So, we may have to rename this tour… something like, “everyone has a plan…” Chadron, our intended stop for the Nebraska lowdown, turned out to be a charming little berg with a primo park perfect for cranking out the Colorado post. Unfortunately, the town isn’t big enough to hold a Planet Fitness, which meant no cleansing shower for Ronnie Hays. And to top it all off, the rotation appointment we snagged at the local tire emporium wasn’t until the following Monday (this being a lazy Thursday).

Consulting the oracle of Google Maps (Siri’s drunk sister), we discovered that salvation, in the form of a steaming hot shower and a decent workout, resided just over an hour north in Rapid City, South Dakota. Packing up Rocinante, our trusty mount, we pointed her bug-splattered nose towards the promised land.

Rapid City itself is a San Francisco analog, all rolling green hills juxtaposed with crumbling infrastructure and a smattering of contemporary steel and glass. The pièce de résistance? A giant grain elevator, the kind you’d find crumbling away in every Kansas town, sticking out like a sore thumb. But hey, that’s the beauty of the road, right? You gotta roll with the punches, surf ’em like tasty waves.

Speaking of waves, the drive from Chadron to Rapid City was a technicolor dreamscape. Yellow wood-sorrel rippled across the Nebraska/SD rolling plains like a giant, undulating welcome mat, punctuated by a playful thunderstorm that kept teasing us with glimpses of blueberry sky between cotton candy clouds generously leaking a steady stream of nature’s universal solvent. Our initial plan was to hit a car wash in Rapid City to scrub the bugs off Rocinante’s snout, but Mother Nature, in all her benevolence, had already taken care of that with her pre-dawn car wash special.

Now, Chadron beckoned us back on Monday, June 17th, for that all-important tire appointment at 9:00 AM sharp. From there, who knows? North Dakota awaits, then west to Montana or East to Minnesota. One thing’s for sure, though: we’re sticking to the northern border until the prairie convection oven quits treating Rocinante like a sardine can in a microwave.

Ah, South Dakota. Land of majestic, perpetually bored bison and presidents’ faces etched into granite like a celestial dentist appointment gone horribly wrong. The state motto, “Under God the People Rule,” smacks you in the face like a rogue hailstone in a prairie squall – a paradox as clear as a whiskey-induced hallucination. On the one hand, it’s a middle finger salute to the nanny state, a boot-stomping declaration of rugged individualism. On the other, it’s about as subtle as a neon JESUS IS COMING sign plastered across a casino marquee.

Our initial quest for hot springs, fueled by enthusiastic Googling, promised a plethora of public geothermal paradises. However, Siri’s drunk sister, bless her malfunctioning circuits, led us down a path more suited for a scene straight out of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Unmaintained roads, dilapidated farm equipment – the whole shebang. Needless to say, Ronnie Hays decided hightailing it out of there seemed like the most prudent course of action at the time. However, on the return trip, alleluia, the Town of “Hot Springs,” SD was a mere 5-mile diversion. Did we take it…? Derp, waddya think, home slice? Even’s Plunge brought back childhood memories. It seems R.H.’s parents had a similar attraction to these sacred waters. He (R.H.) spent the rest of the morning shuttling between the mineral pool and the bubbling hot baths…!! Voila! Hot Springs beat the busk, and now the busk better get in gear.

You meet the most interesting people in mineral baths, no? We met “Chico Scotty (not his real name),” a retired rescue ranger from the U.S. Forest Service and he described a scene straight out of a fever dream brewed on moonshine and monster movie marathons. Nestled amongst the Pondarosa pines, trapped in a rock tangle after a particularly nasty stumble, he thought he might be in a situation similar to that one where a climber had to cut his own hand off to escape, he (Chico) encountered a creature that defied every ranger handbook he’s ever thumbed through. More on Chico’s adventures later.

Forget the literary landmarks, loopers. This is Laura Ingalls Wilder country, and for some loopers, that’s good enough. Who doesn’t love a good tale of pioneering grit and sunbonnets, right?

And what about that South Dakota character? The good? Friendly folks, as sturdy and dependable as a John Deere tractor. The not-so-good? Let’s just say some mindsets can be a tad… well, stuck in the past.

Vox populi: What do South Dakotans say about their state motto? Most chuckle, then offer some variation of “it ain’t perfect, but it’s ours.” There’s a grudging respect for the spirit of self-sufficiency it embodies, even if the government’s idea of “empowerment” sometimes feels more like being shoved headfirst into a vat of scalding hot mineral water. And speaking of mineral water, back to Chico Scotty’s reverse Rescue Ranger forest debacle. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill grizzly with a bad case of the Mondays. This was a lumbering, buxom rug with a coat of hair rendering clothing unnecessary. Chico thought he had encountered a female wookie, all 6’10” of her, reeking like a gym sock left in a swamp. Chico, a man who wouldn’t blink at a rogue moose on PCP, felt a primal tremor shimmy down his spine. But forced himself to push the silly sasquatch thoughts aside. He was delirious, desperate to escape the rock tangle, and this strange creature seemed willing to help.

With the grace of a drunken tap dancer on a greased skillet, and with the help of the creature, Chico wrestled with the rock tangle, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush. Finally, with an audible thunk, and sending electric pain all the way up his spine, the rock fell away. The hairy maiden straight out of an R.Crumb sketch book lumbered to her feet, with a graceful waltz of power and surprising elegance. This unusual savior let out a sound that could have been a growl, a yodel, or maybe the mating call of a particularly disgruntled walrus. Chico, ever the pragmatist, took it as a giant, hairy “good luck, human.”

The big gal then did something that cemented Chico’s belief in the whole “myth must persist” philosophy. She melted back into the woods like a particularly large, pungent shadow. Now, Chico did remember one thing clearly (it was a stressful ordeal, and well, he wasn’t completely lucid): The big gal moved with a stealth that would make a ninja weep with envy.

Back at the ranger station, showered, slightly less ripe, he dressed the flesh wounds, and nursed a brace of coffee. The encounter with the big gal sat heavy in his gut. He knew the official channels would have him hunting the poor thing down with a posse and a platoon of tranquilizer darts. But Chico, in a moment of rebellion, decided to keep his trap shut. The big gal deserved her peace, and her myths. Besides, who was Chico to deny the world a little bit of magic, even if it came wrapped in a giant, smelly package? The legend of Bigfoot lives on, thanks to a ranger with a heart as big as the Crazy Horse monument, and a mouth that, thankfully, knew when to stay shut.

So now… the point. Here’s this Hot Springs or Busk tour appended verse to Woody Guthrie’s timeless classic “This Land”:

From the Black Hills…
To the rolling prairie…
South Dakota…
Extraordinary…
Pull your boots up…
And leave the legends lie…
These folks are strong…
As mountain stone.

Onward through the fog… R.H.