US 17: A Palace and Drifters on the Great Plains

It had just gone 4am when I eased the door open as quietly as I could and stepped out onto the landing. Later in the day, we’d be visiting a palace as a couple of drifters on the Great Plains; though I didn’t know this at the time. The late afternoon storm from yesterday had long gone and so had the heat and humidity; all that remained was the gentlest of breezes. It was still dark enough to see stars scattered across a deep indigo backdrop. The massive night sky canvas brought to mind very early mornings when I sat on the fo’c’sle deck of Dad’s mission launch and gazed in wonder at the night tapestry. I still find something oddly reassuring and peaceful about a clear night sky; perhaps an ingrained residual sense of security and awe left over from childhood.

Back in the middle 1950s, I’d spent a lot of time with Dad aboard his mission launch. In later years, missionaries took to the sky in Cessnas to visit their flock. But, in the 50s you drove Land-Rovers when the roads were reasonable, walked when they weren’t, or sailed; the mission maintained a small fleet of forty-eight foot, Halvorsen designed and built launches. Dad’s mission boat was named MV Leleman; the name means Truth in the local lingua franca along the north coast of Papua New Guinea.

Back to the Territory

I was three when Dad, his new wife, and I arrived back in the Territory of Papua and New Guinea; we stopped over briefly in Port Moresby before flying to Wewak’s Boram Airfield on a Mandated Airlines DC3.

The first order of business for Dad was to present his credentials to the District Commissioner, Bob Cole, and meet key members of the Territory Administration in the Sepik District. Next on his agenda was a meeting with Bishop Leo Arkfeldt; head of the Catholic Church in the District. Across the diocese, constituents of the Catholic and Seventh-day Adventist Churches had become increasingly at odds with each other; in fact, in several areas disagreements had degenerated into violence. The first order of business, for Dad, was to address this standoff.

A tour of the diocese

Dad loaded us aboard the mission launch and kicked off a tour of all the far reaches of his diocese; Vanimo, near the Dutch New Guinea Border; Aitape; the Chambri Lakes; Angoram, Pagwi and Ambunti on the Sepik River; the Schouten and Western Islands; and, Manus in the Bismark Sea. The tour took the best part of three months. Always a good listener, Dad stayed with each community for as long as it took to get to know the Luluai [Village Chief] and the village elders; and to listen to the concerns and aspirations of each.

I had pretty strong reservations about taking to the high seas on a mission launch; my previous experience hadn’t turned out so well. My fear of boats and the water was visceral; but I rarely allowed it to surface. Looking back though, I have no doubt that Dad knew. On that day, in the pre-dawn. as I waded in the shallows on my way to the dinghy that would take us out to the Leleman, my guts cramped and shot pain into my chest. In the end, it was my unshakeable faith in Dad and his commanding competence that enabled me to cauterise the burgeoning terror.

All at sea

Over the next five years, the sea became the almost constant backdrop to my growing up; and, as the years rolled on, my fear receded but remained alive and well in the darkest corners of my imagination. I’ve been told that, as a young man, my father had been popular, outgoing, gregarious, something of a prankster and the life of any party; a most eligible and admired young man. The marine explosion that ended the lives of my mother and two brothers had burned away the fun and frivolity; and delivered a reserved and thoughtful man. He became a man who rarely permitted his emotions to come to the surface and never allowed his actions to be governed by passion.

As a kid, I don’t ever remember Dad saying he loved me; and he never put his arms around me or held me close. I knew it though. I divined it in the way he taught me the alphabet; pronounced for me the secret sounds attached to its component letters; and ultimately taught me to read. I felt it in the delight he took in teaching me to navigate; to unlock the mystery of his charts; watch for the signs of reefs and rocks; find direction by the stars at night and the sextant and compass during the day. It was there in the care he took when teaching me how to plot a course; allow for the winds and drift; calculate speed; and bring a ship safely into harbour. I never had any doubt that my father loved me.

Feeling the fear but doing it anyway

Though I never quite lost my fear of ships and the sea, I learned how to be a safe and competent mariner; perhaps, most important of all, I learned how to feel the fear but do it anyway. By the time I got to school, I already knew how to read, write and do basic maths. I knew how to read charts, plot a course and then navigate that course. I could find direction in the night sky and feel a change of direction or the approach of an oncoming storm by changes in the movement of our vessel.

Dad’s mentoring had put me so far in front in the learning stakes that I spent Term 1 in Prep, Term 2 in Grade 1, and the last Term of my first year of formal schooling in Grade 2. And, I suspect that my healthy disrespect for authority at least partly derived from the fact that I never found anyone in school with even half the skill or talent my father had.

Stars in the other hemisphere

The problem was that when I looked at the night sky in Wall, South Dakota, I could find no direction; the stars were there but spread out in a way that offered me no clues or discernible patterns. Miles away from the sea on the vast plains of the Midwest, I really was out of my depth. But, over in the east, I could see the very early signs of incipient dawn; I’d been sitting, musing and smoking, on the top step of the landing for the best part of an hour and a half. It was way past time for my first coffee of the day; even bad coffee would be better than none. I got up, headed down to the forecourt; I needed to find a coffee shop that might be open at this time of the day.

Coffee . . . or a reasonable facsimile

In the end, I had to resort to an all night service station and slipped inside. They had a choice between ‘House Blend’, ‘Columbian’ and ‘Dark Roast’. I decanted two medium sized cups of dark roast, pumped in a couple of squirts of sweetened Nescafé CoffeeMate, capped each cup and made my way back to the Sunshine Inn. If Mel had ‘gone low’ this cup of sweetened dark roast would give him a jolt; and probably put him well up towards the top end of the blood-sugar scale.

When I got back, Mel was not only awake, he was up and scratching around in his T-Bag.

‘Morning Mate . . . what you doing?’ 

Managing blood-sugar

‘I’m a bit low Mate . . . looking for a snack.’

‘Here, get this into you . . . it’ll sort you right out . . . well, actually, it will probably put you right over the top.’

He took the cup, sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, and took a sip.

‘Hey,  not bad,’ he said, and was quiet for a while.

‘Mate, you know what I said about you not being a nice bloke?’

I nodded.

‘Well, I take it back . . . you’re not such a bad bloke after all.’

‘Why . . . because I got you coffee?’

He nodded.

‘What guarantee have you got that I didn’t spike it with something?’

He looked up; and I grinned.

‘No Mate, you were right the first time; I am a bit of a prick . . . but no, I didn’t spike your coffee.’

‘How long you been awake?’ he asked.

‘Since way before it was light.’

‘So, what you been doing?

‘Looking at the stars and thinking about the years I lived on the Leleman,’ I said.

‘You need to tell me about that sometime . . . I don’t remember much about Wewak.’

‘Why would you? When Dad transferred to Port Moresby, you were only about a year old’.

A bite to eat

‘OK . . . when you’re bored or have a bit of time to kill. But, right now we need to get some breakfast.’

Because we were too idle to walk back to the main drag, we checked out the breakfast room at the Sunshine Inn. On offer was cereal; scrambled or boiled eggs; waffles with maple syrup and cream; an apple or pear; and house coffee; or all of the above. It filled a space and helped to prop up Mel’s blood sugar but was otherwise fairly forgettable; and the coffee was pretty close to undrinkable. On the other hand, it did come as an inclusion with the room tariff; so, I thought it would be a bit petulant of me to complain too much.

After breakfast we went back to the room and did all the stuff you need to do before getting onto the road for the new day; bathroom breaks, showers, a change of clothes – you know the drum. We packed, loaded the motorcycles, fired up and headed through the I-90 underpass and out onto US 240 towards the Badlands.

Now this sounds all very efficient, but the reality is that we knew we didn’t really have to leave until 11am. We talked, and I wandered down to the service station for more coffee while Mel fussed with his stuff. Ultimately, it was around 9 am before we got onto the road.

On the road again

The air was still pleasantly cool, the sky an almost transparent faded blue and virtually cloud free; a good day to be in T-shirts, jeans, helmet free, riding a couple of Harleys, and without external expectations of any kind. There was almost no traffic on the road and so we settled for just casually cruising along; our exhausts beating out an easy rhythm across open fields. As we idled on towards the Ben Reifel Visitors’ Centre, we could see the Badlands out to the right and off into the distance; we were riding what, I supposed was a section of The Wall. It was not hard to imagine what a great hiding place this would have been if you were a First Nations warrior hiding from the US Army; or an outlaw hiding from the long arm of the law.

Badlands

Native Americans had traditionally used the area, now known as the Badlands, as a hunting ground for thousands of years before the first Anglo-Americans arrived. Archaeological records and oral traditions show that First Nations people camped in secluded valleys where water and game were available year-round. From the top of the Badlands Wall, they could scan the area for both enemies and wandering herds. They often stayed on into early winter, when the hunting was good, before retracing their way to villages along the Missouri River. The Lakota referred to the area as mako sica [bad land] because of the extreme temperatures; general lack of water; and exposed rugged terrain. Later on, French-Canadian fur trappers called it les mauvaises terres pour traverser [bad lands to travel through]. 

This established hunting and gathering ritual was, however, about to be irrevocably disturbed. A massive change came towards the end of the 19th century when homesteaders moved into South Dakota. Homesteading actually began before the end of the American Civil War; but didn’t really impact the Badlands until the 20th century. At that time hopeful farmers traveled to South Dakota from Europe or the eastern United States to make a living in the area.

Ghost dancers

In order to deal with growing pressure for land, the government stripped Native Americans of much of their territory and forced them to live on reservations. During the fall and early winter of 1890, thousands of First Nation people turned to the Indian prophet Wovoka. He claimed to have had a vision that called for people to dance the Ghost Dance and wear Ghost shirts; these were supposed to be impervious to bullets. Wovoka predicted that the white man would vanish and their hunting grounds would be restored; how tragically wrong he was. The last known Ghost Dances took place at Stronghold Table in the south of Badlands National Park. 

The climax of the struggle for control of traditional land occurred in late December 1890. Heading south from Cheyenne River, a group of Minneconjou Sioux, looking for refuge at the Pine Ridge Reservation, traversed a pass in the Badlands Wall. Soldiers caught up with the band near Wounded Knee Creek and ordered the group to camp overnight. The next morning, while troops attempted to disarm the group, gunfire erupted. By the time it was over, nearly three hundred Indians and thirty soldiers were dead. The Wounded Knee Massacre proved to be the last major clash between Plains Indians and the U.S. military until the American Indian Movement in the 1970s; the 1973 standoff at Wounded Knee, South Dakota.

A bombing range

During the Second World War, the USAAF took possession of land on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation for use as a gunnery range. Old car bodies and drums painted bright yellow were used as targets. Bulls-eyes 250 feet [76 m] across were plowed into the ground and used as targets by bombardiers. The area remains littered with bullet cases and unexploded ordnance – even today. 

Firing took place within most of the present-day Stronghold District. The US Government bought or leased land from individual landowners in order to clear the area of human occupation; a hundred and twenty-five families were forcibly relocated. Those who remained nearby recall times when they had to dive under tractors, while cutting hay, to avoid bombs dropped outside the range boundary. In the town of Interior, a church and the post office were struck by six inch [152 mm] shells; pilots operating out of Ellsworth Air Force Base found it hard to determine the exact boundaries of the range. Although there were no civilian casualties, at least a dozen flight crew lost their lives in plane crashes.

After the war, the South Dakota National Guard used parts of the area as an artillery range before the USAAF declared most of this range excess property. Although 2,500 acres [3.9 sq mi; 10.1 km²] were retained by the USAAF [but no longer used] the majority of the land was ultimately turned over to the National Park Service.

Ben Reifel Visitors Centre

On our way to the Visitors’ Centre we stopped at a couple of lookouts [overlooks in the US] to take pictures and squint into the hazy distance across ragged escarpments and weathered buttes. It was another breathtaking experience; similar but uniquely different to the Grand Canyon and Bryce Canyon. The area is obviously a geological wonder. But it is also a treasure trove of archaeological history and a unique natural habitat to a wide range of rare and endangered flora and fauna.

We pulled into the Ben Reifel Visitors Centre car park, even though it wasn’t quite lunchtime. I was hanging out for a smoke and a coffee; Mel could check blood sugar and get a snack if necessary. Leaving our motorcycle on their stands, we headed into the welcome air conditioned cool in the Centre, selected a table near the panoramic window and ordered.

Developing a ride plan . . . sort of

Over coffee we discussed options for our trip ahead. The second item on our Road Trip Bucket List was a visit to Harley Davidson’s 110th Anniversary Celebrations in Milwaukie; but that was a little over two weeks away. Given that we had time in hand, we decided to take the long way round. We’d head up to Duluth, ride around the top of Lake Michigan, cross the Mackinac Bridge and complete the ride around the Lake on our way back to Chicago and ultimately Milwaukie.

On to Mitchell

Having settled our ride plan for the next week or so, we finished our coffee and nibbles; headed outside to take a few more photographs; and then climbed aboard our Harleys and fired up. There were scattered high clouds around but basically the day had turned out clear and hot; not quite as hot as our first day from Vegas to St George, but close. We back-tracked to US 240 and then took a right towards Cactus Flats where we would intersect I-90 and push on to Mitchell. Although Mel wasn’t keen about riding the Interstates, he did want to call in at Mitchell; and a few hours later, I discovered why.

Once back on I-90, we were back to playing games with the eighteen wheelers. So, we cracked open our throttles and gave our Big Twins some air to breathe and room to move. The bark from our pipes was heavy, low and loud as we accelerated past the truckers and on past Kadoka, Murdo, Lyman. We crossed the Missouri at Chamberlain and continued on past White Lake and Plankinton to Mitchell. The ride was straightforward and we were fairly hooking along. Confields stretched away on either side of the road until we took the off-ramp for Mitchell.

A Corn Palace

Now it turned out that Mitchell is the County Seat for Davidson County; a city, or perhaps more correctly a town, of some fifteen thousand people. When we rolled into town and looked around, things looked pretty much as you would expect of an agricultural service town in the corn belt. What was not so mundane was the ‘Corn Palace’ sited firmly on Main Street. 

The Corn Palace is a substantial building decorated with several colors of dried corn and grains; these are used to create the external mural cladding. These external murals are changed yearly at fall harvest; internal murals are changed approximately every ten years. According to Corn Palace staff, the building is used for a range of activities. Big enough to accommodate  a basketball arena, it is also hosts the local high school prom; trade shows; staged entertainment, and the local Circus.

We stepped inside to discover murals adorning all the main walls. Impressive displays of produce from the region had been arranged on very large, cantilevered, sloping benches in the main hall area. It was an impressive exposition of the output of a rural farming community. But, Mel knew what he was looking for; he made his way directly to the rear of the great hall where the catering service was selling hot, buttered, spiced corn. By the time I’d finished reading the history from the walls, he had butter and spice all over his hands, face and running down his chin; he was also wearing the biggest grin. You come by some things honestly don’t you? Our Dad loved corn.

Lunch break . . . and a cigarette or two

That done, we stepped back out into the glaring early afternoon sun and wandered up the street in search of a diner. I didn’t really need to eat; but Mel did. I made do with a cigarette outside while Mel studied the menu and carefully placed his order. Mel just loves his food; for me, food is just something you need to keep you going. I did like coffee though and, as I placed my order, I hoped that the good folk in the kitchen knew how to make a reasonable, strong, dark brew; they didn’t, but I drank it anyway.

While Mel worked his way through his meal, we talked about our ride from Cactus Flat. Our big Twins were just chewing through the miles. When I’d picked up the Deuce it had so few miles on the odometer that the engine was still tight. But the further we’d ridden, the more freely my engine revved and the more assertively it accelerated when I cracked the throttle open; it was settling into being an absolute joy to ride.

Looking for roads less travelled

Although we’d made excellent time along Interstate 90, we both agreed that the ride was incredibly boring; Mel said he’d had difficulty staying awake. So, we agreed that after Mitchell we’d get off I-90 and return to taking roads less travelled. I mentioned right back at the beginning of this yarn that Mel’s Lowrider had come complete with every accessory imaginable; and this included a GPS. The problem was, at key times when we actually needed it to guide us, the GPS promptly stopped working.

In the end, we agreed to head north east towards Duluth and pick our roads accordingly. Mel finished his meal, and we headed back to where we’d left the bikes just opposite the Corn Palace. We checked fluids; re-cinched ties on our luggage; fired up; and, headed along Havens Avenue East. Once out of town, Havens Avenue morphed into State Highway 38; this paralleled I-90 but was virtually free of traffic.

North and east but not northeast

Very quickly we discovered that there was a major flaw with our plan to head northeast; virtually all roads headed either north or east but not northeast. So we continued parallel to I-90 until our highway intersected US 81 at Salem. We took a left and headed north on US 81 until we reached Winfred where our road merged with State Highway 34 and headed east.

We crossed over the East Fork Vermilion River, pushed on through Junius, and skirted the north shore of Lake Herman. We’d been on the road for a little over an hour and all the whole time had been riding through corn fields on both sides of the road. Suddenly, I understood why all roads seemed to head either north or east; the roads simply bordered farms and homesteads and these seemed almost universally rectangular and oriented in accordance with invisible meridians.

State highways and corn fields

We pushed on through Madison, one of the homes of South Dakota State University, and then turned left with US 81 when it headed north. Though still about four hours out from sunset, the sun was definitely heading west and taking with it the glaring heat of the day. Shadows were lengthening and we found ourselves riding in the shade trees demarcating the boundaries of properties and farms. Ultimately US 81 intersected US 14 and we took a right; we assumed that if we travelled north and then east for a roughly equivalent period of time the net result would be a northeast direction.

At Brooking, just short of the State Line, we took a break to refuel, stretch our legs, and have a coffee; and in my case a cigarette. We’d made excellent time because on virtually traffic free roads. And, Mel rarely stopped to take pictures; there are only so many cornfield pictures you can take, right? All in all though, it was pleasant riding; the day’s heat had dissipated rapidly and the sun was mostly at our backs.

Montevideo, MN

We fired up again and crossed the State Line into Minnesota shortly after leaving Brooking. Then, after skirting the southern edge of Lake Benton, we pressed on until our road intersected State Highway 23. We finally found a road heading in a generally northeasterly direction. At Marshall, we veered left again onto US 59 and headed north until we reached US 212. Here we took a right, crossed the Minnesota River, and cruised on towards Montevideo.

While there was still ample daylight, it was getting late in the day; and we’d covered a big chunk of the Great Plains. I didn’t know how Mel was travelling, but I was tired and the breeze was distinctly cool. We eased back on our throttles at Montevideo’s town limit and cruised towards the business district.

Time to stop

And, right there on the left, was the Sportsmen Inn; small, low-set, neat and clearly not part of any of the major motel chains. Mel and I must have been thinking the same thing because his indicator came on as he veered towards the centre of the road, and he coasted to a stop in the motel’s car park.

He headed for reception while I hung about outside to have a cigarette. By the time I caught up, Mel was on a first name basis with the guy behind the desk who turned out to be the owner; that’s just the way he is when it comes to people. Accommodation was available, so we booked the room.

Ex-marine

Brian, the proprietor, was an ex-Marine and veteran of US involvement in Vietnam. On the wall behind the reception desk were snaps of Brian and his buddies at recruit training in San Diego; at the Marine Corp Base at Quantico; and, on the air base in Da Nang. Reading the inscriptions on the photographs and noting dates and youthful faces, I gathered that Brian was just a couple of years older than me. But he still had that ram-rod military bearing; the cropped hair now iron grey; the lean, muscular frame; and the direct open eye contact.

Noticing that my attention had settled on two, more recent, enlarged photographs towards the end of the reception desk, Brian said: 

My two boys . . . the family’s fourth generation of US Marines’.

‘Impressive,’ I said.

An invitation

He handed me a room key, smiled and said,

‘Some of the boys will be around for a few beers, later . . . you’re welcome to join us.’

We thanked him and headed outside; moved our motorcycles; and left them leaning on their side stands just under the eaves right outside our unit. Our room was plain, basic, and absolutely as neat as a pin. The carpeted floor was spotless; bed covers neatly pressed; pillow covers crisp and fresh; and clearly more than adequate to our needs. We stowed our T-Bags, made coffee and slipped out of the room so we could sit, talk and enjoy the coolness of the late afternoon.

Rick

And, we were still sitting there soaking up the cool breeze when Brian turned up with Rick. Now, I don’t think Rick had been in the Marines but he was definitely ex-military; the motel seemed to be something of an unofficial meeting place for ex-service blokes. Rick would probably have been a few years younger than Mel, with thinning, dark hair and clear signs of a little too much of the good life.

It turned out that Rick had a 100th Anniversary FXDL just like Mel’s; not as many accessories and chrome though, he said. He was full of stories, a bit like the bloke we’d met in the hotel car park in Rapid City. And, one particular story was to have us laughing for most of the rest of our road trip. It seemed that there was a particular young lady in Rick’s social circle who was pretty keen to get a ride on Rick’s Low Rider; and listening between the lines of Rick’s yarn, I got the idea that the young lady might have been a bit keen on Rick too.

Not on the fender

Now Rick, for his part, didn’t seem to have shared the young lady’s enthusiasm for two-up cruising. And, to ensure that he was not put in a difficult situation with respect to the said two-up ride, Rick removed the combination rider and pillion seat and replaced it with a solo unit. As well as I can reproduce his actual words, Rick’s story went like this:

Now that there young lady, she ask me if ah would take her for a rard on ma motorcycle. She’s young, sure enough . . . an she got a face that’s cute as pie – but man, she got an ass that’s two axe-handles wide. So, I sez ta her, arm sorry but ar ain’t got no pillion seat . . . thinkin’ that, right there, done solve the prablem. Well . . . nart so. She done said to me Oh, that doan make no nevermind . . . ah can jes sit on yo fender. No, ah said . . . that ass ain’t goin’ arn ma fender . . . no way.

Mel absolutely rocked with laughter; so did I. As inappropriate, callous, and misogynistic as it was, it was pretty much what you would expect from a guy like Rick; it was also, in the circumstances, intensely funny.

We chatted on, or more accurately Rick chatted on, about Harley Davidsons that he’d owned, places he’d been, and the brotherhood he’d missed since being demobbed from the army. In defence of the young lady who was so keen to take a motorcycle ride, I do have to say that Rick was no oil painting; perhaps he’d let himself go since leaving the army. He did happen to mention in passing that he was still a single man, though he said eligible bachelor, and I could understand why.

Something to eat

Eventually, Rick sauntered away in search of another beer and we took this as a suitable queue to exit stage right; it was time we gave some serious consideration to finding a place to eat anyway. It had been a great day on the road; we’d seen palaces – well a palace anyway – and had been drifters on the Great Plains. But, Rick stayed with us for the rest of our road trip because at odd occasions, when he’d seen someone of more than ample proportions, Mel would lean across and say ‘do you think that’s an ass that would go on Rick’s fender?’

Just a thought . . .

When you look at the night sky, you have a choice

You can marvel in wonder at the light from the stars

or you can focus on the blackness between the stars

Click Here to Continue Reading: US18 Myriad Lakes and Quantums of Veritas