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Badlands

Mar 09, 2001 -- Bob, Dan and I are drinking at the Cove Lounge on East 55th Street. It's another muggy Chicago summer night, and we're killing time. The talk turns to travel, and Bob tells us about the Badlands of South Dakota. "It's the most fantastic place you've ever seen," he raves. "It's not just desert, it's like the surface of the moon. It's ... bad land."

Dan and I betray little interest. Bob motions to the bartender. "Elia, another round. Three Backpacker Specials."

Elia returns with three huge shots of whiskey. Dan and I are impressed. A plan forms: we'll pack all the supplies we can carry and hike into the Badlands.

A blur of shopping, packing, interstate traffic and roadside diners deposits us in the Primitive Camping Area of Badlands National Park. We pull up in a good spot, fill our water jugs, and walk in.

A large sign marks the trail head: "WARNING: DO NOT APPROACH BISON. THEY ARE EASILY AROUSED, AND DO NOT FEAR HUMANS. FAILURE TO HEED THIS WARNING MAY RESULT IN INJURY OR DEATH." A gruesome drawing accompanies it.

As we trudge through tall grass en route to some white-clay cliffs, we talk and sing and beat the grass to scare away the rattlesnakes -- but we're not too loud, not wanting to startle a 2,500 lb bison.

After a few hours of lugging 50-pound packs under blazing sun and 105 degree heat, we reach a cliff with a stunning view, and pitch camp. We lay out under a clear night sky resplendent with stars.

We sleep fitfully, though; Bob doesn't feel safe without his boots on his feet, a frying pan in one hand, and a flashlight in the other. Dan and I try to avoid startling him.

The next morning, we scamper up and down some fascinating hill formations resembling glaciers made of white mud. But once midday arrives, it's too damn hot to do anything. We've only got one book, which we take turns reading aloud to each other.

After dinner, we realize that we're a day out from the car with only half a day's supply of water. We ration what's left, rise early the next morning and head back.

The sun bakes us mercilessly, and our packs, while lighter from the water we've consumed, are still burdensome. Worst of all, we've completely run out of songs to scare the snakes away.

I find a tiny, very muddy pool of water -- which we dare not drink from -- and take the opportunity to wash my hair. Bob and Dan decline to join me.

By mid-afternoon, we're lost. My head throbs, Dan's complaining of dizziness, and Bob is eyeing the cacti. Suddenly, a distant mirage coalesces into a pair of hikers -- heading straight toward us! "People!" Bob cries, and we drop our packs and run towards them. A couple in their fifties, they pass their canteens, chat, and show us where we are on the topographic map.

"Haven't seen too many bison," the man offers, "but did you check out those puddles of urine they leave behind?"

Bob and Dan look at each other, then at me. I run my fingers through my sticky hair. Nobody says anything.

We thank our new friends, then the three of us saddle up and walk the rest of the way back to the car.

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