The Five Summits of the Heartland

The mountain was not where it was supposed to be.

I was standing alone on a wind-swept dirt road near Amidon, North Dakota. Tall, thick grass carpeted the land beside the road. I was looking at a narrow track through the grass leading up a gentle slope to the remains of an old farmhouse. Something didn’t seem right.

To the west of me, a grown-over track led to the remains of a farmhouse up on a slight slope. I could see what was left of a house, the shattered remnants of a fence, and some rusty equipment. Was that where I was supposed to go? It wasn’t the first time in my life directions turned out to be inaccurate. I started walking up to the old ruins, the thick, grass almost up to my knees. I watched my step, not just for critters in the grass but also for muddy spots from the rain the night before. Tall grass brushed against the legs of my trousers. The air was very cool, and I was glad I wore my sweatshirt. I was supposed to proceed along the road one mile west, but the track seemed to end at the old farm. There was no road.

This wasn’t right. I walked back to my car and checked my directions again, and discovered I'd made an error. The directions didn't say to go 0.5 miles, they said 5.0 miles, which frankly irritated me a little. If it's 5.0 miles, why not just say 5 miles? What's the point of the .0? Just round it off. That’s why the mountain was not where it was supposed to be. I got back in my car and proceeded south, watching the numbers on the odometer roll over as I went. The road was rough and very rocky. I could only go about 10 MPH. Still, I wasn't worried about the time. It wasn't even 8 AM yet. I had all day. It was nice to be not in a hurry.

I’d been up for about three hours. The sound of birds woke me that Tuesday morning. I spent the night in my pop up tent, camped in an RV park alongside the Heart River in Dickinson, North Dakota, which calls itself The Western Edge. I pulled into town the day before, a rainy welcome to an eleven hundred mile trip from my home in Oklahoma. Supper was at Applebee’s, where I turned a few heads with my way-too-casual attire. The waitress reminded me of someone from the movie Fargo: Ah, margaritas are two dollars off tonight, don’t’cha know.

It had rained all night. Still, I figure I got about 8 hours of sleep, getting up at the crack of dawn. That’s how it is when I camp out: no matter how tired I am, as soon as the Sun’s up, I’m awake. It can be very annoying.

Outside, it was a rosy sunrise. The rain had stopped, and the skies seemed to be clearing, the clouds rolling along under a gentle breeze. There were some damp spots in the tent (but not from me). I got my towel and went to the bathroom. There was plenty of hot water for showering and shaving, which was very welcome. By the time I got back outside, the clouds had muddied up the eastern horizon; the sunrise wasn't so interesting anymore.

Breakfast was leftover Applebee’s chicken strips and a can of V-8 Juice. I started packing up my stuff. I left the back door to the Cavalier open as I loaded up. If there was a graceful way of getting out of a pop tent, I hadn't found it yet. While climbing out with my sleeping bag, I was backing out of the tent and tripped and hit my back on the edge of the door. That really hurt.

I didn't like folding up the tent while it was still wet from the overnight rains, but I didn't have any alternative. It was the second wet night I’d spent on my journey north from Oklahoma. I spent a soggy Sunday night at a state park on the northern border of Nebraska and driven through scattered showers all day Monday. Rain clouds had followed me through Nebraska and South Dakota all the way to Dickinson.

Instead of rolling up the damp sleeping bag, I just threw it in the back seat. I hoped the wind and the sunlight would dry it out—if the Sun came out that day. So far, Nature had not been very cooperative. I was three days into my quest. At that point, I had driven over 1,100 miles from home, and I was just then getting started.

I finished packing. Above, light clouds lingered. It was still way early—no need to rush. The campsite was about halfway full of trailers and recreational vehicles. The folks in their RV's probably thought I was crazy for being up so early. In Mountain Time, it wasn't even 6 AM yet. It was 59 degrees out when I pulled out of camp. The Sun broke though the clouds, and I gratefully greeted the sunlight. I took it as a good omen for the rest of the day.

Driving through the empty streets of Dickinson, I found the Wal-Mart. In the parking lot, I changed shirts and layered on my sweatshirt. It was the only thing with long sleeves I had brought with me. It was the first week of June, and when I packed for my trip I hadn’t counted on lingering winter chills.

Inside the huge store, I wasn't really looking for anything in particular; I just wanted to walk around someplace dry and warm for a change. I found a new cassette adapter for my MP3 player, after explaining what it was to the clerk for five minutes. She had apparently never heard of such a thing. I was curious to see if sports t-shirts for local schools were being sold there, but all I found was one for the Kansas City Chiefs. Otherwise, the selection was pretty much exactly what a Wal-Mart back home in Oklahoma would've had.

When I went outside, it had clouded up again. I thought, Oh, come on, gimmie a break! The air was chilly when I stopped down the road at a gas station. The pump wouldn't take debit, so I put $20 on Visa. Super Unleaded was cheaper than unleaded because it had 10% ethanol. The Burger King sign down the street was a little disturbing. It read

NEW STRAWBERRY GOLDEN OREO DOUBLE CHEESE $2.59.

I wasn’t sure if someone had put the sign up incorrectly or if it was the debut of a new taste sensation. (A horrifying new taste sensation.)

It was 6:40 Mountain Time when I pulled onto Interstate 94, westbound towards Belfield. The sky was heavily overcast with clouds, but off to the southwest I could see patches of blue sky. I seemed to be seeing blue skies everywhere except where I was. Directly to the west I could see thunderclouds rising to greet the Sun. The landscape along the interstate was grazing land, low rolling hills with an occasional sharp rise. The speed limit was 75 MPH. I passed croplands, small farms with cozy red barns and high stacks of hay bales nearby.

It was 17 miles to Belfield, where I got off the interstate at Exit 42. To the north was Theodore Roosevelt National Park, less than an hour away. Roosevelt owned land in the area and got involved in local politics. When thieves stole his boat, Roosevelt and two friends chased them down the Missouri River. Several days later, he captured the thieves and marched them back to Dickinson to stand trial. Roosevelt loved his image as a tough outdoorsman, but he also loved to play tennis; he would never allow himself to be photographed in the un-masculine white tennis outfits.

I wasn’t headed that way; I was headed south. Crossing over the overpass on Highway 85, I passed a couple of truck stops. There was a massage place at the turnoff for the Ukrainian Catholic Church. It looked like the clouds ahead were moving east. I crossed the Heart River and went over a big bridge over railroad tracks. Beyond was a lonely road. I was practically alone on the road for the next half hour, with only a couple of passing trucks to keep me company.

There were planted fields to the west, grain silos, cattle grazing under power lines. The rolling plain brought some interesting contours, with low, unexpected hills and sharp edges along meandering creek beds. There were lots of plowed fields with short, green, sprouting plants. The rows of crops gave the land an even, corduroy look. The Sun rose above a line of clouds, lighting up the land in brilliant greens. I hoped the sunlight would burn off some of the cloud layers, but feared the heat could energize more storms.

When I passed the turn for the Burning Coal Vein Campground at a quarter after 7, the Sun ducked behind some scattered clouds. A red Jeep sat parked on the side of the road. Ahead, a ridge rose to the southeast came into view; I could see a low saddle between two ridges. The mostly straight road pulled me into Slope County as the Sun broke through again. An access road to the west was built over a culvert big enough for cows to walk under. An abandoned car sat in a grassy field; I think it was a Pinto.

The road rose in a low grade over a ridge as it went around a pyramid-shaped mound. Once I was past the ridge, a rocky hillside came into view way to the southwest—was that it? Was that what I came all this way for? A long chalky ridge presented itself off to the west. As the highway curved to the west, the Cavalier logged 1,200 miles from home. The ridge that had appeared to the west was now on my left. I started looking for a dirt road leading south. I thought I had a pretty good idea of where I was supposed to go, but decided I'd better follow the directions I’d downloaded off the Internet.

I kept going west and found the sign beside the road pointing towards White Butte. One mile east of there should be the road I wanted. I turned around and counted the numbers on the odometer until I hit one mile—and there was the road. A farmhouse was across the road to the east. The directions said to go a half mile south and turn west towards an abandoned farmhouse.

Ahead, a red-headed pheasant, big as a chicken, strolled out of the tall grass beside the road. He stopped and looked at me, as if to say, Oh, it's you, then turned and disappeared back in the grass. Down the road, a small herd of black cattle decided to become free-range cattle; I stopped to watch them as they leapt one by one over a fence for greener pastures on the other side of the road. Three miles from the highway I came to an intersection, but that wasn't the one I wanted. I kept going south. I soon found the turnoff and headed west on a bumpy gravel road. To the north, I could see storm clouds dropping a curtain of rain as they lumbered eastward about where I’d been on the Interstate. I was glad to be out from under clouds and in the Sunlight again.

After one mile, I came to an intersection. The road turned back north. Off to the southwest was a farmhouse. A big, battered mailbox sat next to the road. Directly to the south lurked the chalky cliffs of White Butte, the highest point in North Dakota. It had only taken me six years to get there.

***

I got the idea shortly after my first trip to the Burning Man festival in 2003. Burning Man is an extreme festival/gathering/camping event with music and art and sculpture and flame throwers and intense, indescribable experiences. The first year I went, I just drove straight there and back again, a road trip of a couple thousand miles between the Midwest and northern Nevada. As I was planning my second trip, I realized there was a lot of land between here and there, and consequently lots of things to see along the way.

In my subsequent trips to Burning Man, I’ve walked