I haven’t traveled much for fun since early 2020—three trips to attend funerals don’t count. I’d been itching to get out of town and see some new terrain. Last Friday morning we tossed some clothes in the car and hit the road.
North on I-25 to Cheyenne, Wyoming then east on I-80. One hundred and ten miles later we stopped for lunch at The Diner, just off the interstate in Kimball, Nebraska. It’s a small joint that’s popular with local farmers and ranchers. The customers all know each other (“Hello, Bob.” “How ya’ been, Jack?”) and the waitresses know all the customers (“How ya’ doin’, Johnny?” “Not bad, Betty”). Excellent place. I recommend the breaded pork cutlet sandwich.
Another 100 miles and we arrived at our initial objective: a field a few miles past the Burlington Northern Santa Fe rail terminal in Alliance, Nebraska. It’s the location of Carhenge—a replica of Stonehenge made of cars. For a roadside attraction it is oddly compelling.
The Druidic vibe was powerful. I chanted some verses from the Necronomicon in front of the Valiant Lintel and was rewarded with a vision of me, my sister, and our parents driving west through Nebraska on I-80 in a new 1962 Plymouth Valiant—the one with the Slant Six engine and the neato push-button transmission. A few days later we made it to Davis, California and the tide of Sixties mayhem in the Bay Area began rushing at me.
Then another 150 miles north to Hot Springs, South Dakota and, as darkness fell, via randomly chosen back roads through the Black Hills to Rapid City. We grabbed dinner at Sickies Garage, an amiable burger place with a huge beer list. Also huge was the fat young man at the next table who seemed to be a student at the School of Mines. He had a beard and glasses and wore a knit cap with a poofy ball on top. He also had a semiautomatic pistol in a belt holster. Eric Cartman with a sidearm. I was impressed.
The next three days we operated out of Rapid City. First we went east, to Wall Drug, the obligatory cornball tourist stop in Wall, SD. In the vast parking area there was a set of Tesla charging stations. Needless to say, no one was charging. In fact, we never saw a Telsa the entire trip. But ya gotta hand it to Elon, he’s a marketing genius.
The high plains of South Dakota are pretty empty—the perfect setting for quick stops at the Minuteman Missile historical sites, including a decommissioned launch silo. Shades of The Sixties. Then on to the unbelievably weird terrain of Badlands National Park. Bare, windy, rocky, empty. My kind of place.
The next day we took a winding loop south of Rapid City and stopped at Mount Rushmore. Again, goofy, grand, and quite moving. The newish arcade and entry way to the viewing platform are cold and grandiose. But the mile-long path along the base of the monument is exquisitely done—hidden from the viewing platform by trees, but with thoughtfully located benches that provide close-up views of the presidents. Also good views up Washington’s nostrils. In the afternoon we drove to Wind Cave NP, went on a cave tour and hiked through a meadow full of scolding prairie dogs.
Day 4 we headed north to Sturgis to see the biker fest venue. Lots of bars with huge parking lots. Think French Quarter on the northern plains. Over to Deadwood to pay respects at the graves of Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane. Then a beautiful canyon drive up US 14A to Spearfish and through to Belle Fourche. Lunch there at a little place called The Leaky Pot—excellent coffee and an awesome array of custom sandwiches. Four thumbs up. One can eat remarkably well in the middle of nowhere in America.
Then west back into Wyoming and a stop at Devil’s Tower NP. It’s massive, bizarre, and spectacular. The loop trail around the base is far more entertaining than that idiotic Spielberg movie. [Culturally speaking, 1977 was really the end of The Sixties.—Ed.]
Afterwards, a scenic 175 miles or so west through Carlile, Moorcroft, and Gillette, then south to Douglas. Dinner at The Depot, a place packed full of families, hunters in Mossy Oak camo, and a few guys at the bar watching the Broncos game. The chicken fried steak was excellent. We made it home after a 175 mile nighttime sprint back down I-25.
When you are on the open road in spectacular country, and the biggest decisions are which fork in the road to take and where to eat, thirteen hundred miles feels like a weekend at a spa.