Electricity in the Black Hills

Ethel and I have had our first spat. It starts when I don't check her oil all week. Meanwhile - after 1,500 miles of holding steady - she goes through 2 quarts within 500 miles. Hilly miles, to be sure, but still - it's inconsiderate of her. So, when she starts choking like a consumptive wheezing her last breaths, I check her oil and add the two quarts. Afterwards she remains sulky and speaks roughly to me.

Afraid that repairs might be in order I drive Ethel, complaining on every hill, into the nearest town, which is Rapid City, South Dakota. Unable to find a mechanic who can see her before Tuesday - it being Friday - I decide to spend the night in town and contemplate my next move. To escape my anxiety at the prospect of expensive repairs, I go to the movies for the second time in the month I've been on my drive-about.

The first movie of my trip was "Bruno", which I saw in Lewiston, Idaho. I was delighted to find it playing there and rushed to see it, because I didn't think the heartland would screen that film. I was wrong. I even saw it playing at the solo theater in one of the many tiny towns I've blown through. You may disagree; but I think Sasha Baron-Cohen is not only appalling but also brave and funny, in a brutal, Swiftian kind of way. And out of character, he's really quite handsome. No, really...


In Rapid City, there's a 10 plex, so I hope I'll find something watchable. Uh, okay, I've heard "Hangover" is funny. I could use a good laugh, and it's about to start. Plus pickings are pretty slim this summer, apparently. I plunk down my $9.00.

I take my seat just as the trailers start. First up is a zombie horror film, touted as "brilliant". The trailer is gory and interminable. The people in front of me have brought their four year old and his infant sister. As screams rend the auditorium, the boy covers his ears. The rest of the trailers are downhill from there. I count three more horror flicks - none "brilliant" - and two adventure genre films, both of which prominently feature the sport of killing.

I'm appalled, but also puzzled; they usually match the trailers to the feature. Then I remember that the audience for "Hangover" is young men. Now it makes sense. Finally, a preview of the next Brad Pitt vehicle comes on screen, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least there won't be gratuitous violence. But, no; it's a film about Nazi-killers, called "Inglorious Bastards". Oh, yes - the new Quentin Tarrantino bloodfest... I'm REALLY tense when the movie starts and don't laugh for a good half hour (and not very often after that).


The next morning, the forecast is for "occasional thunderstorms." As I watch the cloud fleets sailing in from the northwest, I give it at least an eighty percent chance. That crystallizes my decision to head for a lake in the hills (and fortunately it seems Ethel has forgiven me, this time).

Thunderstorms are exciting. I love the windy foreplay, the deluge itself, and the sultry aftermath. I'm chasing thunderstorms out here under the big sky - sort of a junior tornado chaser. Now, I'm not putting my life on the line the way they do; there's only the very slight possibility I'll be struck by lightening - that's where the excitement comes in, I suppose - and, as I say, death is only a remote chance. I'm careful, and I know the rules. I grew up in the South, and will always bear a special fondness for its explosive, earth-soaking brand of storm.

By early afternoon the fleets are raising their black battle flags. They're massing for an attack at the southeast end of Pactola Lake in the Black Hills, where I'm now on the path towards Observation Point. The lake is about a mile and a half long by a half-mile wide; and as I scramble down towards the water, I count four boats on the lake, one pulling a skier. They're across the way, so I hear only a faint buzz and, mainly, water lapping the smooth pine chips that have been scattered here to form a tiny beach. Aaahhh, the Black Hills...

My father said that the first time he saw the Gulf, he felt he was finally home. I feel that way about the Black Hills. The first time I was here - 30 years ago - I was with my first husband, traveling in a 1955 Ford step van (a delivery truck) that had been converted to a camper. I pleaded with him to stop and spend some time in the hills that were calling out to me. But he wanted to get to Rawlins, Wyoming - at that time a real hellhole - where he had a buddy; he was a man on a mission. He had time to stop at Mt. Rushmore though (yawn); so at least I can skip that on this trip. Anyway, I've wanted to come back here ever since.

The Black Hills - special summer home of several Plains Indian tribes - is so-called for its Ponderosa Pine forests, which look black(ish) from a distance. Around Pactola, these pines have been thinned considerably, allowing delightful Alpine meadows to thrive under the trees. All manner of grasses, sedges, and reeds grow along the hills and in the hollows. Campsites are scattered among the pines, and in the center of one campground loop someone has erected a volleyball net on the expanse of mowed meadow.

I park down the red dirt road that leads to the trailhead and start my downhill plunge to the water. By the time I reach the little beach, I've already snapped several photos of the abundant wildflowers, most of which I can't name. I'll post those shots on Facebook, in hopes some naturalist friend will help me identify them. I snap more pictures from the shore and try my first video, which promptly crashes the Blackberry. None of my usual tricks will revive it.

The first dull thump of thunder sounds behind me, so I shoulder my daypack and start walking the trail that follows the hills above the lake. A pleasant drizzle showers me as I stroll. Bliss...

With another jolt of thunder - this time quite close! - the clouds start to unload. I step under a cluster of trees, but still I'm pelted with furious drops. I excavate my rain gear, which consists of a thin parka from the Smithsonian (gonna let my geek flag fly). While I'm in the pack I spy Cheetos brought along for just such an emergency; and so I stand under the trees (not the tallest ones around) munching Cheetos and wondering whether I should head back or continue towards Observation Point. A couple of coves over, two fishermen have scooted their boat to shore at the thunderclap. I watch an Osprey winging back to her nest over the hill. It's raining really hard.


I've just finished reading Pema Chodron's "When Things Fall Apart". She's a Buddhist teacher, in the Tibetan tradition; so her wisdom runs along the lines of "relax, don't take yourself so seriously - it's all good." Certainly, comparing the way I felt yesterday about Ethel and my shrinking funds (despair spiced with anxiety attack) with the way I feel at this very moment (calm and rather amused at my predictable predicament) the wisdom of Chodron's advice is clear. Despite my precarious, and very wet, situation and my dead cell phone/lifeline, I'm perfectly content to just hang out and see what happens next. Now if I can only learn to apply that attitude all the time, so I don't whirl off down the dark road when life's storms threaten...

In the end, I can't find the second major part of the trail - the one that actually leads to Observation Point - and I find myself quite close to where I started. It's still pouring, so I decamp to Ethel to wait out the storm and write these words. Perhaps later I'll walk out to the point. Perhaps not. I'm just hanging with Pema and pen right now, breathing.

After awhile I'll drive back to the Marina store, where I saw they sell hot showers - delightful! Doing without some of life's little luxuries sure heightens your appreciation of them.