US 15: Ultimate Sculpture in the Black Hills

At a little after 4.30am I wandered outside with coffee in hand. It was pleasantly cool and dry, but the sheen on the car park surface betrayed overnight rain. The coffee was Columbian, black, hot and surprisingly strong; I like strong coffee. Beaded moisture on the tanks and fenders of dozens of motorcycles glinted in the glare from car park floodlights. I walked the rows of machines, mostly Harleys, admiring each well-tended ride while I savoured the coffee’s sharp bitterness. Later, we would be riding out to what I considered to be the ultimate sculpture, in the Black Hills.

Motorcycles have lives too

Motorcycles, particularly Harleys, have a life, a story, of their own. Those of us who ride, share that story for a while. Some of us even collect those storied motorcycles. But eventually, they move on for any one of a dozen reasons to become part of someone else’s story.

My first Harley, for example, came to me as a bit of a basket case. A local motorcycle shop was selling this bike on consignment for a bloke stationed in Darwin with the Royal Australian Air Force. A black, 1995 XLH 1200 Sportster, it had been sitting forlornly in the corner of the showroom for weeks when I spotted it. Difficult to start, it idled roughly and sometimes not at all; and when you snapped open the throttle the engine tended to bog down – a generally unhappy scoot.

I handed over the money and trailered the bike home because I had no idea what the issue might be. Then, I set about working methodically through the bike’s systems: fuel; electrics; ignition; and engine mechanics. It took me the best part of a week, but, eventually, I found the problem. 

Getting things sorted

The previous owner had clearly decided to ‘improve’ throttle response by tinkering with the carburettor. He’d cut a coil off the slide spring; and, bored out the air return hole in the slide itself. The net result of this butchering was that when you snapped the throttle open, the slide would rise too quickly and too far, and the engine would flood. Conversely, when you throttled back, the slide would fall too far and starve the motor. I replaced the slide and spring and then spent painstaking hours re-jetting. Almost miraculously, the motorcycle’s personality returned: it started easily; idled smoothly – well, as smoothly as any Harley idles; accelerated smoothly; and decelerated without firing shotgun blasts out of the exhaust.

Whenever I come across something like this, I’m gob-smacked that there are people who think they can use a pair of pliers and a hand held drill to improve on hundreds of millions of dollars worth of R & D. I guess it really is true that to every complex problems in life, and machinery, there is a simple solution – and that solution is invariably wrong.

A Sporty story

My granddaughter gave me a personalised plate that read PA; and I rode the Sportster to work every day. It operated flawlessly. A  couple of years later, I used this motorcycle to teach a class in Auto Mechanical Repair; we rebuilt the machine from the frame up. 

During the Christmas holiday break that year, I travelled around half of Australia with it; from Darwin to Three Ways, Mt Isa, Townsville, Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide, Alice Springs and back to Darwin.

Then, one day, Mel contacted me to ask about buying a Harley. He was going through a separation and divorce at the time; so I put the Sportster on a trailer and delivered it to him. He still has it. But he has gone on to buy two other Harley Davidsons; a 100th Anniversary Lowrider and Road King. 

A reason to get up in the morning

After losing our daughter in a plane crash, this motorcycle gave me a reason to get up in the morning . Then it went on to change Mel’s life. Although he doesn’t ride it much these days, I think he likes to keep it in his garage as a reminder of his re-initiation into the biker fraternity.

This is what I’m talking about when I refer to the lives and stories of motorcycles. Ask any biker, particularly any Harley owner, and they can probably tell you about their bike’s origin; its history; personality; upgrades and modifications; its riding characteristics; and where the bike has travelled. Motorcycles, particularly Harleys, have a way of working themselves into and becoming an integral part of your life. But, enough of all that.

Early in the morning

Now, if you have been following this road trip, you will know that I have an irresistible urge to get out of bed well before dawn. I like this time of the day because it gives me the chance to have a quiet, undisturbed coffee and cigarette before I move gently into the day. You will also know that I tend to meet interesting people doing the same thing at this time of the day. And, you may be tempted to think that all the people I meet like this are universally personable, thoughtful and interesting. 

Not so. Sometimes you meet the resident village idiot or itinerant drunk on their way home from a desperate night out. And, on this day, that’s exactly what happened. My usual experience, when this happens is that you have a pleasant though largely incoherent conversation. Sometimes, though, you’ll encounter a moody or irascible inebriant or village idiot; and sometimes the inebriant and village idiot are one and the same person. As things turned out, this was one of those days.

Angry with the world

I watched him lurch unsteadily across the car park towards the hotel entrance. Then, at the last moment, something changed his mind. He staggered over to the designated smoker’s area where I was sitting; and with a groan, he lowered himself into the chair furthest from me. He belched loudly, farted and then proceeded to work with the makings of a roll-your-own cigarette. His hands shook so badly that the cigarette making process became protracted and difficult to watch. Eventually, once he’d got the job done, he started a search through his pockets. This seemed to go on for an eternity and only paused when I said.

‘You looking for a light, Mate?

He looked up with an expression that was a mix of annoyance and contempt. Clearly, he didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone and not me in particular. But, after staring for a while, he nodded. Clearly, his need for nicotine was greater than his desire to avoid contact.

I got up, retrieved the lighter from my pocket, flicked it alight, and held the flame to the end of his shaking cigarette. 

He nodded.

‘Big night?’ I offered.

He nodded again. He was clearly not interested in conversation.

The silence of early morning returned; and I was OK with that. I turned my attention to the online article I had been reading about Mt Rushmore.

A beaner . . . but not quite

‘Hey! Where you from?’ he asked, and I looked up.

‘Australia.’ I said.

‘Ah . . . OK, thought you was a Beaner.’ 

‘A beaner? What’s a Beaner?’ I asked.

‘A Greaseball, Tacohead, Wetback . . . you know, Mexican.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘No, I’m Australian.’

And, just like that, it seemed OK to have a conversation . . . I wasn’t a beaner. Because I’m olive complected, tanning is something that comes easily and naturally. And, as you know, we’d been on the road – helmet free – for close on a fortnight. So, I was pretty dark. I guess that’s why my drunk smoking companion thought I was a Beaner.

I considered asking him why he had a problem with Beaners . . . for about a tenth of a nanosecond. But, I just knew that it would have been a pointless exercise in futility. In the end, I’m not sure that our interaction could qualify as a conversation. But, once free of that unspoken interdiction that prevented him talking to Beaners, he belched and hiccoughed his way through a detailed manifesto of reasons for loathing ‘ethnics’. 

The problem with ethnics

Beaners, he said, were mostly criminal, drug dealing illegals taking jobs from ‘hard working Americans’; he claimed that you couldn’t trust Hispanics; Niggers [his term not mine] were lazy, uneducated, violent and he deeply resented ‘his tax dollar’ being used to support them; Indians [and I presume he was referring to First Nations people] were primitive, dirty and unreliable. What he found ultimately offensive though was the uppity ‘nigger’ in the Whitehouse. ‘Obummer’, he asserted, was responsible for everything from the influx of illegals, through the collapse of the Stock Market to the Global Financial Crisis.

I had to remind myself, several times, that I was a guest in the country. Because what I really wanted to do was stand him in the corner and slap him around a bit. And not because he had caused any direct offence to me, but because I find it difficult to tolerate entitlement, narrow-minded bigotry, and arrogant, determined ignorance. What I did instead was fix him with an unwavering, disdainful stare. It was, of course, totally wasted on him. Perhaps I was hoping that he would take offence and hurl some abuse at me; something I could use as a pretext for aggression – but, he didn’t.

A chance to slip away

Eventually, having drained his spleen, he subsided into silence. His head tilted forward until his bearded chin reached what was left of his chest; and then he started to snore. And that was my queue; my golden opportunity to get the hell out of there. I stubbed out the last of my cigarette, slipped quietly out of my chair and headed towards the Hotel entrance. It was time Mel got up and about anyway. We had breakfast to source and things to do. 

We had ourselves sorted by mid-morning; coffee, showers, breakfast and a few other unmentionable but necessary things. The day was still cool and the vast blue of the sky only occasionally interrupted by sporadic cumulus clouds. I knew that there was every chance that these would morph into thunderstorms over the mountains later in the day.

We didn’t bother with the freeway but instead headed south on Lacrosse, turned right on North Anamosa and then left on West Boulevard. We continued out on West Boulevard until we came to St Patrick Street where we turned left and then right onto Mt Rushmore Road. This road is also US 16 and, once you get out of the city and past the RV Campground, it begins to climb into the Black Hills and towards Keystone and Mt Rushmore.

Keeping a childhood promise

As a small boy, I had a vivid memory of seeing pictures of Mt Rushmore that had been brought home by Mel’s grandfather. Back in the early 1950s, he’d travelled to the US as a delegate to his Church’s General Conference; and while there, had toured extensively throughout the States. He’d been a keen photographer and gifted amateur cinematographer and had made extensive records of his tour. As a child, I’d promised myself that, one day, I too would visit these places – and on this day, I was going to keep part of that promise to myself.

Motorcycle traffic on US16 was heavy in both directions but that didn’t matter; we had the whole day and, beyond visiting Mt Rushmore, not a lot on the agenda. So, we settled for thumping along at a leisurely pace midstream in a veritable river of motorcycles flowing towards Mt Rushmore.

Towards the ultimate sculpture in the Black Hills

I’d spent the pre-dawn sitting outside our hotel in the designated smokers area doing a bit of online research on the area generally, and Mt Rushmore in particular. This mountain is located just north of Custer State Park. The name, Rushmore, harks back to 1885 when a wealthy New York Lawyer and investor by the name of Charles E. Rushmore came to the Black Hills to inspect mining claims. Local lore has it that, when Rushmore asked the name of a particular mountain, a local had reported that the mountain never had a name before but added that from then onward it would be known as Rushmore Peak [later Rushmore Mountain or Mt Rushmore].

Still flowing with the river of motorcycles, we passed the turn-off to Keystone and pushed on towards Mt Rushmore. Our Big Twins thundered so that the sound echoed off mountain walls and along valley river courses until finally we rounded a fairly tight corner and, right there, was the treeless, sculptured face of Mt Rushmore. This was indeed the ultimate sculpture in the Black Hills.

Mt Rushmore

Carved into the southeastern face of this mountain in the Black Hills National Forest are four gigantic sculptures depicting the faces of U.S. Presidents George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. We backed off our throttles and pulled into a turnout to admire the vista and take more than a few shots of the mountain.

Back in the day, when Mel’s grandfather had visited, and given the relative expense of photography, a tourist would have needed to be discriminating with photographs taken. In our case and with the benefit of digital photography, we banged off countless photographs and would later be faced with the task of sorting through these later.

Eventually though, after snapping dozens of pictures, we climbed aboard our Harleys and pushed on closer to the mountain itself. We would lose sight of the sculpture periodically as we climbed only to be faced with it again as we rounded the next corner. The closer we approached the more massive they appeared, until we reached the extensive car park just below the visitor’s centre.

The visitor’s centre

We paid our dues and walked into the Visitor’s Centre Entrance pavilion where pictures lined the walls and Gutzon Borglum’s bust kept vigil over his legacy. Although diminutive at a distance, the faces shaped in granite are sixty feet tall. These faces, carved out of the granite rock-face between 1927 and 1941 must be one of the world’s largest pieces of sculpture and certainly one of America’s most popular tourist attractions.

As is always the case with me, I was so taken by the size and scope of the monument that I just had to discover more about the Who? Why? And, How? And, the answers were all there on the walls and in the static displays at the visitor’s centre.

Doane Robinson, South Dakota’s State Historian, came up with the original idea of a sculpture in the early 1920s. His initial idea was to sculpt the ‘Needles’ [giant granite pillars] into the shapes of historic heroes of the West. His suggestion for subjects had apparently included Red Cloud, the Sioux Chief who had signed the Fort Lavigne Treaty.

Gutson Borglum

The original sculptor contacted was not available, so Robinson approached Gutzon Borglum; an American of Danish descent. At the time, Borglum had been working on carving an image of Robert E Lee into the face of Georgia’s Stone Mountain. Now, Borglum seems to have been a fairly interesting character with connections that ran deep into the Klu Klux Klan organisation. When his backers in the Robert E Lee sculpture heard of the approach by Robinson, they fired him and sand blasted his work from Stone Mountain.

During his initial visit to South Dakota, Borglum persuaded Robinson that the sculpture in South Dakota should depict George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, because they would give the work national significance. Thomas Jefferson and Theodore Roosevelt were later additions to the list; in recognition of their contributions to the birth of democracy and the growth of the United States.

Deciding on a site

During his second visit in August 1925, Borglum identified Mount Rushmore as the optimal site for the sculpture. But, on getting wind of the designated site, the Lakota Sioux, along with activists from the environmental movement, voiced their opposition. The project, they said, was a desecration of both Sioux heritage and the natural landscape. 

Notwithstanding the opposition, Robinson, John Boland [Rapid City Mayor], and Peter Norbeck [US Senator for South Dakota], worked together to raise funding for the sculpture. Borglum persuaded President Coolidge to deliver an official dedication speech at Mt Rushmore on August 10, 1927. Sculpting commenced in October of that same year. Then, during the last days of his Presidency, Coolidge signed legislation to appropriate a quarter of a million dollars in federal funding to the Mt Rushmore Project and established the Mount Rushmore National Memorial Commission to oversee its completion.

Between October 4, 1927, and October 31, 1941, Gutzon Borglum and 400 workers sculpted the 60-foot-high [18m] carvings of United States Presidents George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln to represent the first 130 years of American history. These four Presidents were selected, Borglum said, because of their role in preserving the Republic and expanding its territory. 

Sculpting a mountain

The sculpting of Mount Rushmore involved the use of dynamite, followed by a process of ‘honeycombing’; where workers drill holes close together, so that small pieces could be removed manually.  In total, over 400,000 tons of rock were blasted off the mountainside. Originally Borglum planned to have Thomas Jefferson appear in the area at Washington’s right. However, he found the rock unsuitable. So, he dynamited Jefferson figure and a sculpted a new figure to Washington’s left.

The Chief Carver of the mountain was one Luigi del Bianco; artisan and headstone carver from Port Chester, New York. Del Bianco emigrated to the U.S. from Friuli in Italy. Borglum chose him because of his understanding of sculptural language and his demonstrated ability to imbue carved portraits with emotion.

In 1933, the National Park Service took Mount Rushmore into its jurisdiction. Julian Spotts helped with the project by improving its infrastructure. For example, he had the tram upgraded so it could reach the top of Mount Rushmore for the ease of workers. By July 4, 1934, Washington’s face had been completed and was dedicated.

Dedication and death

Thomas Jefferson’s face was dedicated in 1936; and, Abraham Lincoln’s face dedicated on September 17, 1937. Then in 1937, a bill was introduced in Congress to add the head of civil-rights leader Susan B. Anthony. However a rider passed on the original appropriations bill required that federal funds be used to finish only those heads that had already been started at that time. In 1939, the face of Theodore Roosevelt was dedicated.

In 1939 Borglum started the construction of the Sculptor’s Studio; a display of unique plaster models and tools related to the sculpting. When he died from an embolism in March 1941, His son, Lincoln Borglum, continued the project. Originally, the plan was to carve figures from head to waist, but insufficient funding forced the carving to end. Nick Clifford, the last remaining carver, died in November 2019 at age 98. In total, the entire project cost US$989,992.32.

We wandered around the monument for a couple of hours and took literally hundreds of photographs until we decided it was time to move on. So, we returned to the Deuce and Lowrider and fired them up. 

We’d planned to push on South to the Crazy Horse Monument but the massive, brooding, accumulation of blue-black cumulonimbus over the mountains to the south, suggested that it would be a soaking and miserable experience. We opted, instead, to head back to Keystone.

Keystone

At the intersection of Old Hill City Road and US16A we turned right and headed towards Keystone; this seemed as good a time as any for a coffee and something to eat. Clearly though, we were not the only bikers who considered coffee, or some other form of sustenance, mandatory. We slowed, along with dozens of other bikes, and cruised along the main drag in search of some place that looked as though it might serve coffee and perhaps even a bite to eat.

Keystone was originally established as a mining town in 1883 and, indeed, took its name from a local mine; the mine, in turn, took its name from the keystone Masonic symbol. With a current permanent population of around four hundred and fifty, the town is a shadow of its former self in the days of yore when it was a mining centre. It has, however, transformed itself into a resort town. The primary raison d’etre seemed to be to service several million visitors who visit Mount Rushmore National Monument each year.

Tourist traps

Among other tourist attractions, the Black Hills Central Railroad, built in 1900, operates passenger train services powered by restored steam locomotives. The town also hosts the National Presidential Wax Museum which features wax sculptures of every president in U.S. history and several notable Sioux Chiefs, inventors, and international political figures.

Incidentally, while we were in Keystone, we learned that Carrie Ingalls [sister of Little House on the Prairie author Laura Ingalls Wilder] spent a significant part of her adult life there and, in fact, died in Keystone. We probably should have taken the time to at least look through the Wax Museum, but we didn’t. We chose instead to spend the toll on coffee and bagels.

We found a couple of parking spaces just past the end of the main drag; left the bikes locked and leaning on their side stands; found a little stand-alone establishment advertising ‘Wine, Coffee, Espresso’; and slipped inside to place our orders. Well, actually Mel slipped inside to place the order; he being the menu aficionado. I hung about outside to have a cigarette.

I’d only just lit up when a couple of old blokes kitted out in well worn leather gear approached. Well, they were probably about my age actually.

‘That your Deuce back there?’ one of them asked.

‘Yep’ I said, and wondered if we’d parked in the wrong place or something.

Registration plates and old people

‘That Tag you got . . . where’s that from?’ he asked.

‘Oh, that?’ I said. ‘I’m from Australia and the Tag – we call them number plates – is from Queensland where I live.’

Now, I didn’t actually live in Queensland – I lived in the Northern Territory. But, when I’d imported the bike it had landed in Brisbane. Butterworth Engineering on the Sunshine Coast had carried out the mandatory compliancing protocols, and I’d registered the bike in Queensland using the address of a property we owned on the Gold Coast. I didn’t explain all that though; I just left my answer to the number plate’s origin hanging.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘So what’s the story with the OLD on the top of the Tag?’

Now, if you’re from Australia, you will know that the initials of the State are included on Registration Plates. So on the top edge of my plate were the initials for Queensland – QLD. At the time, and possibly still, number plates in Queensland had lettering and numbers highlighted in ochre-red on a pearl white background. At a distance, and if the ochre-red paint is less than perfect, the QLD can look like OLD – particularly at a distance.

‘Oh that?’ I said. ‘Well, in Australia if you’re over sixty, you have to have OLD on your Tag [Number Plate].’

‘No shit?’ he said.

Outrage and comrades in arms

I had the undivided attention of both guys.

‘That’s f…en outrageous!’ he blurted.

‘You’re right about that . . . it is,’ I replied. ‘But, I’m sixty-two so what can a bloke do?’

‘It’s damned discrimination! That’s what it is.’ he said, eyes wide and flashing with genuine anger.

‘That’s exactly what I think!’ I retorted. ‘I’m pretty pissed about it and really glad you blokes agree . . . because nobody else at home does.’

‘So, what you doin’ over here?’ he asked. Suddenly he became my new comrade in arms against this State sponsored outrage directed at me and my rights.

‘Doing a road trip with my brother,’ I responded.

‘Well . . . welcome to the US of A. We don’t discriminate against old people here!’ he announced.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You have a truly great country, you know that?’

‘Land of the free . . . home of the brave,’ he said and stood just a tad taller.

‘I can see that,’ I said.

‘Well, you and your brother travel safe – ya hear – and y’all have a good day,’ he said. ‘We off to Ruby’s for a Jacks.’

‘Enjoy,’ I said, and watched as they made their way diagonally and unsteadily across the main drag towards Ruby’s.

Setting the record straight . . . or, maybe not

Later, when Mel emerged with coffee and eats, I told him about it; and, he laughed so hard he cried.

‘So, did you set him straight in the end?’ he asked, still rocking with laughter.

‘Hell no! These guys all carry guns Mate . . . might have got myself shot for taking the piss out of them.’

He put his head down on the coffee table for a while; shoulders still heaving. Eventually, he looked up with laughter and tears in his eyes.

‘See Mate, you’re really not a nice bloke,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But you know, people are going to believe what they want to believe . . . who in their right mind would believe crap like that, eh?’

And, as we ate and drank our coffee, Mel continued to break out into sporadic bursts of laughter.

‘Mate, by now half of Ruby’s Bar will have heard and be outraged about those bloody Australians.’

I shrugged. The coffee was great – a rare thing in the US – and the food was pretty good too. We hung on for a little longer and decided to take a stroll up the main street to walk off lunch and see what was about. We called in to the Harley Davidson dealership, which was really only a merchandise outlet and then walked back past Ruby’s. It was time to move on.

Towards Deadwood

We briefly reviewed our earlier decision not to ride out to the Crazy Horse Monument. Though still very much a work in progress it was something we wanted to see. But, looking south we could still see massive cumulonimbus towers with blue-black bases that continued to explode upwards. The effect was dramatic, and a little unnerving, against the startling blue of the midday sky. The air was heavy, expectant; almost as if the whole environment was holding its breath in anticipation of the coming fury.

We took one more long look to the south, then at each other – and shook our heads in unison. We climbed aboard our trusty steeds, fired them up and headed back along Reed Street. Taking a right at US16A, we continued along until we reached the junction with US16 where we took a left. US16 delivered us to US385 where we turned right and joined the river of motorcycles headed towards Deadwood.

Our ride skirted mountains and wound through valleys where little water-courses reflected dappled light through the trees. We passed Sheridan Lake on our right and pushed on toward the Pectola Reservoir and Deadwood.

Finding the Boondocks

Now, if you’re round about my vintage you might remember a popular song by Billy Joe Royal. It went something like this:

Down in the Boondocks, Down in the Boondocks; People put me down ‘cause that’s the side of town I was born in. I love her, she loves me but I don’t fit her society; Lord have mercy for a boy from down in the boondocks

Billy Joe Royal made the song sort of famous with a release around 1982, I think, but the roots of the song go back a further ten years to Riders of the New Sage who wrote the lyrics in the early 70’s.

I’d always thought that ‘Boondocks’ was a generic vernacular term for slums. Well, not so! We found the place itself about fifteen miles short of Deadwood on US385; and we have pictures to prove it. I’m not sure if the place existed before the song or if the name was attached to a broken down little pit-stop in an attempt to cash in on the song. But, either way, we found it; and stopped to take a look. There was a row of broken down cars from the late 40’s and 50’s and vendor stalls selling everything from old motor vehicle tags [number plates], through Harley and Indian memorabilia to racoon, beaver and fox tails on leather thongs. We bought a couple of racoon tails and fixed them with leather thongs to our luggage racks.

And, after wandering around the Boondocks, browsing the craft stalls, and purchasing a couple of beaver tails for our bikes, we pushed on to Deadwood.

Deadwood

The Lakota Sioux referred to the original settlement as Owáyasuta meaning to approve or confirm things. Deadwood, seat of Lawrence County, was named by the early settlers after the dead trees found in the gulch. In its heyday, Deadwood had a population of some twenty-five thousand and attracted larger than life figures of the Old West including Wyatt Earp, Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok. In fact, it is said that both Wild Bill Hickock and Calamity Jane took up permanent residence in the local cemetery; but we didn’t go there to ferret out their resting places.

By the time we cruised into town those heady days were long gone. The population when we arrived was around thirteen hundred. A sign on the outskirts of the city informed us that the entire city had been designated a National Historic Landmark District. We parked out bikes and went looking for coffee and something to eat. In the south, cumulonimbus towers continued to grow and the lower sky had taken on an ominous, bruised, blue-black hue.

Gold and free enterprise

The original settlement began illegally in the early 1870s; the Treaty of Fort Laramie guaranteed ownership of the Black Hills to the Lakota people who considered the area to be sacred. Land disputes were frequent and several of these between the squatters and the Sioux reached the United States Supreme Court.

But, everything changed after Custer led an expedition into the Black Hills and announced the discovery of gold in 1874. This announcement was the catalyst for a gold rush, and as miners and entrepreneurs swept into the area, they created a pretty lawless town called Deadwood. Suddenly the Federal Government realised that this land was valuable and rescinded their treaty with the Sioux. The population quickly reached 5,000 and by 1876 over 25,000 people settled in Deadwood.

Now, in 1876, a couple of enterprising frontiersmen by the names of Charlie and Steve Utter, recognised a money-making opportunity when they saw one and hauled in a wagonload or two of very willing ladies into town. It turned out that women were in high demand and the prostitution business proved to be extremely profitable. Madam Dora DuFran eventually became the wealthiest brothel owner in Deadwood; she was closely followed by Madam Mollie Johnson.

The drug trade

In April, 1877, Al Swearengen opened a saloon called the Gem Variety Theater. Don’t be misled by the name though; Al controlled the Deadwood opium trade. His saloon burned down and was rebuilt in 1879. But when it burned down again in 1899, Swearengen left town. All in all, Deadwood became known for its lawlessness; murders were common, and justice for murders not always fair and impartial. 

However, all good things come to an end. As the economy changed from gold panning to deep mining, the individual miners went elsewhere or began to work in other fields; and so, Deadwood lost some of its rough and rowdy character, and began to develop into a prosperous town. The Homestake Mine in nearby Lead was established in October 1877. It operated for more than a hundred years, becoming the longest continuously operating gold mine in the United States. Gold mining operations did not cease there until 2002. The mine is now open for visiting tourists; though we didn’t go there either.

Thunderstorms

It was getting late in the day and serious thunderstorms were moving across the mountain backdrop and towards the town. We walked briskly back to our bikes, fired up and headed back towards Sturgis and I-90. And, as we headed out of Deadwood, the first very large drops of rain splattered on our windscreens; not enough to get wet but certainly enough to sting pretty badly as they hit you in the face. We headed along US 14A towards Sturgis but at the junction with I-90 we took the on ramp rather than continuing across the overpass to  Sturgis. It was time to give serious attention to beating the approaching storm back to Rapid City.

And, we did make it back without getting wet; but only just. As we walked into the hotel foyer, the first crash of thunder rattled the windows and we could hear the rain as it edged its way across the city from the south west.

The diner

About an hour later, showered and changed, we raced through the driving rain across the carpark, sheeted with water, to our favourite diner. Outside, although it was just getting dark, dozens of lightning bots split the sky with blinding flashes of super-high voltage electricity and lit up the city. We felt a little smug; we’d managed to dodge the downpour. Mel made an observation that we were to use for the remainder of the road trip:

‘Well Mate,’ he said, ‘that’s just the way we roll!’ 

Our meals was long, conversational and laid back. Mel took at least fifteen minutes to study the menu; and while he did that, I checked my facebook account and scrolled through the pictures I’d taken during the day. Our diner protocol had settled into a very satisfactory routine; well, for me anyway. Mel would study the menu, as he liked to do, and I would just go along for the ride – so to speak. And, I do have to say that Mel was pretty at his role.

Car park encounter

After the meal, Mel wandered off outside while I settled our bill at the cashier and left a good tip for the waitress; her service was excellent, engaging, and very personable.

By the time I emerged from the diner, Mel was midway across the carpark; deeply involved in what looked like an animated conversation. He and his new buddy were just a couple of dark shadows backlit by the lights from the hotel. The carpark surface was still slick with runoff from the recent storm.

I paused just outside the diner, took out a Marlborough, lit up, and drew a long breath. The sound and fury of the storm had ended; or perhaps it had just moved on across the Badlands towards Sioux Falls. Water glistened on the paint and chrome of dozens of motorcycles and a few residual cars. The storm had washed away the intense heat and humidity of the late afternoon and left in its wake a cool and tranquil stillness.

The raconteur

Mel’s hearty laughter drifted across the unusually quiet carpark. So, I stubbed out my cigarette and wandered across to where they stood. There were introductions all round. And then, without missing a beat, Justice continued right on from where he left off when I turned up. He was a raconteur extraordinaire. From Arkansas, he had the characteristic rich drawl of the deep American South, laughing eyes and a warm inclusive personality; and before I knew, I was as deeply engrossed in his yarn as Mel obviously was.

Justice had been to the Hotel dining room only to discover that the kitchen had ended their service for the night. He’d headed out in search of a meal and encountered Mel halfway across the carpark. And there he asked whether the diner from which we’d just emerged was still offering service. Once having engaged Mel, however, he’d launched into a potted history of recent events at home and within his family.

A tale from the Deep South

It seemed that Justice had, a year or two previously, a falling out with his wife. This, he said, had resulted in his eviction from the family home and so, he’d shifted and taken up residence in a disused barn a couple of hundred yards distant from the said house. After a little adjustment, he’d settled in to his new lodgings and had found sleeping next to his motorcycle considerably more restful, he said, than sleeping next to his wife.

Now, the fact that Justice had adjusted so quickly and easily to his new living arrangements seems to have been exceptionally irritating to his good lady. She apparently thought that his eviction from from the family home would serve as a salutary reminder that he’d been neglecting his familial obligations and spending too much time at the clubhouse.

Upping the ante

So, in a further attempt to up the ante, she’d held a ‘barn sale’ over a holiday weekend; Justice had been away with the bikes and boys. He’d returned after an absolutely brilliant weekend of bikes, babes and booze to discover that the barn had been cleared out. Timber, motorcycle spare parts [including forward cruising pegs, saddlebags, and luggage rack] and even his bed had been completely cleaned out.

I’m not sure how, but Justice subsequently achieved something of a detente with his good lady; which meant [I think] that he quit sleeping with the motorcycle in the barn and return to sleeping with his wife in the family home. This however did nothing to restore his erstwhile saddlebags or luggage rack, or indeed the lumber that had also been sold.

Aftermarket motorcycle parts

Now, I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I was beginning to get an idea about where this was all heading. And, just then, Justice launched into a detailed and very funny account of how he had managed to fashion accessories for his bike with lumber borrowed from a sympathetic neighbour.

Justice invited us to walk over to inspect the bike with him; but we reminded him that he probably ought to head off to the diner before it closed. He’d been so absorbed in his own yarn he’d temporarily forgotten about his quest for something to eat. He nodded, shook hands, wished us well for our onward journey and headed off towards the diner.

Now, my account doesn’t come within a bull’s roar of doing justice to the rich detail of Justice’s anecdotal narrative of his volatile domestic interactions and the loss of his motorcycle accessories. My stomach was sore from laughing; Mel had tears streaming down his cheeks; and the narrative had taken in excess of an entertaining hour to complete. You will simply have to imagine a middle aged, natural story teller from the Deep South relating what must have been a deeply painful experience with charm, laconic humour, and a deeply sensual love of life.

For our part, we wandered off towards the hotel and past the most agricultural looking Road King either of us had ever seen; Justice was not lying when he talked about the accessories he’d fashioned from wood. Having said that, the monstrosity seemed to have worked; he had, after all, ridden all the way to Rapid City from Arkansas.

And, just before we entered the Hotel, we heard Justice bellow across the car park.

‘The bloody diner’s closed!’

Just a thought . . .

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others

even the dull and ignorant – they too have their story

Click here to continue reading: US16 A Miracle in the Badlands