After waking up in a nice but over-priced hotel in downtown Rapid City, I stepped into the hall to get the morning paper (before the news was on my phone) and did something spontaneous to get a quick laugh from the kids. I was in shorts, bare-chested. As I stepped into the hall, I fell to my knees, stretched my arms out, and beat my chest in a comical, primal manner. Little did I realize that this blip of a moment would forever be remembered and retold just to see me blush. I guess it was impressionable for them to see their dad act so carefree for a change.
As they say, it’s the little moments that count.
Having gained an hour due to the time change and finally getting a solid night’s sleep, we were ready to take on the day. And what a day we had planned. But first, I had to take a quick jaunt up Iron Mountain for old-time’s sake. When I was a kid, my dad took a wrong turn that led us up Iron Mountain. Now, I wasn’t sure if things changed since then or if the drama of the moment warped my memory at an impressionable young age, but 30 years apart, I experienced two very different Iron Mountains.
The one from my youth was scarier than all get-out. My Dad whipped up the mountain in our full-size family van at an accelerated pace, cutting the wheel on hairpin mountainside turns that had my mom clutching the doorframe, screaming for him to slow down or stop. My sister and I laughed aloud between excited yet terrified screams. My dad’s antics were something akin to Jack Nicholson busting through a door with an ax in the movie The Shining, saying, “He-e-e-re’s Johnny!”
My dad was shedding the stresses of real life and settling into vacation mode. For a change, he was carefree, too, having fun creating drama. We were scared and loved every minute of the tormented drive, and he knew it.
As I enjoyed reminiscing about the memory and telling it to my family, I noticed the drive was not scary at all. In fact, it was rather pleasant.
At one point, we came to a tunnel with people taking pictures of …us? It turned out it was only us by accident. Once we were through, my wife looked back and said, “Wow!”
So, we, too, pulled over on the other side of the tunnel on a stretch of road that was not built for so many people to park cars and walk away. Seeing Mount Rushmore framed by a mountain tunnel was a picturesque shot. And we, too, became the Dead Presidents’ Paparazzi.
Near the top of the mountain, we pulled off to take a mini hike to see wildlife. We were treated to an enormous herd of deer. Then, we reached a large area offering tourist overlooks near the summit. It, too, provided worthwhile views.
In the spirit of a carefree mood, we decided to keep going rather than turn back.
When we descended the other side of the mountain, we didn’t know where it would lead. It proved to be one of the best spontaneous decisions of the trip as if this “detour” hadn’t already paid dividends.
We neared the bottom and later discovered we were in the 71,000-acre Custer State Park, home to nearly 1,500 buffalo—I mean bison. Did you know there are no wild buffalo in North America, and there never were? Early settlers mistakenly labeled the bison they saw as buffalo because it resembled buffalo found in Africa and Asia. The name stuck—wrong as it is.
Before seeing our first buffalo (sorry, I’m as bad as the early settlers), we saw burros, pronghorns, mountain goats, and elk. But as the saying goes, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Around a bend, we had to slow down as if we were driving into one of those drive-through wildlife safaris where animals come up to the car, and you feed them. Only this was truly a wild setting, and the last thing on our minds was feeding wild animals. But we did slow to a stop to take a picture of a buffalo on the edge of the road right next to us, with only the opposite lane separating man from beast.
“HE’S CHARGING!”
I hit the gas on the first grunt, and darned if that thing didn’t lunge at us.
With that adrenaline-induced moment still over-pumping blood through our hearts, we had two more buffalo come over a ridge from the opposite direction. They were in full stride. For big animals, they move fast. I read that they can run as fast as a horse. Although they looked like they were chasing each other, we did not slow down.
Once charged, twice shy …or something like that.
Another blind bend and another surprise. This time, we had to come to a complete stop. A couple of cars ahead of us disappeared into the herd, as our SUV did to anyone behind us. It took close to 30 minutes to navigate like inchworms through the maze of buffalo, swallowing the road and countryside all around us.
I said aloud, “PLEASE, don’t scratch the paint, fella.” I was worried about my new vehicle and unsure if my insurance covered buffalo encounters.
Then there it was, “Dad, I have to go to the …”
“HOLD IT!”
By Frank Rocco Satullo, The OhioTraveler, Your Tour Guide to Fun!
