A SoDak Moment: Three Towns

 

I’ve never thought too much about South Dakota (SoDak) – not in a bad way, as it was always “just there”, a State to pass through on a car where every mile looks the same.  Indeed, I think there are actually two SoDak’s: the Black Hills/Badlands, and everything else, where “everything else” is what everyone passes through to get somewhere else, even to the Badlands/Black Hills and points beyond.

It has been useful to see SoDak mile-by-mile to get a better sense of the place.  I was pleasantly surprised.  Three towns on my slow crossing by bicycle deserve special mention, along with the abundance of friendly people, and the subtle beauty of the prairie.

Midland

While not quite in the middle of SoDak, it could be considered in the middle of nowhere.  I was riding from Interior, just south of the Badlands National Park, anxious to avoid the grueling headwinds of the day before, and having less sleep due to a bone rattling, tent bending, wind/rain/thunderstorm. My “Little Agnes” tent survived, but my two neighbors were not so lucky, resorting to their cars to spend an uncomfortable night.

My last look of the Badlands was grinding up Cedar Pass northward out of the Park, into the rolling plains I have become familiar with.  The storm blew out the hot weather in favor of cool morning temperatures, but the wind persisted from due west.  

Travelling north, I stopped at the Minuteman Missile Museum, itself out in the middle of nowhere at a non-descript exit off the Interstate Highway 90.  But it was filled with mostly older visitors, and stirred some long latent memories of the Cold War era in our history, especially practicing air raid drills in elementary school.  The missile system was quite a network of underground silos across North and South Dakota, and Montana. Why?  As the silos were themselves a target, locating them in the middle of nowhere reduces collateral damage.  And the upper Midwest plains represented a shorter travel distance across the north pole to the former USSR.  Quite a sobering visit to learn more about this part of our history. But there really was no town attached to this place.

I continued north, into the “nowhere” on a gravel road for 22 miles, rolling up and down every creek draw.  I was passed by exactly 1 pickup truck the entire time, and enjoyed experiencing the treeless plains, the surprising abundance of birdsong from the prairie cover, and riding through the Buffalo Gap National Grasslands.  The beauty, in all its austerity, was sublime.  

Connecting to US14, I now had a nearly perfect tailwind, and arrived quickly in the town of Midland.  A railroad town, there seemed very little “alive” in town;  it seemed at first impression quite a ghost town, but was actually very quietly alive.  All the streets were gravel except the two main roads.  There was a hardware store, a convenience store, a closed-up restaurant, a granary/seed store, and the Midland Pioneer Museum opposite a central square park.  And there was the Stroppel Hotel and Mineral Bath.

This intrigued me.  I had made a reservation – an email to its new owner Laurie Cox was adequate.  The structure was originally known in the late 1880’s as the Bastion Hotel – a vintage hotel so common in these railroad towns located adjacent the tracks.  In 1907, it was moved two blocks across the tracks with a team of 59 horses (and holding up a train!). 

In 1939, the new Owner, George Stroppel, dug a 1,780 foot deep well to tap the 115 degree mineral waters and piped them directly into the hotel (the well was deepened many years later and yielded its present 119 degrees).  George wanted full therapeutic healing, and not just the baths.  A chiropractor he retained turned out to have a drinking problem, so George learned massage, which continues to this day.  It is a really old-time spa in the modern sense of the word.

There are three “plunging baths” within the hotel – hot, hotter, hottest – depending on how much ventilation you need to simply breathe.  Now the hotel itself is “well lived-in” and resembles more of a hostel, with a kitchen and community rooms available for patrons.  The rooms are quaint, simple and well attended to.  The porch on the second floor affords a view to the railroad tracks a block away – and keen proximity to their whistles as they pass through. 

After about 60 miles of riding that day, the “plunge” felt great – in just the “hot” bath.  Totally worth the visit and a step back into history.

But as evening approached, there was only one option for dinner – the convenience store had a tiny grill within it that I visited.  I took a seat at one of three tables, leaving the counter for the locals – all older locals.  It wasn’t too long that I was engaged in a conversation with a couple of ranchers, one 66 and the other 81. Over my ice-cold beer, I learned a bit about their current woes: who has to sell cattle because of the drought, who had to cut wheat for hay (before the wheat flowers as the seeds will choke cattle) since hay is still fetching a good price, and that one of these large round bales of hay can last 10 years!

Midland is worth the visit and perfect for bicyclists on the Adventure Cycling Parks, Peaks and Prairies route.  On my way out the next morning, I stopped at the C-store for some chocolate milk for “down the road” and the 81 year old rancher was there, took my hand, and wished for me safe travels.    

 

Wessington Springs

I was supposed to get to Huron – a long days ride of some 80+ miles.  But the hot winds had other ideas.  The rolling upland prairie, a continuous treeless yet beautiful grassland, had nothing to stop the wind from sending me westward. Towns were quite far apart, and for this stretch the one town on my map that was within striking distance for a break was Wessington Springs.

And ice cream

According to Google Maps, there was an ice cream shop in town.  That will be enough to keep any cyclist going.  The thought of a cool, refreshing, protein and sugar laced milk shake keeps the pedals rotating.   After finally cresting what seemed an interminable number of “rolls”, I was startled to find myself at the crest of a ridge, looking across a wide expanse of flatness that lay before me as far as the eye could see.  This ridge running north and south hosted the first windfarm I have seen on this trip, and also represents a geographical shift in the landscape, the dividing point between the Coteau de Missouri (central SoDak) and the eastern plains, the Coteau des Prairies.  Basically, prehistoric seas were deeper where it is flatter, and shallower where the prairie undulates, and as it drained, it left this long ridge.

Wessington Springs is situated on the side of this Paleozoic embankment, so I simply rolled downhill into town and located the ice cream shop, strategically placed across the street from the City Park. 

“Is there camping allowed in the City Park?’

The answer was yes, the afternoon was still a bit early – 3:00 – and there was still another 40 miles to go to Huron.  But there was also this curious attraction: the Shakespeare Garden and the Anne Hathaway Cottage.

Go or stay?

The stars were seemingly aligned in favor of staying, primarily because to make Huron on a day like today would have put me in quite late, and I would have missed this opportunity to see the garden and cottage, and possibly harbor regrets thereafter.

I stayed – milk shakes have this tendency to reduce one’s mind to complacency.  The campsites were primarily 5 RV sites lined up in the blazing sun, and a small, level spot beneath a grove of trees that beckoned a tent.  And, there was a community pool, a shower facility set amongst the open space, courts and a ball field.  This was perfect.

I set up my tent and hopped on my bike for the garden.  Little Leaguers were starting to gather at the ball field.  Hungry though, I showered up and went to the local restaurant – the only sit-down customer ordering some pretty good fried chicken.  After, I took a $3.00 dip in a very cool pool while listening the the ball game being announced.  As daylight shifted to evening, the field lights came on and the game continued, with the loudspeaker blaring all manner of progress,

This was a great scene of personal contentment, nested in my tree grove, walkers strolling by waving or chatting.  This was Americana – a sense of community that even brought outsiders to live here.

I would have missed this blindly following my schedule.   

 

DeSmet

I was intrigued by the published moniker: ”The little town on the prairie”.

What I am referring to is the family legacy of Laura Ingalls Wilder; to especially male readers not in the know, the famous author of the Little House on the Prairie series.  Some of us older folks even remember Pa as Michael Landon in the TV series of the same name, the town so called as its claim to fame proudly hosts the house that Pa built, the kitchen cabinets of which are his original, unaltered handiwork. 

Laura actually never lived there – she had already married and moved to their claim, but she cites many of the commercial establishments in her books.  These establishments are tagged to the buildings when walking around town, making for an interesting blend of fact tagged to quotations from Laura’s books.

I wasn’t even planning on visiting DeSmet, but in the heat of the long day peddling, fighting yet another quartering headwind, I needed an option for camping or a motel, and this was relatively close to my intended route.  Perhaps (again) influenced by the milk shake I consumed while pondering my sleeping options, I decided on trying a bed and breakfast option for a change of pace.  They are great ways to learn more about the town and its culture and character. I stopped at one that looked classically homey with a broad porch, but after two attempts, no one either answered the door or the telephone. I gave up.

I then tried a hotel, first by phone rolling to a message machine, then in person at the site, but the sign on the office door said they would be back at 6:30 – so no one to check me in until then?  Quite odd.

I then called the Heritage House B&B, “downtown”, but also no answer.  This place intrigued me as it was housed in an old Bank building, and as an architecture buff, I thought that would be cool, and likely unaffordable as many B&B’s are.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS TOWN?  NO ONE ANSWERS THE CALL!

I then wandered up to the Heritage and tried the door.  Locked.  As I wandered away, the door opened and Ms. Kim Ernst called out “can I help you?”

With a cavernous living room with old tin ceilings, an old Diebold vault door, and a room that may have been taller than it was wide, this was a classy restoration.  And surprisingly affordable.

I stayed.  I walked the town, got a sense of the place.  It has a great vibe to me, seemed vibrant and alive.  And Pa’s place stands unassumingly amidst other houses on the street. Without that particular knowledge of its unique origin, its history would be lost, the house just like so many others in small Midwest towns.  The house was closed, but it and the Bank building, the very wide Main Street (to turn horse drawn wagons around), and a marvelous county courthouse took me back in time.  The only thing this town should do is restore their old street facades to their original architecture, as close to Laura’s time as possible, and eliminate some poor 1960 era “restorations” that do the street no justice.  This would solidly complete the vision a visitor draws.  What if the Loftus Store cited in the books actually looked like it did?

I couldn’t help thinking about Laura and her younger sister Carrie running in a prairie field as Hollywood made it up to be. There is nothing wrong with this town either.  It is just an uncomplicated, simple existence.

I too, rolled in these prairies.