The Boy Scout on steroids leans his khaki-colored, wide-brimmed hat out the window. Since I’m over this line of cars waiting in a tourist trap, I don’t readily hand over my credit card but ask, “How close can I get to the faces?”
“Usually, you can go up there,” he points to a spot halfway up the hillside. “But since renovations are going on, you can go there.” He points to a spot at the same elevation we’re at. I feel the invisible pressure of the stressed-out mothers and fathers waiting behind me to spend this too-hot day standing on asphalt and looking at something no one should have to spend money on, then say, “Where can I turn around?”
I thought I’d be able to sit on a president’s face. Maybe I was naive or ignorant, thinking all I’d need to do was to hop a fence. Years later, a woman will climb barefoot, without any ropes, sixty feet up and sit right between Washington and Jefferson’s faces. When a park ranger asks her to come down, she’ll say, “Do you want me to come down fast or slow?” That it would only be a $1,000 fine made me question my decision not to go for it.
I head northwest on Highway 244 past Rushmore. A brown sign for Horsethief Lake interests me, but the possible crowds don’t. I gamble. Turning left, I follow the road under a veil of canopied trees. The buffer from the overhead sun is noticeable. The road opens to a large, white-lined parking area completely barren of cars or people. Jackpot!
I open the car doors, recline my seat, and enjoy the pine-scented breeze. The intense departure from Sturgis and the failed sightseeing attempt makes closing my eyes and listening to bird sounds all the more enjoyable. Over the next hour, my body sinks deeper into my chair as my mind playfully ping-pongs through the shapes and sizes of my subconscious.
Waking, I see the twitch of a chipmunk tail. He’s busy running across the pavement, over a log, and then he’s gone momentarily. He’s back and atop a log round, standing proudly on his hind legs, rubbing his paws together. I grab a raisin from my trail mix and throw it his way. He runs to it, pushes it into his mouth, and then vanishes. I throw a peanut, and seconds later, he’s back, pushing it into his cheek. He scurries closer as if waiting expectantly. I pick up my phone and record our newfound friendship, throwing pieces and watching his cheek size grow.
Somewhere in our interaction, a mini-van with North Dakota plates parks a few spots away. A woman a decade older than me walks by with a large book tucked under one arm and the other holding the end of a leash, leading to a long red-coated Golden Retriever. We meet each other’s gaze.
“Hi,” I say, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she says, stopping.
“The no swimming sign. Do you know why it’s there?”
“I don’t. It’s my first time here,” she says, motioning to the book. “I was looking for a quiet place to study.”
“Oh? What are you studying for?” I say.
“I have finals tomorrow for a nursing degree.”
“Oh, awesome. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Going back to school with a family hasn’t been easy, but it’s so worth it.” She looks at the lake and says, “Well, I better get to it.”
“Well, congratulations to you. I hope you do well.”
“Have a nice day,” she says.
“You too,” I reply.
The interaction lasts no more than a couple of minutes but is meaningful. Connecting with someone from the area gives me a small taste of a different way of life. It’s fun; this trip has been the perfect place to explore this way.
I dangle my legs off Horsethief Lake’s wooden dock. Despite the foreboding sign, I step in. My toes gingerly read the murky bottom like braille for signs of danger while gently flapping my arms to and fro to keep me afloat. I turn and doggy paddle, imagining downed power lines, snapping turtles, and other unsavory situations below the surface. Although it’s not an ideal swim, it cools me.
Years later, I found an online news article aptly titled “What Was Hiding at the Bottom of Horsethief Lake?” In February 2015, a little over two years after my pathetic attempt to swim, the Rapid City Journal reported crews dredging the lake to remove excess sediment, increase water quality, and restore the fish population. In doing so, I got my answer! One thousand shoes, five GoPros, a boat, and an old parking lot along a road with two bridges.
Going On 40 