Tales of a Road Trip Through
Nebraska and South Dakota

I

n spring of 2019, a few friends and I set our sights on Nebraska. Why? I'm still not sure. We knew nothing of the state, and its beige reputation and catchy tourism slogan—Honestly, it's not for everyone—piqued our interest.

After a long day of driving, we made it to Iowa and shivered ourselves to sleep in a deserted campground. By dinner the next day, we pulled off I-80 into Omaha. The adventure had begun.

While I'm still not sure about God, you bet I believe in Orsi. On the quiet corner of Pacific and 7th, just south of the tracks, stands Orsi's Italian Bakery and Pizzaria.

When we weary road-riders arrived in Omaha, the food we had packed had long since run out. The situation was dire. Orsi's was cheap, well-reviewed, and, most importantly, close.

We entered; the smell of fresh bread and simmering sauce flattened us against the door like a gust of wind. Flanked by an impressive array of sausages to the left and wire shelves of pasta to the right, our shoes squeaked the linoleum as we made our way to the back counter, and Orsi (him!) came around from the back. We ordered a few pizzas.

When he brought them out, he asked if we wanted some garlic bread on the side. Being human, we knew we had to accept, no matter the price. Atop the heap of food he put three cannolis and a loaf of bread—"for you hungry kids." We told him about our trip, our start in Milwaukee and aspirations of Mount Rushmore. He grinned—he'd done a trip like that when he was our age, too. After we paid, we noticed the recipt only listed the pizza.

We left a large tip.

Fuel aquired, we drove around until we found a park. We carried our bounty to a hill overlooking the Platte and, wind howling, we ate our pizza illuminated by the golden light of evening. Down the hill, geese fought for the bits of crust which the wind had stolen. We finished and walked the scenic route down to the car.

Sun low in our eyes, we headed west.

We ditched the interstate and followed the Platte, making our way north to highway 91, which would take us through the sand hills and across the state. We powered on past dormant farms, cannoli-fueled and determined to make it to the planned campsite.

And we did. It was, however, lame, so we powered on. The sun had fallen, but our mood had not, and in a brisk few hours we came to Leigh, population 405. We pulled into Maple Creek Recreation Area around 11pm. There was not a cloud in the sky to obstruct the milky way, and under their light we bested the wind and assembled our tent. We were the only ones there.

And for good reason. At some dark and cursed hour I woke with a jolt to the violent whipping of the rain fly. I peeled myself from my bag and donned a second pair of socks before worming out into the cold night. With my headlamp I assessed the damage. The wind had crushed the tent like an accordian. Contorted and shaking, the windward poles had fled their stakes and were bent against the body of the tent, which seemed restrained from flight only by our sleeping bodies.

With the strength of someone awake at 3am—or rather, the lack thereof—I twisted the tent back into shape and resecured the stakes. As I walked around the tent, already back asleep, I happened to look up and calapsed on the long, dry, tussocked grass. Against the ground, the wind dissapeared, and for a moment the world was still and sunk away and nothing remained between me and the multitudinous stars above. I imagine if I am ever trapped inside a bottle, I will recognize the feeling: protected, looking up, wind whistling above, an intense and singular focus on that window towards the heavens.

I laid there forever. After 5 minutes I got up and, wind-whipped once more, crawled back into the warmth of the tent.

As it turns out, the vast sand hills are a nicer destination in theory than in practice. Don't get me wrong—they were great to drive through, that barren and alien nothing which turns away even the hardiest of shrubs. We stopped at Nebraska National Forest for a walk and a view, and continued west. After a quick lunch at Chadron's Bean Broker Coffee House and Pub, which is a wonderful name for anything, we got briefly stuck in the mud and decided that Nebraska had had enough of us. Fair enough.

The drive into South Dakota was beautiful. After so much rolling beige, any hint of exposed rock rejuvinated our souls. Driving over still-snowy passes and through mountain-shadowed valleys, this new landscape felt thousands of miles away from the sand hills.

Driving down into the valley, I saw backlit shapes on the hill across the road. I slammed on the breaks, much to the loud annoyance of my passengers, and jumped out, staying low as to not break the silhouette of the car. As I slunk across the road, camera at the ready, many ears turned in unison like flowers to the sun.

As I lowered myself into the ditch, the family of mule deer stood rigid as rocks. They were almost black against the low, orange sun. I crouched in the itchy grass, silent and still, and after a moment the deer started to approach, curious. They kept their distance, but emerged from the tall grasses enough for me to get several shots of their outline.

Memory card satiated, I unfolded my stiff road-trip-legs and walked back across the road, leaving the deer to bask unhindered in the sinking sun.

We stayed that night in Custer State Park, sheperded to a great campsite by a friendly ranger, happy, I think, to see the youths outside. I made Carbonara in a Cast Iron, which is the name of my future cross-cultural bluegrass revival band, and it was good. I ate off the spatula. (Spatulas for Spoons is another great band name.)

Early the next morning we drove around the park looking for bison. We found them, alright, but the light was bad and I didn't get many good shots. We hiked up briefly to a misty vista, and got great views of the inside of clouds, of the kind of haze that makes you feel like you've reached the end of the earth. The trail was up to our waist in snowdrift, and frost covered the delicate needles of hardy pines.

We spent the day among invisible mountains. After the obligatory 5 minutes at Mount Rushmore—underwhelming—and a quick dinner in Rapid City—underwhelming—, we rode I-90 all the way home.

I can't say this was the most exciting trip I've been on, or the most beautiful, but I can say it was the most adventurous. It started with a "let's go to Nebraska! Wait, what's in Nebraska?" and became a 5 day expedition through alien terrain. The drives dragged on and the landscapes were beige, but that wasn't the point. From Orsi to the Ranger in Custer and everyone we met in between, we only felt welcome at a time when we were utterly on our own. This trip wasn't just a drive to Mount Rushmore and back; it was a realization that the destination isn't the point of travel.