One Family’s 28-day Wild Odyssey Across the Western U.S.
Chapter 4: Towards the Rocky Mountains. Palmer Gulch, SD to Guernsey, WY.
In the hushed silence of early dawn at the Palmer Gulch campground, where the last nocturnal whispers still lingered, I found myself gently coaxed from the realm of dreams by the crisp morning air and the tender promise of a new day. The world was still swaddled in a twilight glow, suspended in that ethereal moment between the fading stars and the breaking dawn. With an instinctive familiarity, I threaded through the barely-awake morning, charting a course towards the bathhouse. This window of solitude before the girls awoke was sacred, a time to center myself and prepare for the day. Their sleep-softened faces echoed the quiet of dreams, but once those dreams receded, my focus would become distracted and absolute.
Upon my return, I was welcomed by an exhilarating sight. A hundred horses, their magnificent forms silhouetted against the backdrop of Ponderosa pines. They were galloping gracefully in the morning light, mere feet from our tent. Their wild energy seemed to animate the horse corral that had lain silent when we had settled in the previous night. The Cowboys that pushed them along whooped and hollered, ushering the horses down the trail. What an electric way to start a morning.
With this sight imprinted in my mind, I flew open our tent. It was time to awaken the family from their dreams of adventure. Diem, ever the early riser, started preparing our morning meal while I worked on dismantling the campsite. The aroma of warm noodles filled the morning air, one of the girls’ breakfasts of choice, while Diem and I savored a banh mi. Diem stir-fried pork belly and Chinese sausage and prepared pho ga to get an early start on lunch. Jennie, always embracing her Vietnamese roots, added a few of her favorite chicken feet to her meal.
The KOA at Palmer Gulch was an oasis of tranquillity in the early morning light. As dawn broke, the dew on the grass glittered like a myriad of tiny diamonds. Each droplet catches the morning light and scatters it into a prism of color. The cool and invigorating air was steeped in the scent of the surrounding pine forest. An earthy and sublime fragrance that hinted at the natural wonders that lay before us.
The Sunrise, a majestic artist of the morning, painted the sky in an opulent palette of colors. A blush of rose pink kissed the horizon, blending into a soothing lavender that deepened into a vibrant cerulean blue. These ethereal hues swept the panorama, casting an enchanting spell over the undulating landscape. As this dawn chorus of colors danced across the sky, they found a canvas in the imposing, rugged faces of the surrounding mountains. As the hues faded, the deep blue sky dominated the horizon. The mountains, cloaked in their stoic grandeur, punched through the tree tops with granite spires reaching for the heavens.
By 9 AM, some three hours after we began disassembling camp, we said our goodbyes to Palmer Gulch and steered our vehicle onto South Dakota Route 244 before turning south onto US 385/16. It was hard work breaking camp. The realities of deflating and packing four inflatable mattresses, a kitchen, a bathroom, and simply, stuff. Combine the quantity of materials, with the girls arguing over whose job it was to do what, and who wasn’t doing their job, and the experience proved to be less than thrilling. Diem and I ultimately did most of the work. I was exhausted and sweaty before we piled in the van. I couldn’t help but think this camping thing may need revisiting. But now we drive.
The road unfurled before us, leading us to our first attraction of the day – the Crazy Horse Memorial. Billed as the world’s largest mountain carving, this colossal monument, still a work in progress, keeps its eternal watch over the Black Hills. Envisaged as a tribute to the revered Lakota warrior Crazy Horse, the sculpture, once completed, will be a testament to the indomitable spirit and rich history of the Native American people. Currently, only Crazy Horse’s noble face gazes out over the land, yet even this partial unveiling stirs an incredible sense of awe. Like a silent whisper in stone, it speaks of a storied past and a man who once said, “My lands are where my dead lie buried.”
The monument embodies a profound sense of respect and understanding that goes beyond the confines of history and into the realm of the spiritual. However, as we approached, we were met with a line of cars that stretched as far as the eye could see. The popularity of this monument was undeniable, but the thought of spending hours waiting in line made us reconsider. We chose to pull over onto the side of the highway instead, taking a moment to admire the grandeur of the mountain carving from afar, a majestic tribute to the Native American hero, before we resumed our journey southwards to the town of Custer.
General George Armstrong Custer, a figure synonymous with the wild, untamed frontier of the late 19th century, was driven by ambition, duty, and controversy. Born on December 5, 1839, he graduated from West Point in 1861, just in time to cast his lot with the Union during the Civil War. A daring cavalry officer, his role at the Battle of Gettysburg in 1863, and later exploits during the war, made his name known across the country. Yet, his 1874 expedition into the Black Hills of South Dakota, sacred land to the Lakota Sioux, would set in motion a series of events culminating in one of the most infamous battles in American history. It was in this year his expedition discovered gold in the black hills near the sight of Custer. The expedition’s discovery of gold ignited a rush leading to the founding of Custer in 1875, and direct conflict with the Native American tribes who called these lands home.
The name Custer is forever entwined with the Battle of the Little Bighorn on June 25, 1876, a year after the founding of the General’s namesake city. This event marked the end of Custer’s life and a turning point in the Indian Wars. Leading the 7th Cavalry against a coalition of Native American tribes, including the Lakota Sioux and Cheyenne, Custer’s bold tactics met with a formidable and determined resistance. The battle ended in a crushing defeat for the U.S. Army, with Custer and over 200 of his men losing their lives. In the annals of American history, Custer’s Last Stand remains a poignant symbol of a clash of cultures and the tragic demise of a complicated man. Like the haunting beauty of the landscape where he met his fate, his legacy lingers long in the pages of American history.
Today, Custer is a vibrant small town with a strong sense of its past, making it an interesting detour on our road trip. We cruised through the downtown area, admired the charming town, stopped for gas and a few baubles, and continued on. From Custer, we turned east on US 16A for a few miles before turning south on SD 87, setting our sights on Custer State Park. We made a pit stop at Heddy Draw Overlook. By now, everyone was deep in the throes of a mid-morning nap, lulled to sleep by the gentle hum of the van’s engine. No doubt a product of staying up to late the night before and the weight of breaking camp. I decided not to disturb their slumber, and alone I ventured onto the half-mile trail to the overlook.
The trail, cut into the side of a small mountain, wound around to offer breathtaking views of the rolling hills pocked with trees flowing into verdant meadows below. The signs of wildlife were evident, tracks and a significant scat left by what seemed to be a big-horn sheep hinting at the area’s rich biodiversity. The wooden structure at the overlook allowed me to pause and appreciate nature’s expanse. Alone with my thoughts, the vast landscape, and the tranquil silence, I savored the moment – a solitary figure standing at the precipice of the natural world.
Leaving the overlook behind, we drove through Blue Bell, an enchanting little settlement once a Civilian Conservation Corps Camp. With its lodges, general store, campgrounds, and cabins nestled amidst a tranquil wilderness, it felt like stepping back into a simpler time. There was a sense of harmony here, a rhythm that seemed to echo the pulse of the surrounding forest.
In the shadow of the Great Depression, from 1933 to 1942, South Dakota was home to a remarkable endeavor that blended human tenacity with a reverence for nature—known to posterity as the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), a federal work-relief program that would become a defining chapter in America’s history of renewal. It welcomed 31,097 jobless men, offering them work and a fresh start, guided by the newly founded Custer State Park and the National Park Service.
The CCC’s accomplishments in South Dakota were as sprawling as the landscape, reflecting the time’s pressing needs and the region’s timeless beauty. Imagine the rhythm of axes and saws as they carved out 25 miles of roads, or the sweat and toil that went into the construction of the 14-room Blue Bell Lodge. Among the Ponderosa pines, were 22,000 young men, 1,700 veterans, 4,554 American Indians, and 2,834 supervisors, working together to create something lasting. They fought forest fires, erected stone lookouts, and built bridges that connected not just lands but people.
In Rapid City, they developed parks and fish hatcheries; in Galena, they transformed a log building into a park office. And throughout the park’s southern half, they waged war on bark beetles, safeguarding the timber for future generations. They were building the state’s future, brick by brick, road by road. In their hands, the materials of nature were transformed into a living testament to human resilience and creativity—a monument to an era that sought healing and found it in the very soil of the land.
As we descended from the Ponderosa pines into open prairies, we experienced a sudden but welcome interruption – our first sighting of wild Bison. I pulled the van over, and as the engine’s rumble gave way to the soft rustling of the wind through the prairie grasses, I woke everyone up. There was a flurry of excitement as they caught sight of the majestic beasts, their massive forms carelessly lumbering over the rolling grasslands that stretched before us.
From Blue Bell, we crossed over into the boundaries of Wind Cave National Park, one of America’s oldest National Parks. Established in 1903 by President Theodore Roosevelt, the park is best known for its intricate cave systems, distinctive box work formations, and lush prairies that house abundant wildlife, including Bison, Elk, and Prairie Dogs. Wind Cave was the first cave designated as a national park anywhere in the world, underscoring the Black Hills’ unique geological and biological significance.
Located along the western edge of the state, the lush Black Hills, or Paha Sapa, cover an area of approximately 5,000 square miles. Though actually a collection of mountains covered in deep evergreens, their Lakota name comes from their black appearance when viewed from afar. Striking Black Hills, beset among the emerald plains. Long before George Armstrong Custer’s 1874 expedition unearthed gold in French Creek, the area’s natural wonders inspired reverence and spiritual awakening in Native American tribes. To the Lakota people, Wind Cave hidden deep in the Black Hills, is the sacred site in their oral creation story; it is here that the Pte Oyate, the people of the Buffalo Nation, first emerged from inside Mother Earth and became Ikce Wicasa, those who walk the earth.
I attempted to book tickets months ago, but the newer reservation systems across the parks had been proving less than user-friendly. Today’s reservations had sold out moments after tickets went on sale back at the first of the year. A batch was released every morning for that day on a first-come basis, so we still hoped to explore the famed underground labyrinth of Wind Cave. Alas, despite my best efforts at the Visitor’s Center, we were out of luck. The tours for the day were sold out, save for a few slots late in the afternoon, which we, unfortunately, had to decline. With the timeline of our road trip in mind and the drive to Southern Wyoming looming ahead, we had little choice but to forgo the underground wonder this time.
Despite this minor setback, the above-ground beauty of Wind Cave National Park was captivating in its own right. The rolling prairie speckled with occasional trees under the vast cerulean sky was enchanting. Bison sightings were abundant here, and each one felt as thrilling as the last.
Leaving the Visitor’s Center behind, we continued west on US385, passing through Pringle, before turning south on SD89. We then swung southwest on US18 north of Edgemont.
Leaving South Dakota
South Dakota’s history, much like its landscape, is layered and complex, filled with stories that might raise an eyebrow or two. Before it became a state filled with larger-than-life sculptures and a corn palace – yes, a palace made of corn – it was home to indigenous tribes such as the Dakota Sioux, who knew a thing or two about living harmoniously with the land.
Enter the Europeans, led by French fur trappers who weren’t satisfied with just naming their fries. They explored the area in the early 18th century, exchanging pleasantries, beaver pelts, and, likely, some bewildered glances with the locals.
Lewis and Clark, the famous traveling duo, traversed the region in 1804. They explored the Missouri River, making maps, taking notes, and presumably saying, “Look at that!” quite often. Their expedition was the precursor to the great movement westward that would bring settlers, farmers, and those searching for gold to South Dakota’s promising lands.
With the Black Hills Gold Rush of 1874, people came from all corners of the country, with dreams of wealth, and perhaps a new pair of shoes, glittering in their eyes. This influx wasn’t without controversy, as the Black Hills were sacred to the Sioux. But gold has a way of making legal agreements appear more like suggestions, and soon the region was swarming with miners, settlers, and opportunistic businessmen.
Deadwood became the poster child for Wild West towns, filled with saloons, gambling dens, and characters with names like Potato Creek Johnny. Legends like Wild Bill Hickok met their end here, creating tales still whispered over campfires, often with a soundtrack of spaghetti westerns playing in the background.
Statehood came to South Dakota in 1889, accompanied by railroads, agriculture, and an enthusiasm for carving famous faces into mountains. Mount Rushmore, a feat of engineering and perhaps a touch of madness, symbolized the state and the country’s enduring ambition.
Through droughts, the Great Depression, and changing times, South Dakota persevered, growing fields of corn and soybeans, and nurturing a rich cultural heritage. The state found its stride, with a blend of Native American, European, and uniquely Dakotan traditions.
In South Dakota, history isn’t just in the museums; it’s in the very soil, the wind that sweeps across the plains, and the faces of the people who call it home. It’s a place where the past meets the present in a handshake, firm and warm, with a knowing smile. Whether you’re exploring the sacred lands of the Sioux, gazing at the determined faces of Mount Rushmore, or enjoying a slice of kuchen, the state’s official dessert, you’re partaking in a rich tapestry of history that is as inviting as it is intriguing. We spent 3 days in South Dakota, and it would take far more to explore it all.
However, our time in South Dakota had ended as we crossed into Wyoming just after lunch to little fanfare, the open prairie giving way to arresting buttes and spires dotting the lush green expanses. The transition was a powerful reminder of the ever-changing landscapes that lay ahead.
Our journey took us through Lusk and onto US20, which crossed the open plains of Wyoming toward WY270. The old state highway, degraded from a decade of harsh winters, made a rhythmic frump, frump, frump sound as we rolled along the lonely road. Heading south by late afternoon, we made our way toward the quaint town of Guernsey, our resting spot for the night. The town of Guernsey, Wyoming, lies on the western fringe, where the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains spills into the verdant expanse of the Great Plains.
It’s not a bustling metropolis, far from it, but its allure lies not in towering skyscrapers or pulsating nightlife, but in its rich tapestry of history woven into every street, every weather-beaten edifice. Guernsey is a relic of a bygone era, a testament to the rugged spirit of the American frontier. Its origins date back to the late 19th century when the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad began operations. Its growth was also significantly influenced by the construction of the Guernsey Dam in the 1920s.
We arrived around 4 PM and were warmly greeted by Gordon, the friendly owner of the Bunkhouse Motel—a retiree and possibly the most informative and kind motel manager I have ever encountered. Gordon graciously provided us with maps, flyers, and insights into the local historical places and sights. We checked in, settled into our rooms, and I spent some time sorting through the information Gordon had given us. Even as our long day of travel ended, the promise of new adventures in this small western town ignited a spark of excitement. It was a reminder that no matter how much ground we covered, there was always more to explore.
After settling in, Diem and I busied ourselves with setting up our mobile kitchen. Tonight’s dinner would be a fusion of Vietnamese and Korean cuisine – stir-fried noodles paired with mouthwatering Bulgogi short ribs. As the tantalizing aroma permeated the air, it drew Gordon over. He commented on the enticing smell and stayed for a chat, eventually drawing a small crowd of fellow travelers curious about the source of such a delectable scent, and our strangely outfitted van. Gordon not only regaled us with local tales but also suggested that we visit a nearby state park renowned for its breathtaking sunset views.
After considering Gordon’s recommendation, we decided to explore the area after dinner. His instructions led us to the entrance of Guernsey State Park, an open gate that seemingly invited us into the wonders within without requiring any noticeable fee. Following Gordon’s directions, just beyond the gate, we turned onto Skyline Drive inside the park. This jewel of Wyoming was one of many man-made reservoirs on the North Platte River. Another great project of the Civilian Conservation Corps. This park, though silent in its splendor, narrates tales of a time when America was grappling with the Great Depression and how it harnessed the spirit of its people to rise above it.
As we wound our way up the roads within the park, the vistas it offered took us by surprise. The panorama of the surrounding plains and reservoir was spectacular, showcasing the immense beauty of the landscape. At the end of the drive, we came upon a unique structure referred to by locals as “the castle.” This beautifully crafted stone and wood edifice was another contribution of the CCC during the 1930s. The castle, one of the most intricate picnic shelters found in any park, was accompanied by an equally impressive latrine structure. Both were built during the same period by the CCC.
We lingered at the castle, soaking in the views and the golden warmth of the evening sun. The beauty of the landscape, with its green plains and winding river bathed in the hues of the setting sun, was deeply moving. The serene surroundings, and the tranquil sounds of nature, allowed us to reflect on the day’s journey, and the numerous surprises and delights it had offered. It was here we each realized the magnitude of our undertaking. We were in the midst of our age of discovery.
As we made our way back to the Bunkhouse under a sky growing darker with each passing minute, the anticipation of the next day’s adventures brought a sense of excitement. It was as if the sun had not just set on another day, but also lit up the prospects of tomorrow. Always mindful of being present, the mind constantly calculating tomorrow. All painting a vibrant image of yesterday, today, and the tales still left to be told on our boundless journey beneath an endless sky.
To explore some of the Parks and Monuments we’ve explored and more, click here for the National Park Services.
