It's Friday...: ...and there's a magical place in South Dakota

This is the second week in a row where the Friday offering is a rework of a previous post. While it's probably risky to drive away the few remaining blog followers with old work, as was mentioned last week, it really is difficult to come up with fresh content every seven days. Perhaps you could consider it a little like summer reruns, or just cut me some slack recognizing that the demands of work and life have conspired to rob me of my creative thoughts...and more importantly, the time to put any thoughts I do have to paper.

In any event, the blog below appeared just about one year ago...in the aftermath of my yearly motorcycle sojourn to South Dakota. As I sit at National Airport in these early hours ready to board the plane for Rapid City, it seems only right to share it again. It's not exactly the same...as a matter-of-fact it's been freshened up quite a bit. So, if you can spare the time, please take a little time to visit a special spot on the southern end of the beautiful Black Hills.

About 60 miles straight south or Rapid City, in the southwest corner of South Dakota, is the southern Black Hills town of Hot Springs. It’s only about 25 minutes east of the Wyoming line, and roughly the same distance just north of the Nebraska boarder. To me, it is the classic Black Hills town…a regular trip back in time with a main street lined with sandstone buildings that look like something out of an 1800’s movie set. The Fall River runs next to the main road, and the city’s warm springs were the impetus for the several late 19^th century health spa resorts that once lined the river.

When I was younger, I would make an annual summer drive from Los Angeles to Abercrombie, North Dakota, and on the morning of the second day (driving straight through), I would head north from Lusk, Wyoming before turning east on Highway 18 toward the South Dakota line and into Hot Springs. Just west of the climb into Hot Springs, there is an incredible valley, and as I would make that eastward trek in the morning light, it usually struck me as among the most beautiful spots on earth.

Amazingly, my first cousin Brent purchased about 3,000 acres about ten years ago just south of that very highway…in pretty much the the exact same spot. He still lives in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, but he flies several times a month (especially in the summer) to spend time in the peaceful ranch setting. For the past couple of years, I have been able to make yearly trips out there in the spring and or summer to help with branding (spring) or ride motorcycles (summer) during the Sturgis bike week. For a host of reasons, the time enjoying the Black Hills is always a highlight...and the time logged on horseback or on the bike is therapeutic beyond any words I know how to convey.

It would be nice to pinpoint exactly why the annual excursions are so comforting, but I’m presuming it has something to do with the stability of the area. Whether I ride the Harley across the state through towns like Watertown, Highmore, Pierre, Phillip and Wall or fly directly into Rapid and drive down to the ranch, things always seem pretty much the same. After living in the ever-changing hustle-and-bustle of both coasts, there is just a sense of contentment that comes from the sameness the American West.

After cleaning up from a day of riding, the evening ritual is always the same. Folks saunter out onto the beautiful wooden porch, pour a glass of red wine, sit by the huge stone fireplace and listen to some Texas' swing via the outdoor Bose speakers blaring Willie's Place. Usually my cousin Laurel brings out some fruit and cheese, and after an hour or so Brent usually fires up some Ribeyes (smothered in butter) big enough to clog even the healthiest aorta. After supper we turn off the Sirius radio and I get out the guitar. We typically spend the remainder of the evening singing old country and gospel songs while sipping wine, gazing at stars and enjoying the roaring fire. Later, well after nightfall, when the fingers are raw from picking King of the Road, Folsom Prison Blues, Amazing Grace and the entire two-hour campfire play list, we often sit in silence, listening to the symphony of the outdoors...and the unmistakable soothing sound of our clogging arteries.

If you’ve ever been there, you already know the magic you encounter while driving through this beautiful area. If you haven’t, I truly hope you find time to make a visit someday. There is simply something healing about the Black Hills, and when driving down the two-lane roads you really never know what you might see. Below are a couple of snapshots from the last trip. Yes...the bison are actually that close.