With Sturgis an hour away, a brown metal sign for Devil’s Tower tempts me. A detour up Highway 14 would work well for me with bikers likely still asleep. Searching its Wikipedia page, I find the Lakota Tribe’s mythology of the landmark interesting.
“A group of girls were playing and got chased by huge bears. To escape, the girls climbed onto a rock. They prayed to the Great Spirit for help. The rock in which they stand is raised high in the air. The Great Spirit saves the girls. Still, the bears tried anyway, leaving deep claw marks in the rock that are still there today.”
Wikipedia also discusses “Devil’s Tower” as a poor translation, offensive to native tribespeople, but that the name change of “Bear Lodge” has repeatedly been rejected by Congress, which is made up primarily of white people.
After Mrs. Dixon spanked Robert Denney in my first-grade class, I felt shocked. That night I told my Mom and begged her not to do anything for fear of my butt being next in line for the paddle. Not expecting her to do so, my Mom drove herself straight to the principal’s office the next day, almost getting my teacher fired. I still remember the ruckus my mom caused, the teacher’s apology to the class, and the lesson is fear of resistance is not a reason not to use your voice.
The igneous intrusion, aka magma pressing through rock layers, is Mother Earth’s most massive zit. After slowing to take photos, I park across the street from Devil’s Tower Trading Post, just outside the park’s entrance. The sheer amount of motorcycles on the road and overflowing the parking lot is worrying. Was Joe wrong, and is Sturgis actually over?
After a restroom break, I confront my fear when one of the bikers’ gaze and mine meet.
“Excuse me, but is the rally still going on?”
“Yeah, it is,” he said.
“Really?” Surveying the bike’s abundance, I say, “It doesn’t seem like it.”
The man chuckles. “Well, there’s something like 500,000 people that come and go throughout the week.”
I thank him, and once in the car, I call my Dad back home in Washington to check-in. After he answers, I can barely contain my excitement. “Guess where I’m headed next?” Then, without giving him a second to respond, I say “Sturgis!”
He was concerned. Looking back, I’m not surprised. But how could he not be? His little girl is bouncing all over the country, is alone, and heading straight into a bike rally where fatalities can number in the double digits.
Going On 40 
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