Driving through the Badlands of S. Dakota
Earlier today I replied to a post and was reminded of my trip through the South Dakota badlands years ago.
My Camry had been my sole traveling companion and I had taken her places she was ever intended to go, but she took me there and valiantly brought me out, safe.
The Badlands are about as far from Times Square as you can get. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. Later than I should have, I checked the gas gauge. Running on empty. I had seen maybe two dusty pickups all day. I had seen no gas stations.
Just as I was about to shift into panic gear, I saw a sign. It was a plywood arrow painted white, with letters painted black. The letters said, “Gas. Hunting. Fishing. Camping. Food.”
It was a quick decision whether to turn. I hadn’t seen any other signs within recent memory.
I turned onto a rocky narrow road and bounced along hopefully until I saw a ranch house with other painted arrow signs scattered in a positively jammed parking lot. Why were so many vehicles, mostly pickups, in a place where there were no people?
There were three gas pumps. Not the slide your card kind. There were signs that said, Pay Inside.
I parked by a pump and went inside. The ranch house had been converted. What was the original living room was now a crowded diner, with tables and chairs and a half-dozen stools with black vinyl seats mended with mostly silver tape. Only one stool was unoccupied. Men dressed like real cowboys (and a cowgirl or two), wearing Stetsons and boots and vests filled the place. I sat on the empty stool, guessing correctly that there was nobody assigned to seating customers.
The man beside me touched his hat and said, “Ma’am.” as a greeting. Then he picked up his beer and went off to feed the jukebox.
Then a woman in a black nylon waitress uniform hobbled over. She shouldn’t have had to waitress to exist. She said, “ya know what you want, or do I have to find a menu?” She lowered herself painfully on the recently emptied stool next to me.
I told her I needed gas and something to eat. She took the gas money and took my order. A hamburger and fries seem safe, and she nodded. “Go out and get your gas. Park away from the pumps if you can.” I filled the tank and my stool was still empty when I returned.
My food appeared shockingly fast and it was tasty. I have no idea who sent me a beer, but I enjoyed it. The waitress returned with the check and a three-ring binder. “You havta sign our book. Please.”
I took the binder and found it was full of notebook paper. The first page was marked with January 1, and the current year. Behind that I found page after page of customer’s names, listing their state or country and comments. There were already nearly a hundred pages, and the customer’s addresses floored me. Russia. Vietnam. Texas. France. People from all over the globe had been there and left their mark. Uganda. New Zealand. It was amazing.
Clearly I was not the only traveler who had driven through the Badlands, in urgent need of that little place. It wasn’t much, by citified standards, but I talked to a few cowboys and ranchers and a music teacher, then left with a full tank and a full belly.
I wondered if that place only appeared when it was needed?
My Camry had been my sole traveling companion and I had taken her places she was ever intended to go, but she took me there and valiantly brought me out, safe.
The Badlands are about as far from Times Square as you can get. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. Later than I should have, I checked the gas gauge. Running on empty. I had seen maybe two dusty pickups all day. I had seen no gas stations.
Just as I was about to shift into panic gear, I saw a sign. It was a plywood arrow painted white, with letters painted black. The letters said, “Gas. Hunting. Fishing. Camping. Food.”
It was a quick decision whether to turn. I hadn’t seen any other signs within recent memory.
I turned onto a rocky narrow road and bounced along hopefully until I saw a ranch house with other painted arrow signs scattered in a positively jammed parking lot. Why were so many vehicles, mostly pickups, in a place where there were no people?
There were three gas pumps. Not the slide your card kind. There were signs that said, Pay Inside.
I parked by a pump and went inside. The ranch house had been converted. What was the original living room was now a crowded diner, with tables and chairs and a half-dozen stools with black vinyl seats mended with mostly silver tape. Only one stool was unoccupied. Men dressed like real cowboys (and a cowgirl or two), wearing Stetsons and boots and vests filled the place. I sat on the empty stool, guessing correctly that there was nobody assigned to seating customers.
The man beside me touched his hat and said, “Ma’am.” as a greeting. Then he picked up his beer and went off to feed the jukebox.
Then a woman in a black nylon waitress uniform hobbled over. She shouldn’t have had to waitress to exist. She said, “ya know what you want, or do I have to find a menu?” She lowered herself painfully on the recently emptied stool next to me.
I told her I needed gas and something to eat. She took the gas money and took my order. A hamburger and fries seem safe, and she nodded. “Go out and get your gas. Park away from the pumps if you can.” I filled the tank and my stool was still empty when I returned.
My food appeared shockingly fast and it was tasty. I have no idea who sent me a beer, but I enjoyed it. The waitress returned with the check and a three-ring binder. “You havta sign our book. Please.”
I took the binder and found it was full of notebook paper. The first page was marked with January 1, and the current year. Behind that I found page after page of customer’s names, listing their state or country and comments. There were already nearly a hundred pages, and the customer’s addresses floored me. Russia. Vietnam. Texas. France. People from all over the globe had been there and left their mark. Uganda. New Zealand. It was amazing.
Clearly I was not the only traveler who had driven through the Badlands, in urgent need of that little place. It wasn’t much, by citified standards, but I talked to a few cowboys and ranchers and a music teacher, then left with a full tank and a full belly.
I wondered if that place only appeared when it was needed?
