OMD Travelogue | Day 383

Standing on the platform, we look up as four giant heads carved in stone stare blankly back at us. Visiting Mt Rushmore was a last minute decision. Normally I steer clear of National Parks and Monuments as dogs aren’t allowed to do much in them. But considering we were this close and had my Mom for human company it seemed a rather patriotic way to spend the weekend.

And truth be told it really is quite impressive. I’m awe struck just imagining the effort and people it took to transform this rock face into a massive presidential sculpture. I also can’t help but ponder where we draw the line between improvement and destruction, between beautifying and spoiling. I’m not saying I wish this place didn’t exist. We paid our eleven bucks to get in and I’m thoroughly entertained and impressed. But just the same it’s worth remembering that there is no clear cut good and bad, no obvious right and wrong. It’s all just a matter of perspective.

Pictures snapped, we weave through the crowds towards the entrance. Seeing the gift shop we veer off in search of a postcard for G Bub.

Winding towards the back, we find ourselves at the table of surely the most interesting man in the entire place. Mr. Bill Groethe is almost 93 (his wife likes to tell him he’s 92 and a half) and has been photographing Mt Rushmore for eight decades. Lining the table in front of him are famous images he’s taken over the years. American relics that seem like something out of a history book, but were experienced first hand by Bill. What’s more, he proudly explains how he still does all of his own printing in his Rapid City darkroom. Standing next to him for a picture, we shake his hand. Thank him again for the memorable moment and work of art.

Walking back to the truck, we laugh. Chatter about where she’ll hang the print. Smile about the good fortune of it all. Generally act like giddy children in a candy shop.

That was totally worth it. I would’ve come all the way here just to meet Mr. Groethe.

Slowing, we pull under the shade to escape the mid day sun. Gear loaded. I hug Mom. It’s hard to say goodbye, but the time has come to hit the road.

Back into groove, Baylor and I cruise down the abandoned Wyoming highway. Thanks to the internet, we’re aiming for a swath of dispersed-camping-friendly BLM land. Not wanting to ride in the worse heat of the day, we’re heading out rather late to find a camp spot. And seeing as it’s holiday weekend, I’m nervous we won’t be able to find one. But there’s nothing else to do. So we just carry on.

Bumping across yet another cattle guard, I look over at Baylor. Laugh at his nonchalance. Lying in his favorite position – with his head resting on the edge of the sidecar – he watches pasture after pasture rattle past. Neither impressed nor bored, he just sits there taking it all in.

Pulling up to what was generously called a reservoir, I smile. There’s not a soul about. Perfection.

Tent up, I glance over as Baylor wanders back. Dude. What did you do?

He just laughs. Stands awaiting entrance into the tent.

So much for that bath you had yesterday.

We’ve only been here 10 minutes, but he already found a mud hole to tromp through. Reaching into the sidecar I dig for something to wipe him off with, can’t help but giggle about it all. He just seems so pleased with himself.

Lying in the tent, I stare up at the sky. Watch as clouds roll in and wonder if I need to put the rainfly on. Early stars twinkling bright, I think about where we’ve been and where we’re going.

Or as Jack Kerouack said,

There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.

383 days down. Many to come.

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