Gold And Ghosts Of The Weird And Wild West

Whisper “Wild West” and your mind instantly sparkles with images of saloons, gold diggers, and gunfighters. That’s what we looked forward to. (Yes, “gold diggers” is an intentional double entendre.)

Dawn’s soft glow stirred us from sleep. Day 5’s itinerary brimmed with stops that promised not merely a drive, but discoveries. Memorable ones. Trust me.

With Rapid City behind us, we chased deeper lore. Not just legend, but that shadowy terrain where fact and fiction blur. This limbo always produces the most compelling reflections. After all, how often do you ponder where the line between reality and make-believe truly lies?

This day, then, isn’t just about gold or any other valuable metallic ore. Nor is it simply about the ghosts of stories past. Rather, it’s about somewhere in between. It’s a land of mythical weirdness and delightful peculiarities.

Let’s start with gold. As in, “there’s gold in them thar hills!” Only, in this case, it’s an inverted hill. A hole in the ground. A big hole. A very big hole. The largest and deepest mine in the Western Hemisphere. At least, it once was. Now it’s only a ghost of the Homestake Mine.

It’s in the small, unassuming city of Lead, South Dakota. Pronounced “leed,” the name comes from the “leads” or “lodes” that contained the mine’s gold. Wouldn’t it be funny if it were pronounced “led,” as in “turning lead into gold” of alchemy?

We all laugh at this infamous ancient pseudoscience, but alchemy may have had the last laugh. A process known as “nuclear transmutation” has successfully turned lead into gold. This past May, scientists at Europe’s Large Hadron Collider successfully smashed lead atoms together to form a tiny amount of gold. Please note: The cost of this experiment far exceeded the value of the gold produced. Still….

It’s fitting, then, that the former Homestake Mine is currently being used as the Sanford Underground Research Facility (SURF). Among its experiments are methods to detect dark matter and neutrinos, two important quests in the field of astrophysics.

The specters of fortune seekers may haunt these hills. The dreams of great discovery still echo from this giant hole in the ground. In other words, Sanford is trying to turn Lead, South Dakota, into physics gold.

Mysticism and physics intertwined within the same hole in the ground. See how these two opposing forces collide? It gets better.

The infamous town of Deadwood lies a short drive away. It’s a classic Wild West town. Calamity Jane lived there. She died there (of natural causes). She’s buried there. Right next to Wild Bill Hickok. In a quest for gold in the nearby hills, Wild Bill lived there briefly. He died there (quickly, and not of natural causes).

On August 2, 1876—nearly 149 years ago to the day—Wild Bill Hickok famously took a .45-caliber bullet to the back of the head while playing poker at Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon No.10. He died holding a pair of black aces and a pair of black eights. Aces and eights. Deadman’s hand. In Deadwood, South Dakota.

A massive fire consumed the original saloon, along with over three hundred other buildings, on September 26, 1879. Deadwood recovered, sort of, thanks in part to the nearby Homestake Mine. In 1961, the National Park Service designated the entire town of Deadwood as a National Historic Landmark District. In keeping with its Wild West heritage, South Dakota’s legislature legalized gambling in Deadwood in 1989.

With a population one-third of what it was in 1880, according to the U.S. Census, Deadwood sees over 2.5 million visitors a year. It’s as if the gold rush never ended. And much as there was once gold in them thar hills, most prospectors never got rich.

Deadwood plays fast and loose with this thin line between myth and reality. Lower Main Street calls back to a time when rough men roamed the streets looking for ways to spend what little cash they had.

Or is it all just myth—sacrificing genuine history for crass commercialism? Deadwood’s like a jukebox. A magic nickelodeon. Put another nickel in, and frontier tales will spin.

Our time in Deadwood was shorter than these paragraphs imply. Long enough to park, take an early morning walk to breathe in the ambiance, and get that quick snapshot of 634 Lower Main Street, purported to be the location of Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon No.10. It’s the Wild Bill Bar now. It was closed, so we couldn’t enjoy the “FREE Jumbo Shrimp, Pizza, and Beer While Gambling.” Too bad for us.

With that, we left the land of material wealth, making our way towards cosmic truth. The transition was both physical and spiritual. The rollercoaster hills of carnival Americana leveled off into the rolling plains of rugged reverence. It was eerie. It was quiet. It was a deeper promise.

It was Wyoming.

Then it appeared. From the reverent terrain rose a towering pillar with a downright alien presence.

A little before 11 AM local time, we entered the road leading to Devils Tower National Monument, our nation’s first national monument, as established by Theodore Roosevelt on September 24, 1906. We thought we had arrived before the crowd. We did. And we didn’t. The road wasn’t blocked off (like it was when we left a little over an hour later). But the parking lot was nearly full. We found one of the last spots.

Adding to the mix, we were to meet my college roommate there. But where? And would he find a parking space?

It turned out he had gotten there before us. We quickly found him and headed down the trail towards the exceptional (and weird) surreal megalith. The thing seemed strangely out of place. Like a solitary tree on a barren plain. Where did it come from? How did it get there? Why is it still here?

It activates your imagination, pulling you into its orbit.

I mean, can you blame Steven Spielberg? Close Encounters of the Third Kind either captures or activates the mystery of Devil’s Tower. Sure, there were no mashed potato replicas anywhere in sight. Yet, visions of aliens—or something else—danced in my head. It was like meeting an old friend.

Or was it just that my old friend was there? While the kids took the Tower Trail, Betsy and I sat and talked to my friend. What did we talk about? Nothing, really. Certainly not about aliens. Maybe a little bit about the colorful debris that littered the landscape. These manmade cloth streamers marred the pristine beauty of this place, a natural anomaly hidden for all to see.

The informational placards around the monument seem to devote far too much space to certain Indian tales and not enough to the truly fascinating geological drama that manifests itself before us. Nature—not Man—should steal the show here.

The “trash”—or so I thought—turned out to be an oddly misplaced reverence. It represents an ancient custom of local tribes, who, as late as the 18th century, fled to these forsaken lands when competing tribes drove them from their original homes.

But this naked monolith stood alone ages before that. Magma forced through the Earth’s crust over 40 million years ago during the Bartonian stage, midway through the Eocene Epoch. The pillar of molten magma cooled into unique hexagonal columns. The resilient solid rock withstood the erosion that erased the sedimentary stone surrounding it. Today, nature and science have left us a brilliant, otherworldly monument rising 867 feet above its base.

In Devils Tower, as with the Badlands, the spirituality of raw geology unabashedly displayed itself. By noon, we had absorbed as much as we could. Wanting to reach our next night’s resting place before sunset, we had to say goodbye to both our old friend and our much older new friend.

There’s something deeply satisfying about watching the weather on the open plain. It can only be described as enchanting. Thunderheads marching across the prairie sky like god-sized warships. Seeing the distant rain falling from the fully formed anvil-shaped cumulonimbus clouds has been a dream of mine ever since boyhood.

The sky becomes a cinema. Epic clouds. Darkness raining down beneath them. Silent flashes of faraway lightning. All packaged together on an awe-inspiring scale. This is the sublime power of the American frontier.

Dinner called in Cody. Both the car and we needed fuel. We fed the Expedition at one of the ubiquitous Sinclair stations (remember those?) dotting the highway. For us, it was Fat Racks BBQ.

Mmm, I can taste the mouthwatering brisket on my lips as I write this. Unfortunately, I couldn’t taste it at Fat Racks BBQ. They ran out right as it was our turn to order. With only two plates left, we let the kids have them. Betsy and I settled for barbecued chicken. Not quite Chiavetta’s. Most definitely not brisket. Not to worry, though. Even disappointment tastes better in the Wild West.

We sat outside and ate, watching the Cody cars go by. Beside us stood the establishment’s Texas pig mascot. This was Texas barbecue, in case you needed to ask. We laughed, recalling the day’s events, knowing we were a few short hours away from Canyon Village.

But first, we had to pass through the canyon west of Cody. The long and winding road along our first truly steep ledge proved most unsettling. To me at least. It was a nerve-wracking drive hugging those cliffs. The twisting hairpin curves and sudden drops presented the first genuine sense of elevation danger. And my first true brush with altitude anxiety.

Then it was over. The canyon opened up onto level ground. As if on cue, a herd of bison appeared. The animals owned the road, blocking traffic in both directions. So close to our destination, we came to a dead stop waiting for the beasts to move off the pavement.

Did this bother us? Absolutely not. We were one with nature, sharing the road with our fellow creatures. Of course, it helped a lot that they looked much like the standing buffalo on the Bills’ helmets. The sunset painted their hides with a reddish tint, bringing them closer to our favorite football team’s logo.

Moving again, we passed through the pine forest. The sweet golden-hour light bathed the moment. It was as if we rode through a textbook-perfect example of classic cinematography.

The day ended with a pleasant surprise. We arrived at Canyon Lodge and Cabins expecting typical Boy Scout-type accommodations. Instead, we found a luxury resort (the price did not imply this). It glowed like a mirage—unexpectedly elegant, almost ethereal. We eyed each other and wondered, half-joking: “Can we stay here forever?”

But reality, that unyielding taskmaster, never takes a rest. The email needed answering. The fund needed pricing. And the weary travelers needed their sleep.

As the valley darkened and the last rays kissed the treetops, we exhaled. Tomorrow promised geysers. Tonight offered stillness. A chance to reflect on chasing gold and the ghosts the Weird and Wild West has left behind.

Except maybe not chasing gold. Perhaps chasing meaning.

And maybe not ghosts or spirits, per se. But stories. And memories. Memories we carry like saddlebags. Quiet. Weighty. And ultimately, sacred to us in our own way.

We closed our eyes, listening to the sounds of nature floating in through the open window. (Apparently, “luxury” accommodations in Yellowstone Park do not include air conditioning.) As we drifted to a well-earned sleep, we knew the sweet light of morning would soon beckon us once again.

And more saddlebags filled with unforgettable memories.