Tourist Traps to Timeless Landscapes

Not all tourist traps are alike. At some point, a tourist trap transcends its label, becoming a “must-see” simply for being so over the top. I can’t remember when we saw the first Wall Drug roadside sign, but its fame far exceeded its actual appearance.

We’d long left Chicago’s skyline behind for the flatlands. Of course, before the wide-open spaces, we traversed Wisconsin and Minnesota. It’s kind of arbitrary, but somehow poetic, to declare that crossing the Mississippi River truly makes you feel “out West” for the first time.

I-90 crosses the Mississippi on the Wisconsin-Minnesota border immediately south of Lake Onalaska. Yeah, they call it a lake, but it looks like it’s part of the river. Stretching 4 miles across, this is the widest span of the Mississippi River (if you include the Lake).

Oddly, crossing the Mississippi didn’t immediately scream “out West.” Instead, my brain went here: If Wisconsin’s the Dairy State and Minnesota’s the Land of 10,000 Lakes, why is a butter brand (a dairy product!) named after Minnesota, not Wisconsin?

It wasn’t until we entered the rural stretches of South Dakota that I genuinely felt like we’d arrived in the West. The first Wall Drug sign had actually appeared back in western Minnesota, but the West didn’t begin with a billboard—it arrived with the weather. Sure, I was following the radar. I knew there was a chance of pop-up thunderstorms. And in this region, you can never discount the possibility of a tornado when those anvil-shaped clouds form. Fortunately, except for a brief shower (not even close to the intensity of our Notre Dame experience), the weather was fine. Still, looking across the vast plain, I could see storms far away. It was cool.

We arrived in Rapid City just in time for dinner. Coincidentally, it was the same place Peter had stayed during his trip six years earlier. I remember finding it for him after heavy rains made his original plan to camp out a non-starter. The rates were shockingly affordable, and it made for a perfect South Dakota headquarters for our two days of adventure. The first would begin bright and early the next morning.

Peter’s one regret from his 2019 trip? Missing Mount Rushmore—the entire point of his journey. It wasn’t for lack of effort: despite weather warnings, he drove right to the gate, only to find it closed. Not surprising, given it was the middle of a blizzard.

Yes, although it was late May, all that rain from the day before had turned into snow. There would be no Mt. Rushmore for Peter on that day. The disappointment was palpable when he returned home, having failed to meet his primary objective. For many, it’s more than a national landmark—it’s an American rite of passage. He vowed to return one day.

This day would prove to be that day. The morning sun blazed brightly above the eastern horizon. Equipped with a mirrorless Canon digital camera and packing several additional lenses, Peter was ready, willing, and able to capture America’s monument to its greatest presidents. Catarina preferred to go old school. She carried my brother’s vintage Olympus film camera—the same one I borrowed for my 1987 trip to Italy.

Any good photographer knows there are two times each day when it’s best to capture images. Known as “sweet light,” they occur when the sun is at a low angle. In other words, shortly after sunrise and shortly before sunset. Which time of day you shoot depends on the orientation of the object. For Mount Rushmore, morning light is ideal; hence our early start.

But there’s more to snapping a picture than meets the eye with this iconic tribute to America. The sense of history captivates you as you climb the steps from the parking lot and approach the rock-solid granite portal marking the entrance to the park. Yes, this relatively recent addition (from the 1990s) to the visitor center momentarily obscures the mountain but ultimately offers an artistic frame for the four famous faces.

Once inside, the heart gushes with patriotic pride as you gaze down the Avenue of Flags to see the majestic carvings ascend above you. From the viewing platform, Catarina and Peter embarked on a 30-minute hike along the Presidential Trail in search of the perfect picture. They said the walk would be too much for Betsy and me. Even so, we took a chance on the steep stairs to the studio.

I made it. Betsy stalled halfway. This is what she missed:

Of all the plaques sprinkled throughout Mt. Rushmore, the raised letters from the inscription on the “History of the United States” stood out most:

“Almighty God, from this pulpit of stone the American people render thanksgiving and praise for the new era of civilization brought forth upon this continent. Centuries of tyrannical oppression sent to these shores, God-fearing men to seek in freedom the guidance of the benevolent hand in the progress toward wisdom, goodness toward men, and piety toward God…

…Holding no fear of the economic and political, chaotic clouds hovering over the earth, the consecrated Americans dedicate this nation before God, to exalt righteousness and to maintain mankind’s constituted liberties so long as the earth shall endure.”

At age 21, William Andrew Burkett wrote this award-winning essay for the 1934 contest sponsored by Hearst newspapers. After reading this, all I could imagine is the voice of Linus lisping, “And that’s what America is all about, Charlie Brown.”

But just not Americans. Italian-Americans, too. Inside the Lincoln Borglum Visitor Center, we unearthed the fantastic history of Mount Rushmore, and a fascinating piece of that history: “Luigi Del Bianco, Chief Carver of Mount Rushmore, ‘He will have complete charge of the practical ways and means of dealing with the finesse of carving and instructing the other carvers…’—Gutzon Borglum”

Gutzon Borglum (and his son Lincoln) might get the credit for Mount Rushmore’s creation, but it took an Italian’s skill to carve that granite into the image we see today.

I cannot understate what that means. An Italian taking a leading role in creating one of America’s most enduring symbols? That speaks volumes.

Think of the power of the American promise that must have inspired Luigi Del Bianco. To the world over, our nation represents an undying spirit of faith, liberty, and freedom. It was a melting pot of e pluribus unum. Everyone who came here shed the ways of their old country and adopted the legacy of the Founding Fathers. That was a trade they eagerly accepted.

In a way, Mount Rushmore best represents the hope of America, more so than even the Statue of Liberty. I mean, thanks, France, for the kind gift and all that, but Burkett’s words convey far more meaning than Emma Lazarus’. After all, would you rather be Burkett’s “consecrated Americans” or Lazarus’ “wretched refuse?” One rises with hope, the other demeans with derision.

It’s fitting, then, that Mount Rushmore, for all its grandeur and reverence, its permanence in an impermanent world, finds itself on the doorstep of the mythic West.

But before we go to the real mythic West, we took a step back. Retracing our steps, we tracked a little over an hour east on I-90 to an arcade frozen in time past. It wasn’t the real West. Rather, it was a self-deprecating caricature of the stereotypical West. Still, it was a kind of history—or maybe historiography… It represented an interpretation of the West through the eyes of mid-twentieth-century folks. It was Wall Drug.

Yes, the legendary Wall Drug of roadside sign fame. In either direction, stretching from Minnesota to Wyoming, Wall Drug signs dot the landscape. They shout with over-the-top offers: “free water,” “5¢ coffee,” and “dinosaurs.” Dinosaurs?! Yes, dinosaurs. Well, would you believe an animatronic T-Rex?

Ironically, heading to and from Mount Rushmore, we passed by Reptile World. It had real reptiles, not robotic ones. It also had a huge empty parking lot (yes, the sign said “open”). Contrast that to Wall Drug. The size of a suburban mall, there was nary a space available in its ample parking lot. Sure, it was lunchtime, but it was also a lot more than that. It was chaos. It was an overload of attention deficit disorder. It was nostalgia on steroids.

Everyone there knew it. But they came anyway—just to say they’d been there. We lunched like everyone else, enjoying our third straight day of noontime hamburgers. Afterward, we took a stroll to witness firsthand the blend of self-aware humor shamelessly mixed with self-aware commercialism. This was just as much Americana as Mount Rushmore. Only way noisier.

And way less serious. It was a playful contrast. From the monumental to the mundane. We joined the crowds and allowed ourselves to have fun. Catarina and I played a super-sized (what else) version of Space Invaders for what felt like the length of both parts of Dune back-to-back. She then joined Peter to play an old-time arcade shooting game (Catarina didn’t use up all her shots, so Peter took the remainder).

Yes, we embraced the kitsch. Americans always embrace the kitsch. And not because we’re boorish (although that might also be true). The kitsch persists because Americans love to laugh at themselves. It’s a sign of self-confidence. Pure, red-blooded American self-confidence. How else can you explain why tourist traps remain a vibrant component of our economy?

Eventually, though, amusement fatigue sets in. We all hit that “Okay, we’ve seen it” point, then it’s off to the next destination. For us, it was that cursed taskmaster: Catarina and Peter’s itinerary. Dagnabbit! (See? Western vernacular. I’m really feeling it.)

Sometimes, no matter how exact the schedule, things just don’t work. We’d intended to take the underground Minuteman Missile silo tour, but couldn’t sign up in time. Since it was en route to our next stop, we thought we’d just pop into the visitor center for a quick look-see.

We thought wrong. Turns out the place is closed on Mondays. Double dagnabbit! (There! Did it again!) So, just a quick picture as momentary homage to a time best forgotten, then on to a land time forgot.

In retrospect, beyond the scene itself (one man-made, one nature-made), an amazing similarity exists between Wall Drug and the Badlands. Both represent artifacts frozen in time. Wall Drug captures a particular era of American Western tackiness. The Badlands? Actual fossils.

On the other hand, while Wall Drug boasted a super-sized (again, surprised?) stuffed jackalope, the Badlands had live prairie dogs. Domesticated prairie dogs. At the prairie dog petting zoo. But don’t get too close and definitely don’t touch the prairie dogs. The plague-ridden prairie dogs.

We moved on quickly, entering an alien landscape filled with awe-inspiring formations. The lush grassy prairie gave way with blunt suddenness to a stark, surreal land of sunbaked beauty and wind-sculpted stone.

It was a harsh, seemingly extraterrestrial terrain, evoking primordial wonder. It felt timeless, prehistoric, and strangely spiritual—if you ascribed to the religion of geology.

While Mount Rushmore glistened with carved majesty, the Badlands offered the artistry of time, its raw stone unburdened by human hands.

And while Wall Drug buzzed with humanity and commercial chaos, a meditative silence reigned in the Badlands. This, then, is the “timeless landscape” promised in the title.

Except “timeless” isn’t quite accurate. It’s not that there’s no evidence of time; quite the opposite. Time is clearly stamped all over the park, visible in the colorful layers of soft sedimentary bedrock. But the Badlands aren’t a mere snapshot in time; they’re a snapshot of times.

And those times reveal a geological drama: steep slopes of striped colors, bold buttes with strikingly twisted spires, and mineralized ghosts of dinosaur bones. It leaves one to reflect on mortality, time, and permanence. I couldn’t help but wonder what the Badlands tell us about Mount Rushmore’s future.

As we left the park on a dirt road hugging too close to the edge of the prairie’s cliff, we encountered our first bison, both harbingers of things to come. Oh, and dozens of wild prairie dogs.

We had one last stop before calling it a day. A week or so before we left, Betsy saw a photo of a giant hamburger statue. She thought it’d be funny to send it to me. Then she saw the statue’s location was none other than 3919 Cheyenne Boulevard in Rapid City, South Dakota. With Rapid City on our itinerary, she knew we couldn’t miss it.

But, not knowing the city, we had no idea where 3919 Cheyenne Boulevard was.

Luckily, our GPS did. We plugged it into the car’s system and followed directions. After zigging and zagging on back roads, we hit the main highway. All of a sudden, things started looking more familiar, especially the exit the car told us to take. We pulled up to the address.

Turns out it was a McDonald’s—with a giant quarter pounder statue—right across the street from our hotel. Who knew?!

Yep, I took a picture with the big burger. It’s what hamburger historians do. A serious man and an absurd statue. A bit kitsch. But very American. Silly, but unforgettable. A perfect bookend to Mount Rushmore.

But we weren’t done yet.