Day Nine: Open Country

• August 27: Cottonwood Springs Lake Campground to municipal campground, Edgewood, S.D.
• Miles: 24 miles
• Elevation gain: 400 feet

It was surprisingly chilly when I woke the next morning. I donned a Merino-wool long-sleeved shirt and rain shell, but still shivered as I started down the paved road at 5:50 a.m. I soon turned right to follow dirt Erskine Road west-northwest, uphill and past alternating patches of forest, mini-canyons and pastures dotted with distant cattle.

High, patchy clouds reflected the rising sun as I hustled along, making good time and stopping only to look at a small cemetery. I turned south on Valley Road and was soon continuing my shoulder-walk along Highway 18. At 8:20, I reached the George S. Mickelson Trail, a 109-mile rails-to-trail, gravel path between Deadwood and Edgemont, used mostly by bicyclists.

Stopping at the Minnekahta Trailhead, I was pleased to discover that the Mickelson features cisterns filled with drinking water at regular intervals, from April 30 to Oct. 1. That meant I could offload some heavy water for the 16-mile walk to Edgemont and fill up at the Sheep Canyon cistern in about 10 miles.

I reveled in the flat, even surface as I headed south and the day began to warm. Heading down the long valley known as Chilson Canyon was pleasant and easy. Soon the trail turned west and crossed under Highway 18S, snaking between two beautiful, dry Deadhorse and Sheep canyons. I stopped at the cistern to fill a water bottle and switch out my Altras for sandals in an effort to relieve my feet, which were hot and sore after the first 17 miles of my day.

After a short, gradual climb under hot blue skies, I could see the glittering telltales of my destination off to the southwest, looking tantalizingly close. Alas, the trail veered off to northwest, dragging me two miles away from Edgemont before turning south to descend the mesa and parallel follow Highway 18.

Cruddy approach to town, I grumbled in my journal. Junky shit yards and abandoned rail cars for literally a mile and a half.

By the time I got to Edgemont, I was beat. Hot, tired, thirsty and hungry. I followed 2^nd Avenue to the southern terminus of the Mickelson trail in a humble little park, where I sat for a minute to sort myself out. The municipal campground lay just a couple blocks to the south, but I was ravenously hungry and needed a resupply. I hoisted my pack and walked into the small, free local museum. The woman behind the counter was thrilled to have a customer, then disappointed when I asked her for directions to a restaurant or anywhere to buy food. I promised I’d come back after I’d eaten and made camp.

Walking nearly a mile back through town, I passed through neighborhoods where small, occupied houses stood next to boarded-up mansions. Edgemont had seen better days.

I was most grateful to find a restaurant, micro-casino and gas station that also had a small grocery store. Before shopping, I drank about 70 ounces of icy Coke and mowed through a grilled cheese, fries and salad. Among the items I bought while shopping were two mini bottles of tequila and some strawberry Gatorade, which would make for a possibly disgusting cocktail.

I trudged back to the campground, where a note had been posted instructing prospective guests to call a local number. I left a message, then set up my tent on a grassy lawn across from a small cluster of pickups and large camp trailers, temporary homesteads for employees of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe railroad. Then, I kept my promise and returned to the museum.

Edgemont was born a railroad town, it seems, and fought mightily to convince the BNSF to continue using it as a major yard for coal trains between Montana, Wyoming and points south. And from 1942 to 1967, the Black Hills Ordnance Depot south of town provided many jobs, but it was now a ghost town. The town was now very much in decline, with many houses and businesses mournfully boarded up and abandoned.

Back at my tent, I had to zip myself in to fend off clouds of aggressive mosquitoes. It seemed odd, here in such dry country, but the buggers were everywhere.

Toward sundown, an SUV pulled up next to my tent and the camp host rolled down her window to confirm I was the camper who had called. I told her I’d put my $10 in an envelope up at the shower and restroom building, which also doubled as a community theater space. She said the bathroom was now unlocked, so I headed up the hill and enjoyed a long, hot shower.

Although it was tattered and a little sad, I liked Edgemont. Hikers were virtually unheard of, but they had welcomed Mickelson cyclists with open arms and there were just enough amenities to make for a good resupply and rest point.

Clean and walled off from mosquitoes, I lay back in my tent and drank my faux strawberry margarita, which wasn’t as gross as I’d imagined. Several people had warned me about the racket made by trains, but I found the clacking of steel wheels and lonesome whistles a pleasant lullaby as I fell asleep.

Episode 11

Day Twelve: Dusty Roads

• August 30: Toadstool Geologic Park to Crawford, Nebraska
• Miles: 23
• Elevation gain: 2,000 feet

I woke before sunrise to find the ceiling of my tent soaked with condensation.

Decided to hang out to let tent dry, thinking (ha) I had a ‘short’ day ahead of me, I wrote later in my journal. Drying was smart. Day was not short.

To my surprise, by the time I got going around 6:30 a layer of thick, gray clouds had begun to drizzle rain on a moonscape I’d thought of as harsh desert. But cloudy and cool, even wet, was just fine with me after the last few blazing days.

I shouldered my pack and returned to the enigmatic sign, then began following four-inch brown Forest Service posts marching away north, per Steve. The next mile was like walking on the moon as I crunched across the cracked gray landscapes, crossing several washes and passing through a couple of gates before heading back into the grasslands. I soon came upon another brand-new USFS Great Plains Trail sign:

I stood there blinking for a moment, then started laughing and shaking my head as the truth slowly dawned on me. I shrugged off the pack and tugged out the increasingly battered databook pages to confirm, realizing that if I’d been smart enough to do that at any point the day before, I would have saved myself a lot of hassle.

Reveal: All my puzzlement was answered when I reached the Great Plains Trail sign — duh! I was supposed to turn off Orella @ FS918 but had in my head to go all the way to Toadstool Rd., I wrote in my journal later. And there I was, stumping along, wishing for a ‘shortcut.’

I was supposed to have turned off Orella Road to follow FS918, a little-used track, 1.7 miles south to the sign I was now looking at, which would have pointed me east to the campground. Instead of sauntering those beautiful 3.1 miles to end my day, I had tacked on a gratuitous 2.5-mile dirt roadwalk. And now I’d added about 1.5 miles, since I was taking a roundabout way to Hudson-Meng instead of the more-direct Bison Trail.

It was what it was, but I spent the entire day itching to get to town so I could text Steve and disabuse him of any (understandable) notions that I’d lost my mind or was simply stupid.

I got to the Hudson-Meng interpretive center at 8:05 a.m., happy to be making good time but disappointed to learn that it would not open until 10. But no way I was going to sit around for two hours with town beckoning.

As I walked up the hill leaving the site, I did my best not to stir up the cows and calves who insisted on running in a panic alongside me, then dropped down to Milo Road. I’d expected a long, waterless slog, but this lonely dirt road snaked across three nice little streams and passed a stock tank within a mile. Just to be safe, I drank a liter and filled it at the stock tank.

The route south by southeast toward Crawford was much cooler than I’d imagined, winding through alternating stands of pine and oak and pastures, rolling up and down hill after small hill. Looking at a map later, I realized that I was on the north side of Pine Ridge, a long escarpment between the Niobrara and White river drainages across northwest Nebraska, petering out just across the South Dakota border. With its pretty forested buttes and canyons, the ecosystem was similar to the Black Hills, and it was beautiful.

Flecks of rain made for a refreshing stroll on Milo Road. But by the time I reached Rimrock Road some five miles south, the clouds had broken up and the temperature was sneaking upward. As I walked along, I saw something hanging on the barbed-wire fence to my right, but couldn’t make it out until I stood in front of it. It was a deer, dangling with its hind legs tangled in the wires. The little buck must have become trapped while attempting to leap over. I felt terrible imagining his suffering as he hung there dying.

I followed Rimrock through the hills, and by the time I’d reached Moody Road a hot wind was whipping up dust from surrounding fallow farm fields. I’d switched from shoes to sandals and back again, without much relief for my tender feet, finally accepting the discomfort as part of the price of getting to town.

The last miles of the march were grim and frankly ugly. My eyes were constantly filled with windblown dust, brutally uncomfortable when wearing gas-permeable contact lenses. In the final approach to Crawford, Dodd Road lay between two raised fields, simultaneously focusing the hot sun and accelerating the wind. The mini-gulley was thick with fine dust and sand, making every step arduous.

To distract myself, I considered my three upcoming days walking with Emily from KIOS public radio in Omaha. I needed to come up with a plan that was both fun and doable, which took this dust-choked grind through barren fields out of the running.

Still bugged by my mistake the day before, it occurred to me that since Josh would be available to drive, Emily and I could start our first day at FS918 on Orella Road, then walk into Toadstool and take the Bison Trail to Hudson-Meng, following the actual GPT route. From there, we could walk as many miles as we liked through the rewarding Pine Ridge terrain and Josh could scoop us up before we reached this Mordor-like final approach.

Having settled on that plan, I called the Crawford Inn & RV Park. A harried-sounding guy named Jim answered. He said his manager had just quit, and most of the rooms were rented by long-term to highway and railroad workers. But if I didn’t mind sleeping in an unfinished room — “I haven’t finished up the drywall,” he explained — I could have a room for $40, a steal. I thanked him and said I needed to eat before walking up the hill to the motel.

Fried, sore and gritty, I felt sorry for the Angus bulls standing in the intense sun as I walked past the livestock auction. I got to what appeared to be a major intersection of another small town that had seen better days, with several closed and boarded-up businesses visible over the next couple of blocks. But there was a grocery store on one corner, a bar on another and the Tailgate tavern on another.

I slouched through the door, self-conscious about my odor and appearance, and took a seat in a Naugahyde-covered booth. I rarely eat meat when off-trail, but I was ravenous and deeply appreciative of the green-chile burger, fries and very large Pepsi the waitress set down before me. I texted Steve as I ate.

Oh, man. You must think I’m stupid, insane or blind — or all three, I wrote. I’ll call you later to explain all my dumb questions and comments yesterday at Toadstool.

He laughed when we talked a little while later.

“You did seem a little confused,” he said.

After walking the half-mile to the motel I stripped down and cleaned up — Best shower of life? I asked my journal later.

Back down the hill, I tossed my apocalyptically foul gear, including my rapidly disintegrating Altras, into a machine at the coin-op laundry attached to the Corner Bar, then bought some groceries at the unexpectedly well-stocked D&S market across the street. I had a $3 wheat beer and shared, chips, cheese and salsa with two older women who were clearly regular customers.

“You come from where, now?” one asked, halfway in her cups.

“Bear Butte, South Dakota.”

“You walked that whole way?”

“Yup.”

“But … why?”

Crawford, population 953 (and dropping, according to U.S. Census figures), was to be my home away from home for the next two days while I waited for Emily and Josh.

I’m happy. That’s 3 really tough days in a row. Feet pounded, sun hot, lips burning, a thousand skeeter bites, poison ivy, a lot of miles, I wrote in my journal that night as reruns of Gunsmoke played on the TV in my comfy, half-drywalled room. But glad to have done it.

Episode 14