Day 18

Before camping last night, I went to a ranger talk about paleoart, which is a quasi-official name for artistic renderings of prehistoric creatures. Fossil records only tell paleontologists so much about what certain species looked like; the rest is the collective educated guess of the paleontologist and the artist. The speaker was adequate, but the material was fascinating. Science has progressed to the point where we can tell what color fossilized feathers were—no more guesswork there.

I woke up early again to get into Badlands before the heat became unbearable. I set out into the backcountry, armed with a topographic map and a compass in case I lost my way in the canyons. One of the sage employees at Wall Drug, font of knowledge, told me the prairie rattlesnakes have been more active this year, so I kept my eyes peeled for them as well. Turns out I needn’t have worried. My planned two-mile loop was a breeze, and while I spotted rabbits, birds, and squirrels, nothing slithered my way. Most impressive was that on a busy Labor Day weekend, I had this corner of the world all to myself.

As much as I enjoyed South Dakota, it was time to move on, but I would have one more encounter before I left the state. My route south took me through the Pine Ridge Reservation, belonging to the Oglala Lakota people. Farms are few and far between, as are businesses, and houses are in poor repair. Chronic alcoholism has crippled the reservation. The crimes of European settlers resonate here as strongly as anywhere I’ve seen.

The point was made most strongly as I pulled into Wounded Knee, site of the last significant armed conflict between Native Americans and the United States government. The Wounded Knee Massacre occurred after the death of Chief Sitting Bull and the surrender of Chief Big Foot, also known as Spotted Elk. The surrendered Lakota people were surrounded by the US military, who disarmed the men of the tribe. A disagreement broke out, a rifle was discharged, and soldiers rained down fire upon the mostly-weaponless Lakota men, women, and children with mountain guns. If you haven’t seen a mountain gun, it is a small howitzer.

I read this not in a well-maintained visitor center, but on a single wooden sign; the word “BACK” was spray-painted at the bottom to indicate the text continued. The clearing where the massacre occurred was mostly empty save for a couple of simple pavilions. A woman had set up shop nearby, and invited me over after I finished reading. Valerie pointed me in the direction of the cemetery where the victims were buried, showed me her jewelry for sale, and offered stories about life on the reservation. She couldn’t have been older than my parents, but did not look well. Her fluffy white dog yapped angrily at my heels through the tablecloth. Feeling very much overmatched by the situation, I bought a buffalo-tooth necklace with beads of the four primary Lakota colors: yellow, white, black, and red.

I drove up to the cemetery. A single brick arch, whitewash fading, announced the small graveyard. Newer headstones surrounded a marker commemorating the victims of Wounded Knee. Over two hundred and fifty Lakota, buried in a mass grave. Wall Drug boasts two million visitors a year; only an hour away, I was all but alone.