parks with water slides, and signs saying, “Kids, tell Dad it’s only twenty five miles to The Prairie Village!” Then, of course, there were Wall Drug signs galore!
The real beauty of South Dakota is not only found in its western mountains, and Badlands, it’s also found in the simple splendor of its central and eastern Plains, and massive ability to produce grain and livestock, which is no small accomplishment. SD is also noted for its remarkable hunting and fishing, and solid folks.
Though SD is a fine State, I’ve eaten way too much here and put on at least five pounds. Pork for breakfast! Beef for dinner! And yes, the plate in the right photo was dinner last night, and I swear it was almost a foot square! To this point my favorite states have been Wyoming, and Montana. I LOVE Montana, and if I were ten years younger, I’d live there. Colorado places a respectable third. In the East, I think that Maine is the best of the bunch. Vermont used to be grand, but it went to hell when the liberal outsiders moved in and more or less took over during the 80’s and 90’s. New Hampshire…well.
I’m in Sioux City, (not far from the Minnesota border), at J&L Harley Davidson, getting some fresh oil into Harvey the Harley, Jr., and a full inspection for his road-worthiness. Here’s a big shout out to Yogi, and Mike, in service, and Cody, in parts, and Reis for his good work, and to all for their kind and efficient attention to both me, and Harvey. That’s Yogi, my service tech, and kindly gentleman, who very politely suggested that I spoke too fast. True
The screwy things one sees and thinks about while on the road can be interesting. Mercy! But the most disturbing thing are the songs and melodies that you can’t get out of your head while your blasting down the road at 80. The Beatles, “Why Don’t We Do It In The road”, The Monotones, “Who Wrote The Book Of Love”, and the song played by my New Orleans neighborhood ice cream truck, are all stuck in serious repeat mode.
Over the next couple of days I’ll be burning miles while crossing the farmlands of Minnesota, and on to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Ground Zero for Harley-Davidson manufacturing, and its glorious history.
After being on the road, alone, for almost 6,000 miles on a motorcycle, funny things begin to happen. I became friends with a small fly in my motel room in Rapid City, and a sense of total rootlessness has taken over. My home, for the time being, is the road, and its never-ending ability to thrill, deliver mind-broadening experiences, offer up great characters, and reveal new vistas. My mind is being defragged for the next act.
XO
Middie
