Suddenly Supported

On Monday, after that awful 83 mile day I talked to my dad on the phone. He had asked me about a week before if there was any part of my trip that I felt like I could use a support vehicle on. When he first asked I’d mentioned the stretch before Pierre, SD. I had two route options and it seemed like either way I went it would be an incredibly long stretch with nowhere to stop. I shrugged it off, since throwing together a trip to South Dakota in a week seemed like too much to ask for. But he asked me again if I’d given it thought and I repeated my answer. I’d asked my mom to meet me in Great Falls, MT to support me through the mountains, and by some witchcraft she’d finagled her schedule so she could meet up with me in Bismarck. That was only a week away. So, if my dad was going to be a support vehicle, it was this week or nothing. After the day I’d just had, a support vehicle would be a godsend. My dad swept in. On Thursday he hopped on a plane to Denver (the rental car shortage continues. That’s the place he managed to get a reservation). On Friday he drove eight hours to meet me in Chamberlain, SD.

Now, back to Burke, SD. I got my Margarita and headed to the campground from a different direction. It felt ominous, biking down a dirt road, a horse in a nearby paddock reared up and whinnied frantically. I told her she was okay, everything was okay, and continued down the road, singing to myself as I went as I often did to pass the time. I got to the campground at Burke Lake and found it completely empty. No cars, no tents, no people. I shrugged it off. Empty could be creepy, but I’d survived worse. I grabbed an envelope and sat at a picnic bench, ready to pay for my campsite. As I sat there a man in a truck with an empty horse trailer in back came. For a moment I thought it was an RV and the place was about to get less creepy. I was wrong though. He came into the campground, slowed to a crawl and stared at me. He did a loop around the campground like he was scoping it and me out and then disappeared. Whether logical or an overreaction, I now felt like this was going to be the place I got murdered.

I called my mom, and my best friend, Emily, told them what happened and they agreed that I should probably find somewhere that felt safer to stay, so with much irritation I got back on my bike and headed into town again. I called the local motel, which had vacancies and was blessedly inexpensive. As I was heading to my room, a car pulled up and three women emerged. They recognized me. They passed me on the highway earlier that day. They were on their own adventure, exploring South Dakota to try to find their great grandparents’ headstones. They were going from cemetery to cemetery to try to fill in the blank spots in their family history. We talked in the parking lot for quite a while. I told them about my own journey, about the creepy experience I’d just had at the campground. I gave the youngest of the three women, the daughter, my Instagram handle and we parted ways. When I called my mom from the hotel room she told me her first thought when I called from the campground was, by a lake is a convenient place to dump the body.”

I woke up the next morning to find my rear tire completely flat (Again? Yes, Again). I pumped it full of air since I hadn’t experienced a sudden flat. It seemed to be a slow leak, and I forgot about it for the rest of the day. After Burke it felt like I was just getting the miles behind me until I had my dad with me as a support vehicle. South Dakota had been mostly scenery for me. I’d stop to take pictures of the prairies and hillsides and keep heading down the road. There really was nowhere to stop but in the grass beside the shoulder. As I approached the river again, I coasted down an especially long stretch of hillside, counting my blessings that my brakes worked. This was often the case as I got closer to the river. It sat at the bottom of a valley and while at night I coasted down to it to stay at a lakeside campground, it meant the next morning started with a steep climb. This hill led me to Snake Creek. As I pulled into the campground, I could feel my rear tire skidding and suddenly recalled the morning’s flat. I had made it through the entire day riding on it before it gave out. I broke out my tools and patched it, kept my gear off it for a few hours to see if it’d go flat again. As I went to set up my tent I was startled by a frog the same color as the dry grass around me. The same frog continued to startle me every time I crossed that way. I went down to the boat launch to have dinner at the snack shack, and when I got back the tire was completely flat again. I called it. I replaced the tube and it gave me no more trouble. I was dreading the climb that would start the next morning. I even told my neighbor, who asked me about my trip as I was leaving, that I had the feeling I’d be walking up the hill. Once I got going though, I went up it like a gosh darn champ! I don’t even think I stopped to breathe. Perhaps it was the knowledge that by that afternoon I’d have support. My dad would carry my bags in his rental car and I wouldn’t have to worry about further damaging my bike. I got to Chamberlain fairly early in the afternoon and not long after, my dad met up with me.

I took a long break. We had a late lunch together. We went to see the Dignity statue that everyone mistakes for Sacagawea. The sculpture is of a Sioux woman. Not every depiction of a Native American woman is Sacagawea. This was the second surreal instance on this journey that I saw something familiar. I saw this sculpture by chance on the cross-country trip that inspired this adventure. The visitor center wasn’t open when my mom and I came this way, so I got to explore it for the first time with my dad. After that we went to the Akta Lakota Museum. Native American learning experiences had been rare so far. Often centers that I wanted to visit were too far out of the way to justify on a bike. I was thrilled to have access to a car so I could cram more learning and sight-seeing into my trip.

We ended the day in Fort Thompson, just one long stretch before Pierre, SD. My dad has opinions about the type of campgrounds he preferred. He didn’t want to be crammed in amongst RVs. After Snake Creek and the Fort Randall campgrounds I was fairly confident in state and federally run sites. That night we stayed at Left Tailrace Campground, run by the Army Corps of Engineers. I wasn’t disappointed. It had been a warm day, but the prairie winds off Lake Sharpe made it downright comfortable. We went for a walk to watch the water, and when we got back to our campsite, we started a fire. Our neighbor offered us use of camping chairs and hot dogs to roast. He was on the last day of a trip to every National Park in the U.S.

There were two routes I could have taken from Fort Thompson. One was exceptionally hilly but went through National Grassland, the other was much flatter. I chose the one through grasslands. I told my dad that morning that I hoped to see prairie dogs soon as we were halfway through the state and I still hadn’t seen a single one. I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to tell me if he saw them. I decided not to ask. I wanted to experience the magic of stumbling upon them myself. I didn’t have much in the way of cell service anyhow. I left my panniers in my dad’s rental car. Without them I felt like a superhero. As my dad drove away to our first meet-up location, ten miles down the road, my GPS spun wildly. I wasn’t sure what direction I should go in. I biked back and forth from the exit of the recreation area to a roadworker at the start of the dam and back three or four times before I finally committed and turned left. Thankfully the sense was knocked back into my GPS and I biked up the giant hill and away from the lake, down route 1806. I coasted down a long hill toward Lower Brulle, SD. For a moment I thought I saw a bunny running across a field, but it wasn’t hopping the way a bunny would. Then I saw the mounds. PRAIRIE DOGS!!

I pulled over and called my dad. He had never been to South Dakota before. It is well known that prairie dog towns are my happy place. I asked him if he wanted to come back and see a prairie dog, that I was going to be here a while. I could hear them squeaking, but the moment they realized I was paying attention to them they scurried back into their homes. I spent a good thirty minutes or more there, basking in the sounds of the prairie dogs. My dad and I parted ways for the next meet-up. Not long after I got a call from my dad who was down the road on the other side of town. The road was closed up ahead and the only alternative routes would either involve the interstate or add about thirty miles to an already exceptionally long day. I pedaled through town, grateful to have an alternative. In the moment I wasn’t sure how I’d have dealt with the situation without my dad. I probably would have had to stay in Lower Brulle after a very short ride and then cram the detour into the next day. It wasn’t until much later that I remembered I’d planned on the flatter route before I knew my dad was coming. When he came I decided on the more difficult ride because I thought it would be more scenic and more likely to have prairie dogs. Regardless of the detour I was glad I made the choice I did. I saw my beloved prairie dogs!

I continued down 1806 all day. There were prairie dog towns for miles upon miles and I was wildly happy. I felt mostly capable of the ride, powering up hills and sailing down them. My dad and I were working on finding a rhythm. It was an incredibly hot. I met up with my him approximately every 15 miles, but he was enjoying the scenery, the fact that we could see the Missouri down below us, the prairies surrounding us. I passed him a few times or stopped because I saw him pulled over to take pictures. I was nearly done for the day. I was nearing the end of my final stretch and I saw a mammoth hill before me. My dad later said that he laughed out loud when he saw the hill I was about to have to climb. I had his pity. There was a series of a few mad hills, and I was fighting crosswinds and headwinds all day. I had been so pleased with myself that I’d survived all the hills the past few days without getting off my bike, but I had to cave. I wasn’t even carrying gear anymore! I’d bike as far as I could manage, get off my bike and walk until my legs felt up to attempting to pedal again. After the worst of the hills it was a downhill stretch all the way to Fort Pierre. It was such a long downhill stretch I was nervous that I’d overshot the turn and would have to pedal back uphill. Fortunately I hadn’t and finally met up with my dad once again.