BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN

Monday, August 9th. Zooming west on I-90 from Mitchell, SD to Rapid City. We stop at Murdo for lunch, desparate for an hour of air-conditioned relief from the heat. All around us are bareheaded, bare-armed Harley riders who glow passionate shades of pink and red, none without a case of sunburn. A slim woman sits on the concrete stoop of the diner, holding her bandanaed head and moaning, "I can't take this. I want to be indoors!" The only visible sign that someone understands the danger. It occurs to me that no 19th century cowboy would have crossed these rolling prairies without sun protection, including a hat and bandana. Somehow Harley riders believe that the brand confers immunity from the lesser dangers of the road, or that redliness is next to manliness.

Soon, signs signal our approach to the Badlands of South Dakota, so named not for desperados, but for the French explorers who though them "bad lands" for their lack of water. Eroded out of deep sediments from the ocean that covered the western US 60 million years ago, these jagged, pointed, encrusted canyons offer up a severe beauty in the sun.                                                                

Badlands in the distance