Anglin Falls, Berea KY
Packing the Grand Jeep Cherokee to the gills, we realized we would have to put one of the back seats down to fit our gear (Nick also had all of his things from Williams)…this meant that one person would have to ride in the bitch seat. Ironically, it turns out that the most comfortable seat in the car is the bitch seat because you can stick your legs between the front seats. As we are the kindest of souls who think only of others, we kept offering to take one for the team and ride in the bitch seat (by the way, we are Team Group Poop and we put our backs together…I might explain later).
Team Group Poop...and the stuff...close quarters (stinky feet not pictured)
Aiming to leave at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning and so we could leave at 9, we left Berea, KY at 10 a.m. marking the beginning of our epic ultra adventure. First stop: Frankfurt, KY. Stopping by the Farmers’ Market in the quaint capital of Kentucky, we met the Quarles family. Mr. Quarles was the sort of person that captured our attention and commanded our respect without even talking to him—just standing near him we knew to keep our shirts tucked and our shoulders straight. He shook each of our hands, Quarles first (“Nice to see you, Boy.”), then Micah (“You must be the respectable one.”), then Nick (I don’t believe he said anything…he just gave a friendly nod and raised his eyebrows at his bare feet), and then me (“You must be the cute one.”). Each family member—there were five—told us to keep Quarles out of major trouble. I might mention that multiple other friends and professors had similar words of advice solely for Quarles.
Chicago
We arrived in Chicago and I (yes me, no not Quarles) immediately proceeded to break the law as I led the way out the parking garage. It was an accident…a matter that was simply out of my small hands (or eyes rather) because the “Alarm will sound” sign was above eye level. Wandering around Millennium Park, we admired the sculptures made by Chinese artists. The highlight was the giant piece of smoothly polished stainless steel in the shape of a bean. The skyline curved drunkenly along the sides of the bean, wrapping the peaked skyscrapers in a C over our own reflection. Gorging on Giovanni’s deep dish pizza and topping our meal with Inteligencia’s rich cappuccinos of the Mayan gods, we walked to the edge of Lake Michigan to watch the seagulls and shoot the breeze. We left Chicago at 9 and drove to Aaron Ford’s lake house just south of St. Paul, arriving bleary eyed yet still giddy from the excitement of our trip at 4 a.m.
Chicago
Chicago
The drive to St. Paul was an adventure in itself. We took turns driving down the empty interstate wary of our tendency to speed while listening to Modest Mouse and The Doors. We told the tale of Haulin’ Ass from start to finish using our brilliant minds to invent the epic tale of the very unhappy conservative cheese-heads who were under attack by the Godzilla of Godzillas, Super Hanky Man and an army of Shitlings. Sir Lee (Surly) had 400 Kenyan babies to defeat the army of Shitlings, however all but one was killed by Super Hanky Man. The survivor became Master Chief of Kenyans. Keeper of All Things Mystic (Micah) and Sir Neck Beard (Quarles) and Midget (Me, of course) all had pivotal roles in the tale as well involving super powers, phase shifting, and large weaponry.
Stopping to watch the sunrise on a chilly morning somewhere in South Dakota.
We woke at noon and wandered leisurely down the stone path to the breezy lake to admire the means by which we would spend our day: waterskiing, tubing, and a jet ski (so…not exactly environmentally friendly but certainly conducive to an exciting time…). Nick had water-skied once and had a clean ride on his first try—us land-locked Kentucky folks had a more interesting time with the skis. Though I am the official tubing champ as I had the highest shot in the air (being 130 pounds might have something to do with that): a solid 10-15 feet. Bobbing to the surface, I was not a particularly happy camper. My purple knuckles, skinned elbows and knees, bruised shin, and whip lashed neck and limbs distracted me (though only momentarily) from realizing how much fun tubing is. Pumping my fist in the air and whooping the boat picked me up and we returned to the house for dinner (after I had two more rides on the tube of course) and a nap before our overnight drive to the Badlands.
More Badlands (our view from breakfast)
A super awesome black magpie (I think)
The night sky began to color as we flew across South Dakota at 85 mph at 5 a.m. Taking a break at a rest stop, we watched the sun roll slowly over the endless rolling Dakota hills. Green pastures dotted with cattle and billboards for Wall Drug, Mount Rushmore, the Black Hills, and the Badlands covered such a colossal expanse of land that I doubted it could ever end. It reminds me of how small I really am.
And not just because I’m a midget.
Badlands
Note the innocent Prarie Dog. Nick MERCILESSLY ran over one. (Not really merciless, but it was better him than us...sorry dude).
Practicing what one should do upon encountering a grizz.
Leaving I-90 for the first time in two or three hundred miles, I pulled the Jeep GRAND Cherokee south for the scenic drive through the Badlands at 6 a.m. Gathering granola, milk, and dried mango from the trunk we ate our simple breakfast at the edge of the eroding cliffs which crumbled dramatically into the river valley. The Badlands consist of a series of dynamic cliffs and peaks which the harsh Dakota elements unforgivingly strip. Each year the cliffs weather more and more, though I see no danger in running out of land in this vast state.
Badlands=Badass
Stopping briefly at Wall Drug in Wall, South Dakota, we filled ourselves with homemade doughnuts and the well advertised 5 cent coffee and free ice water which profoundly changed the future of the measly 1930’s general store into a metropolis of “Made in China” and AMERICA! paraphernalia that it is now. Admittedly, I was struck by how fun the arcade game, Big Game Hunter, really is…and also amused to note that our token city kid creamed Quarles. Sorry—I have a correction—according to Quarles, the game was rigged and Nick had a better rifle.
Goin' on a Hunt
Handing Nick’s annual parking pass (parking cost $30!) to the purple eye-shadowed and white curled hair attendant, Neoma, we laughed wondering if anyone in the country (except Nick) would visit Rushmore more than once in the same year (or lifetime). Well worded Micah summarized our experience best. “These hills would be a lot prettier if they didn’t have so many dead presidents on them.” The gift shop and café were far more crowded than the walkway to view the stoney gaze of bearded Lincoln, Teddy, Jefferson, and Washington.
Grabbing a cheap motel (the only one in town that was open on that dark, rainy night) after driving through snow and ice in the mountains, we passed out as soon as our sleeping bags spread lightly on the floor. Oatmeal with raisins and walnuts along with hot cups of cheap motel coffee mixed with my Abuelita hot chocolate mix provided an excellent road breakfast as we drove at a comfortable clip through the Wyoming countryside. Floating at 85 mph, we could hardly tell how fast we were truly going as the road stretched in a ruler straight line, disappearing not in a curve but beyond the pearly illusions wobbling drunkenly in the horizon. The west has a way of making one feel rather insignificant. Majestic snow peaks, snaking glacial melt rivers, casually grazing herds of 3,000 pound bison, and sweeping green plains are simply “average” sights. LAAAAME.
ya'll rule. drive safe!
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