By this point, our initial enthusiasm was wearing off, and our fresh faces were sullied with dirt. Homesickness was rampant. Our rations were dwindling. In our dim state, we lifted our heavy eyes to the passing placards and signposts; this wicked world, with all its sickness, held out to us a final taunt: The Badlands.
Now at first glance, I supposed that whoever had named the ‘Badlands’ was a pessimistic man. I was wrong. He was not a pessimistic man so much as he was a very literal man, and very much did not like to cut around the bush. If he had any bushes to cut.
It is land my mother forgot in the oven. The Badlands are so abominably dry, so scorched to a crisp, that not an inch of ground does not have a crack in it. I imagine each crack is a little mouth wailing for water that will not come. How some animals live there I can’t even comprehend (there are some prairie dogs I am fond of). It is as though God saw man playing around with atomic bombs and decided it was time he had some fun with them as well. Whatever explosion occurred happened to produce marvelous shapes, And that is the real appeal.
If you are a fan of funny shapes and free thermotherapy, the Badlands is why you feel homesick.
We were blessed with a good camp right on the edge of the dry expanse and with an access bridge to the whole landscape—a natural bridge—one we may not have been allowed to cross. Whatever. We took good care of it. We were visited by goats and coyotes who were delighted to get close to real-life humans, while the sky put on shows of daisy-colored lightning in the distant distance. I was, if only a little, reluctant to leave.
With the Rockies next on our docket, we drove South, and West, contrary to the name of this series, back to Colorado. We arrived in the small town of Allenspark, tucked away in the folds of the alpine peaks, away from the horrors of cellular data and crass modernity. There, in that little town, was a little well that we enjoyed very much. Another lady was also partaking in the well, and we helped her fill about twenty gallons or so. The backroads led us to our ‘campsite’, some hillside so dense with pines it is some hardy miracle we managed to not only get our car into a spot but get it out and move it around several times until we were satisfied with the level-ness. Hooray! Our thrill died quickly.
For the first time in our trip, we had displeased our mother. It was our duty to call her every day. We had strict instructions. How could we have been so foolish? Not only did we neglect to move the car, and find cellular to tell her we were safe, but left it off until late in the morning the following day. The police were very nearly alerted of two young men’s disappearance in the wilds of Colorado.
We played around in Beaver Meadows, and, when we had grown tired of the woods, tromped our way down to Boulder where we worked in the libraries, and ate with friends. It was a revival. Our spirits had been lifted after these five days, and the lifting did not stop as we set our eyes on the Great Sand Dunes.
As always, some photos:
