We were in no huge hurry this morning, as we broke down camp and packed up the trailer. We didn’t have far to drive today -- just two hours or so to the Badlands.
We turned off I-90 and drove south into the park and immediately found ourselves in the midst of a supernatural moonscape, with sculpted spires and buttes rising out of the prairie.
The Cedar Pass campground is just beyond the visitors center, on a windswept plain. We had our pick of campsites. There is not even a shred of shade here, and so each site has a kind of shelter built up over the picnic table. And that’s where our kids cowered while we set up camp. We (okay, in this case, “I”) made the mistake of warning the children to be on the lookout for rattlesnakes, and despite assurances from the campground host that no rattlers have been spotted in the campground this summer, the kids are sufficiently freaked out.
There is no playground here, and no mob of sticky-faced youngsters to run with, so our brood, self-confined to the cement pad around the picnic table, could only entertain themselves for so long before getting squirrelly. So we threw them back in the van and headed back into Wall for the obligatory visit to Wall Drug, that epic temple of tourist kitsch.
We wandered around the different shops and displays at Wall Drug for an hour or two before getting completely overwhelmed by all that stuff. It was fun to browse for a bit, but I don’t need to see another personalized license-plate/keychain/shot glass for a long, long time.
Now, back at the campsite, the kids are asleep and Keith and I are sitting out under the stars. This place is so starkly different from the Mount Rushmore KOA. For one thing, we have space. As in, there are people at the next site, but they’re far enough away that I can’t discern every word and nuance in their conversation. And so it’s quiet, too. So here I sit, feeling so small and insignificant, engulfed by the stillness of the prairie and the sky.
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