Category: outdoors

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The Thrill of the Chase

By John Andrews

Watertown’s Alex Resel is happiest chasing storms across South Dakota.

Alex Resel’s passions are photography and severe weather, and they intertwine perfectly from late spring to early fall. Though he is only three years out of college, the Watertown storm chaser has already driven tens of thousands of miles in pursuit of thunderstorms, tornadoes, derechos and all manner of nasty weather, returning with beautiful photographs that often belie the dangers.

He’s quickly learned the ins and outs of chasing, such as what to look for on radar and where to safely position himself, but it wasn’t that long ago that his interests in storms and photography were just blossoming. On a humid Father’s Day in 2012, storms rolled into Watertown, bringing heavy hail and setting off the city’s tornado sirens.”Until that point, I had no interest in weather, but something clicked after that storm,” says Resel, who was 12 at the time.”From there, I would draw maps of South Dakota and look at the local weather forecast and do my own weather map forecasting.”

His first”chase” came three years later, when his dad drove him 30 miles north to Summit after seeing a forecast from the National Weather Service’s Aberdeen bureau. Storms were set to fire northwest of the little Roberts County town.”We sat there for probably an hour, just watching them move in. Eventually they merged into a line and drifted toward Watertown.”

Any photos taken that day were captured with a smartphone, but in 2016 he got his first digital camera. He spent the next few years practicing landscape and storm photography and earned a business degree with an emphasis in photography and media from Lake Area Technical College in 2021.

A supercell over Clark.

Resel launched Outer Shots Photography, where he offers prints of landscapes, the Northern lights and the severe weather that he’s been chasing in earnest since the summer of 2020. The makings for strong storms were present west of the Missouri River on June 6, so he headed to the Badlands on his first solo chase.

“It looked like a couple cells could fire, but it didn’t happen because of an ingredient called cap, which prevents storms from growing,” he says.”It’s like putting a lid on a boiling pot of water. I thought the day was over, so I went to the Badlands to hike around for a couple hours and then head home. But I noticed dark clouds were coming in from the south and west, so I decided to wait and see what was going on. A big line of storms started moving in from Nebraska and Wyoming. It developed a beautiful shelf cloud and packed a lot of winds. I watched it move in from one of the overlooks. I was looking south, and as the line was moving overhead a tornado formed right in front of me in the Badlands. That was my first tornado, and it was a really cool thing to see.”

Resel plans his routes based on weather models and utilizes a weather app on his phone, which stays mounted to his windshield.”I’m looking for moisture, instability, lift and shear,” he says.”If all of those ingredients are in place, it’s usually a good sign that you’re going to get some organized severe storms. If multiple storm cells are firing at the same time, I look at which one is the tallest. Usually that’s going to be the dominant storm. Hopefully I’ve picked the right storm so I can get the shots I need.”

A lightning storm over Watertown.

That doesn’t always happen. South Dakotans likely remember where they were on May 12, 2022, the day an unusual and violent derecho raced across the state at 50 to 70 mph, packing straight line winds of 60 to 100 mph, the equivalent of a Category 1 hurricane. Resel noticed a localized enhanced tornado risk forming near Redfield, so he headed to Spink County.”Big cumulus clouds started to form, which is a good sign that storm activity is brewing, but as soon as they bloomed the derecho moved through and they disappeared. We didn’t get any storms to mature.” At the same time, he heard concerning reports closer to Watertown, including the tornado that caused extensive damage in Castlewood.”It’s a scary feeling being away from home and not knowing what’s going on.”

To help assuage those same feelings in others, he regularly reports what he sees to the National Weather Service, either by calling an office directly or through social media. Chasing severe weather can provide an adrenaline rush unequalled in other endeavors, but chasers are generally not simply reckless thrill seekers. There’s an important public service component to their work.

Peter Rogers, the warning coordination meteorologist with the National Weather Service’s Sioux Falls bureau, says information received from storm chasers and spotters can be crucial.”We have a lot of complex technology at our fingertips that helps us determine what’s going on, the radar probably being the most important,” Rogers says.”But there are still limitations to that, and there’s nothing better than having eyes and ears on ground watching what’s happening. From the Weather Service perspective, it’s all about the protection of life and property, and all the information that comes from chasers and other spotters is critical information to accomplish that mission.”

Storms that moved from Huron into northwest Iowa in the summer of 2022 turned the skies near Sioux Falls an eerie green. “It was the meanest looking storm I’ve ever seen,” Resel said.

Resel attends the NWS’s yearly severe weather awareness classes, which are offered in the spring. Meteorologists begin with basic terminology, such as the differences between watches and warnings, and then discuss weather in more detail, including how to identify supercell thunderstorms that could produce tornadoes and multicell storms that can cause other hazards. The classes emphasize safety, but Resel also uses the information to help identify the best position for photographing storms.”You’ve got to be on the southeast side of a storm. That’s where you get updraft and it’s where the photogenic parts of the storm are. That also keeps you safe from a tornado or large hail.”

Dangerous situations can still arise. Resel was in a caravan of storm chasers following severe weather in Colorado in August of 2023 when a tornado developed.”It wasn’t on the ground yet, so I felt comfortable, and I knew where to go to get out of its path. As the backside of those tornadic winds wrapped around it picked up rocks and broke out my back windshield. That ended my chase. I did get to see the tornado develop in front of me, but I got out of there as soon as I could to prevent any further damage. That was my first mistake in storm chasing, but luckily it only cost me a back windshield.”

Moments like that are learning opportunities, and not likely to quell the excitement that comes from storm chasing.”Watching the atmosphere work its magic and to have that unfold right in front of you is an amazing experience,” Resel says.”It’s not one that many people know. Each time is different, but you get those same feelings.”

Looking at his photos, you can almost feel it, too.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the May/June 2024 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Dancing with Grebes

Story and photos by Donna Caplinger

Western grebes appear to walk on water during the rush, perhaps the most distinctive element of their spring mating ritual.

My love affair with grebes began when I was a high school biology teacher. During a lesson about birds, I showed my class a movie by Sir David Attenborough, the British broadcaster and wildlife biologist. I was amazed by the beauty and gracefulness of the grebes, with their long slender necks and pointed bills. Their courtship ritual was intricate and complex, unlike any other in the animal kingdom. They repeated each other’s every movement. If there were ever birds that demonstrated love, these grebes put the stereotypical doves to shame.

There are two displays, each including a specific set of steps performed with precision. The first is the rushing ceremony, which begins with advertising as the birds deliver a rolling call. Then comes ratchet-pointing, where they lower themselves into the water and their call becomes more ratchet-like. The next component is dip-shaking, which accurately describes the behavior of dipping their heads underwater and then shaking them from side to side after they resurface. Finally comes the rush, when the grebes run side by side across the surface of the water, necks back and wings up. They are the largest vertebrates on Earth with the ability to walk on water, covering up to 66 feet in 7 seconds through a combination of speed (20 steps per second), splayed feet to help gain traction and an unusual stride.
The weed dance occurs during the mating season. Two grebes arch their backs, stretch their necks and share weeds that they will use to build a nest.

The second display is the weed ceremony. It is equally complex and happens later in the mating season. But it was the rushing that fascinated me. As a part-time wildlife photographer, when I saw the ritual culminate into this beautiful dance across the water, I told myself that someday I would find grebes in the spring and photograph them.

When I retired from teaching, I started going down my bucket list of things I wanted to photograph. Western grebes were high on the list. They do not live in my state of Missouri, so I followed the Central Flyway, a major migration route over the Great Plains that encompasses a large part of the Prairie Pothole Region. Spring rains fill the potholes and they become a stopping point and breeding ground for many species of migratory waterfowl. Ducks, geese, pelicans and grebes take advantage of these pools, which contain a myriad of invertebrates, small fish and aquatic plants for food sources and nesting materials.

I knew about the potholes in South Dakota. Photographers look at each other’s work, and I’m sure I saw a picture of grebes taken in South Dakota. So about six years ago I made my first trip.

I’ll never forget my very first experience. The water was out, like it is in the spring. I had parked and was using a beanbag on the door of my truck. The grebes were coming really close, and that’s when I got my first good pictures. I didn’t get to see any rushing that day, but I went back later and witnessed babies riding on their mothers’ backs. I was hooked.

They usually start in April. I watch for the courtship ritual, which continues throughout the summer. But I keep looking because I’m waiting for the babies, too.

Of the 22 species of grebes, six can be found in South Dakota: Clark’s, western, pied-billed, eared, horned and red-necked. Clark’s grebe is similar to the western grebe; sometimes they are found mingling together. The other species are not as large. The breeding plumage of the pied-billed grebe is not as flamboyant. Its bill is not sharp and pointed and its neck is not long and graceful. The horned grebe has some interesting colors, with gold feathers wrapping around its head and a reddish ring around its neck. The eared grebe is arguably the most stunning of the smaller grebes. It has a golden fan of feathers radiating outward behind its eyes. I love grebes in general, but I think the western grebes are the most graceful and the most beautiful.

Photographers don’t always share their favorite spots, especially when you’re talking about birds. If you let it out where you’re going, then all of a sudden you get a crowd of people, and the birds are gone. I have traveled to South Dakota every spring for six years and have observed five of the six grebes during their migration and/or breeding season. (I have not been able to photograph or view a red-necked grebe yet.) Between the rushing and watching the babies, grebes have so much to offer. For a photographer, they are a dream come true.

Donna Caplinger lives in Fair Play, Missouri.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the March/April 2024 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Why We Fall for Balanced Rocks

By Bernie Hunhoff

Balanced rocks near Sylvan Lake.

Ever since there have been poets, which is roughly the last 5,000 years, they have lauded the permanence of nature, and they might be right because Beecher Rock has stood on a mountaintop between the present-day towns of Custer and Pringle for perhaps 1.6 billion years.

The natural phenomenon of precariously balanced rocks (called PBRs in some scientific circles) not only fascinates poets but anyone who enjoys the natural world. Since the advent of human history, the fragile formations have served as guideposts and curiosities for travelers. They are studied, photographed, climbed, carved and sometimes intentionally toppled or dynamited.

All the above are true in South Dakota, where PBRs are most often found on granite peaks in the Black Hills. To learn more about the geological novelty, we sought out Perry Rahn and Kenny Hargens, two old friends who have been exploring the backcountry for decades. Rahn is professor emeritus of geology at the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology in Rapid City. Hargens has been hiking and studying the Hills ever since he was a boy, growing up across the road from the legendary poet Badger Clark.

We met Rahn and Hargens at the trailhead for the Mickelson Trail in Hill City, where the retired professor spread a large map across a picnic table and explained the geological history that created PBRs.”What we have here,” Rahn said, pointing to the buttes around Mount Rushmore,”is the old basement rock that was intruded by granite, exposing some of the oldest rocks on Earth.”

Kenny Hargens (left) and Perry Rahn, pictured below Black Elk Peak, have studied and explored the Black Hills back country for decades.

Rahn said the uplift was not a sudden eruption but a slow rise that continued for tens of millions of years as the earth’s crust was warmed by volcanic activity far below the surface. It caused strange rock pilings that would not have been visible because today’s canyons and valleys did not exist. However, another 20 million years of erosion by water, wind, snow and bacteria exposed boulders that had been stacked — sometimes precariously — by that ancient upthrust.

John Paul Gries, a predecessor to Professor Rahn at the School of Mines, noted in his 1996 book Roadside Geology of South Dakota that the original uplift happened about 58 to 50 million years ago. He wrote,”By roughly 37 million years ago, the Black Hills had much of their present size and shape. Hard rocks formed the ridges and plateaus, softer rocks became valleys and parks.”

The gradual erosion left so many balanced rocks — especially in the Sylvan Lake and Mount Rushmore range — that sightseers might take them for granted, especially since they share the terrain with a beautiful and dense pine forest.

Boulders, some as large as cars or trucks, are perched on the mountaintops surrounding Sylvan Lake, below Black Elk Peak. Though most are unnamed, one is called Guardian of the Pools due to its face-like appearance. It was popular on travel postcards a century ago. To people with some imagination, others could easily be seen as buffalo, dogs or frogs.

Hargens came across another”geological marvel” while hiking along Grizzly Creek in the Black Elk Wilderness Area, above Horsethief Lake. He found a 10-foot granite boulder stacked above another of similar size, both standing on bedrock. A smaller stone sat atop the two. Altogether, it reminded him of a gigantic snowman. Nearby was an outgrowth of rose quartz.

If the Snow Man, the Guardian and other Black Hills formations stood apart on a vast desert or prairie they might be better appreciated, perhaps enough to end up on a license plate or a postage stamp, like the iconic arches of Utah or Chimney Rock in Nebraska.

Arches are another category altogether, Rahn explains.”There’s lots of situations in nature that catch our attention. There are also leaning rocks and the wrinkled rocks near Mount Rushmore.”

In the Badlands, toadstool formations (also known as hoodoos) are common. While toadstools appear to consist of a rock on a pedestal, they can be a single rock formation with a wide crown. Similar situations are found in the Cave Hills of Harding County. Rahn says he was sitting on a rock in the Badlands many years ago when he heard,”a sound like an earthquake. One of those pillars was falling to the floor.”

Three hundred miles east of the Badlands, in the land of pink quartzite near Garretson, a promontory stretches high above scenic Split Rock Creek in Minnehaha County. Locals call it Balanced Rock, though scientists would likely describe it as a pedestal spire.

A pair of PBRs known as Beecher Rock north of Pringle.

Rahn noted that unusual rock formations are rare in eastern South Dakota because that region was levelled by the Ice Age just 20,000 years ago.”The Black Hills was never glaciated, unlike eastern South Dakota where the continental glacier moved down over the landscape and smoothed it off. Here in the Black Hills this did not happen, so the weathering processes etched out these remarkable balancing and leaning rocks.”

Rahn and Hargens guided us southeast of Hill City to Sylvan Lake and Needles Highway. Rahn, ever the professor, could not walk for more than a minute or two without kneeling to identify a stone or pebble — rose quartz, mica, feldspar or tourmaline.

The shoreline of Sylvan Lake offers two interesting and picturesque examples of wedge rocks, yet another category of precarious formations. The easiest to find is above the far end of the trail which circles the lake. You can identify first-timers from frequent visitors because newcomers will look up, eyeing whether or not it’s safe to pass underneath. An even bigger specimen is near the trail, but harder to reach.

Sylvan’s wedge rocks are not likely to fall on you, but Rahn says PBRs will all topple eventually — tomorrow or 10 million years from now.”Once I was walking with a friend in Spokane Creek when I noticed the sand started to flow and before I realized what was happening the whole cliff came down on me,” he says.”I ended up in the creek with a few broken ribs.”

Rahn says most formations are gradually weakened by fracture joints.”Some of it is weathering and expansion. Maybe water gets in there and it causes an expansion when it freezes. There is also a chemical weathering where the feldspar slowly dissolves into clay and the rock crumbles away.”

However, humans have toppled more PBRs in the last century than Mother Nature. In 2016, pranksters pushed a famous formation known as the Duckbill onto the Oregon coast. Two years later, vandals shoved over the 320-million-year-old Brimham Rock in northeast England. A decade ago, a Boy Scout leader in Utah pushed a hoodoo to the ground in Goblin Valley State Park. He was sentenced to a year of probation for criminal mischief. Defacing natural sites in state or federal parks is a crime.

Fortunately, many of South Dakota’s PBRs are not as fragile as they may appear. Hargens led us to a ledge north of Pringle where twin spires known as Beecher Rock stand high above the forest. They appear precarious, but they aren’t likely to be toppled by man.

A Forest Service Road leads from Highway 385 to the western base of the 5,580-foot Beecher formation. Paul Horsted, an accomplished Black Hills photographer known for researching historical pictures, says Beecher Rock was visited by General George Custer and his expedition in 1874. They called it Turk’s Head, perhaps because from the south the twin rocks resemble faces with turbans.

Hargens says his father, Holland, once told him that he often climbed the ledge up to Beecher Rock with friends.”They would lay on their backs, he said, and when moving clouds passed above them, they got the sensation that the rocks were falling over on them.”

Custer photographer Paul Horsted created a “then and now” scene of a formation called Parapet with Nodule that can be found on the Badlands Loop Road.

Horsted says he has found teetering formations in the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Acadia, Death Valley, Olympic and Yellowstone parks.”They are not uncommon, but they capture our imagination somehow.

ìI think we like these formations because they defy gravity, and they sometimes look like nature couldn’t have made them. The Needles in the Black Hills might even qualify under that definition. These balanced rocks speak to geologic time as well,” Horsted says.”I think of how much time must have passed since that sandstone slab was resting on a hillside, which gradually eroded away around it, leaving the pedestal.”

While the formations have an aesthetic and poetic appeal, the concept of PBRs is also rooted in science. James Brune, a geophysicist with the California Institute of Technology, was studying earthquakes in Nevada when he recognized that the tenuous boulders provide a unique seismic history, telling a story in the way that tree rings do.

Today, many geologists and other researchers are continuing Brune’s work. They follow an unwritten code: never, ever knock a rock off its pedestal. Poets, photographers and all lovers of natural history share the sentiment.

Life is fragile enough, for people and for PBRs. Why not enjoy them while we can?

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the January/February 2024 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Needles Highway in Winter

By Bernie Hunhoff

Needles Highway is also known as Highway 87. It is part of the Peter Norbeck Scenic Byway, a 66-mile circle that also includes Iron Mountain Road. When snow become too deep for vehicles, state officials close it until snowplows are able to reopen the route. During such closures, hikers are welcome.

Rich Zacher and his family happily welcomed a foreign exchange student from the Czech Republic last winter, but they struggled to entertain the worldly teen.

“Of all the places we showed her in South Dakota, the thing that she really enjoyed was hiking the Needles Highway in winter,” Zacher says.”That and a rodeo at the Monument.”

The young European has good taste in hikes. More and more people are discovering that the historic, 14-mile Needles Highway (aka Highway 87) takes on a special ambience when experienced afoot in a landscape of white. Perhaps that’s because the steep and winding route — which ranks among America’s crookedest roads — was designed on foot.

“You are not supposed to drive here at 60 miles an hour,” said Peter Norbeck, a visionary leader who founded Custer State Park in 1913 when he was still a state senator.”To do the scenery half justice, people should drive 20 or under; to do it full justice, they should get out and walk.”

Norbeck, despite his portly 240-pound frame, did literally walk the high country as he personally selected the route.”With C.C. Gideon and Scovel Johnson, state engineer, he tramped the trails on foot because horses could not walk over much of the terrain,” wrote author Gilbert Fite in a Norbeck biography, Prairie Statesman.”Working their way through towering granite cliffs and heavy forest, they finally traversed the entire distance of a road which would take tourists through the Needles. The governor’s trousers were badly torn and his legs were scratched.”

Summer traffic makes it difficult to enjoy the Needles Eye Tunnel, but winter hikers like Michael Belmont and his golden retriever, Salvatore, can dawdle in the unusual passageway.

Fite noted that Norbeck and the road engineers had heated arguments.”His desire was to preserve the natural beauty and to build roads where the public could obtain the best artistic view. This contradicted commonly accepted engineering principles, but his policies usually prevailed.”

Fite wrote of a particular day when Norbeck sat on a log, breathing heavily, and asked Johnson whether he could build the road.

“If you can furnish me enough dynamite,” Johnson answered.

Norbeck was then governor. He found both the money and the dynamite, and Needles Highway opened to traffic in 1922. It became a huge success for South Dakota. Up to 1,700 vehicles now pass through on a busy summer day, maneuvering the dips and dives and hairpin turns, and squeezing through narrow tunnels designed for Model A’s rather than today’s big SUVs. Though 1,700 a day may not sound like a huge number, it’s enough to cause congestion — especially at the two tunnels — because, as Norbeck planned, the drivers crawl along at 10 to 20 miles per hour.

Since the highway is difficult to clean after heavy snows and dangerous to drive when the roadway is icy, the northern half has long been closed to car traffic in winter. Zacher, a 29-year veteran of the State Transportation Department (he now serves as Area Engineer for the Black Hills region), says the state kept it open for a winter about 30 years ago as a test.”We did a count to see if there would be any traffic, but the only people who drove it were Custer State Park employees looking for a shortcut from Sylvan Lake to the park headquarters. Except for them, there was zero use.”

Consequently, the state highway department still blocks the road with steel gates on the day before the first forecasted snowfall. That creates a one-day holiday for Black Hills bicyclists.”We get more calls asking when we are going to close it than we get in the spring about when it’s going to reopen,” Zacher notes.”The bikers want to bike the dry pavement before that first snow, without the car traffic.”

Once closed, a 7-mile stretch beginning at Sylvan Lake stays off-limits to cars and trucks until spring.

*****

We parked by the lake and walked the highway on a January morning. Several inches of snow had fallen overnight. There was one other set of tracks, so we knew we were not the first.

With only a few inches of snow on the pavement, walking was easy. The snow muffled the forest. Soon after passing the winter gate at Sylvan Lake, the only reminders of civilization were road signs, bridges and the tunnels that were blasted with Norbeck’s dynamite.

In summer, the road seems like a busy Main Street carved through a forest. On the frosty, cloudy winter morning we arrived, it was so quiet that you could hear tufts of new snow slipping from the pine branches. A squirrel playing in the banks and a few small birds were the only living creatures to be seen.

You hear no traffic, no livestock and no people — only your own feet loudly crunching in the snow. The silence and the scenery combine for an apocalyptic atmosphere, as if all the world has frozen and you are alone with nature on a good day. Civilization is represented only by the concrete ribbon of highway and yellow road signs that warn of curves and tunnels.

Iron Creek Tunnel, one of two tunnels along the winter hike on the Needles Highway, has an elevation of 5,285 feet, considerably lower than Needles Eye Tunnel, which stands at about 6,000 feet.

The Needles Eye Tunnel is just a mile or so from Sylvan Lake. In July, you wouldn’t dare to walk through the 8-foot tunnel for fear of being hit by a car, but in January you can take all the time and photographs that you desire. You might see bits of red and orange glass along the tunnel’s edges, evidence that a car or truck grazed the granite.

Further along, the jagged and jutting Needles spires inspire your imagination. You discover granite heads, shoulders, fingers, castles and caves. Soon after you pass the Needles Eye Tunnel and the nearby Cathedral Spires formations, the roadway descends nearly a thousand feet as you exit some of the Black Hills’ highest country. Walking is easy. You can either continue another 4 or 5 miles, covering the entire stretch of highway that is closed (if you have a way to return to your vehicle at Sylvan Lake) or you can retrace your steps. We went back to our car.

*****

The next morning, we drove east of Custer into the park on Highway 16 and turned north on Highway 87, which is the southern segment of Needles Highway. That stretch remains open in winter for about 6 miles. Once you reach the winter gate, which is north of the Playhouse Road, you can park and proceed on foot.

Zacher, the DOT engineer, asks that you never block the winter gates with your car.”You never know when an emergency services vehicle may need access, or we may be on our way to open the road and need access.”

The southern hike differs from the northern. Now you are lower in the forest. The pine trees are thicker and you’ll hear the gurgling of running water, though the stream, Iron Creek, is often invisible below ice and snow.

As with the northern route, you arrive at a hole in a mountain — the Iron Creek Tunnel — after less than an hour of walking. The two tunnels are milestones for winter hikers.

Dan Ray, an outdoor enthusiast from Rapid City, says both tunnels can be challenging.”Sometimes you have to break through a drift on one side or another. Sometimes the opening is completely blocked, I’ve heard tell, and that could be a blast to push your way through.”

Ray says some people use cross country skis on the roadway, though drifts and deep snow can make skiing difficult. He says snowshoes are helpful.”Prepare for 3 feet of non-packed snow, and if you are in a group, switch up who’s in front often.”

Ray also advises against blue jeans.”If you sweat or trip and fall in the snow, the jeans will get wet and then freeze. You will be miserable. Wear nylon pants and long johns that are polyester based. In the winter, cotton kills if you get it wet.”

Ray also recommends that hikers carry water, but leave the camelbacks at home.”They do not work well in winter. The water line from the bladder and the mouthpiece will freeze solid if it’s cold. Water bottles work well.”

While thousands of people travel the road on a summer day, park officials say a dozen or less usually do so in winter — partly because many hikers don’t know that the opportunity exists. Michael Belmont and his wife, Amy Hornstra, of St. Anthony, Minnesota, learned about it when they stopped at an art studio in nearby Hill City.”My husband asked the clerk for suggestions, and she told us you can hike Needles Highway.”

Hornstra, a native of Yankton, said the highlight for them was,”having the road to ourselves. The area is gorgeous Ö it was peaceful and beautiful. We have both hiked many parts of the world, and the Needles Highway now ranks near the top of our favorites list.”

She also recommends dressing for winter.”We were very happy that we both had on boots, as there were parts where the snow had drifted and was fairly deep. Other parts of the road were clear.”

In winter, many of the Black Hills’ other popular trails can become treacherous due to buildups of ice and snow. Ironically, the famous Sunday Gulch Trail, which also starts at Sylvan Lake, is closed to hikers in the winter because it is considered so dangerous. That makes the Needles Highway an even nicer find.

Norbeck is now remembered as the father of the highway and Custer State Park. Though he loved the outdoors, he wasn’t a hunter or fisherman. He found joy in the splendor of the natural world, and he would be delighted to know that hikers are following his very footsteps.

We thought of him as we enjoyed his creation. One man or woman can truly make a difference, given enough dynamite.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the November/December 2023 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Remaining Ranchland

By Paul Higbee

Johanna Meier Della Vecchia (left) points to trails she rode with her friend, Rosalie Aslesen, on Oak Hills Ranch.

Johanna Meier Della Vecchia stood by the gate at one of Spearfish’s last ranches and looked out over the grasslands bordered by big patches of oak and pine. She traveled the globe as one of the top sopranos in the world of opera, and then came back to Spearfish — hoping her hometown could avoid some of the troubles she observed elsewhere.

“So many beautiful places are completely developed,” she says.”Wide open areas like this have been lost forever.”

Standing with her at the ranch gate was longtime friend Rosalie Aslesen. The two talked of riding their horses on the ranch, exploring the hills for hours and sometimes pondering what might become of the natural splendor.

When the two were children, Spearfish’s population was only about 2,500. Small farms and ranches still surrounded the town. Today, Spearfish ranks among the fastest growing communities on the Great Plains, and most of the agricultural land has been subdivided into ranchettes, commercial developments, hotels and golf courses.

Johanna and her late husband Guido Della Vecchia, who was also an opera singer, bought the 800-acre site years ago. Now she is working with the South Dakota Agricultural Land Trust to create a conservation easement so that it will continue as ranchland. When she made the announcement at a media event in 2022, a young reporter asked,”How long does perpetuity last?”

She still smiles at the question because she relishes the answer: forever, of course. The young man’s issue might have been as much about disbelief as vocabulary. It is difficult to grasp that a piece of land this spectacular will look and function just as it does now in a century, given the appetite for Black Hills real estate.

Lone Tree Hill is the name given to one of the highest points on Oak Hills Ranch.

However, the benefits go beyond just the scenery of cattle grazing on meadows and seeking shade under the oak trees. The ranch, which sits southwest of town on a high plateau, is a clean watershed for the community and home to deer, elk, wild turkeys, coyotes, mountain lions, eagles and rare pine martens. Black bears occasionally traverse the ranch, using it as a corridor between the Hills and surrounding plains. Photographs capture the ranch’s beauty, but no description is complete without mention of its scents: pines, grasses lush or dry, wild raspberries and the aroma of thunderstorms approaching from Wyoming.

“This is the land where I rode as a child, beginning with my Shetland pony and then full-size horses,” Johanna recalls.”Frank Thomson owned the land then and he knew I’d stay on the trails and close the gates.”

Johanna’s parents had moved to Spearfish in 1939 to start the Black Hills Passion Play. Her father, Josef Meier, built an outdoor amphitheater near the Thomson ranch. Meier loved South Dakota life, and he developed a herd of Hereford cattle. Johanna helped with the Passion Play even as she established herself as a major figure in 20th century opera. Best known as a Wagnerian soprano, she sang roles at the Metropolitan Opera, New York City Opera and on storied European stages. Wherever performances took her, Johanna’s thoughts were seldom far removed from the Black Hills.

“I’m grateful for the career I had, and I loved it,” she says.”But I spent 37 years living in hotels and airports.” She and her husband always knew they would retire to the Black Hills. Johanna also knew her father had offered to buy Thomson’s land. But Thomson, who lived into his 90s, loved the land and showed little interest in selling.

When he died in 1975, a Spearfish friend called Johanna and told her she believed Thomson’s son, George, would sell the property if Johanna could fly home quickly and close the deal. Johanna was performing abroad, and the couple lived in New Jersey with retirement still a long way off. Still, they jumped at the opportunity. Johanna arranged for a fast South Dakota trip and acquired a property documented as a piece of micro-history like few others in South Dakota.

Frank Thomson lived a simple life on the ranch. His house, which still stands, was little more than a small barn. But he was respected by his fellow ranchers, and he served as president of the local cattlemen’s association for 52 years. He grew oats, wheat, barley and corn along with his beef cattle, and gardened for his family of five. He also harvested timber (it’s likely that what Johanna knew as horse trails were developed as lumber roads) and established himself as a noted historian and author. Whatever work Thomson did by day, it often figured into his writing at night. He described birds, including solitary thrushes,”that gave a peep-peep-peep, each peep being a single note after a short pause … the plaintive notes could be heard on clear, still nights, and they would carry your soul somewhere.”

Ranch manager Mark Weber (second from left) appreciates the history, heritage and natural environment at Oak Hills Ranch. His family includes (from left) grandson Oakley, wife Terri and daughter and son-in-law Cindy and Christian Raby.

Thomson marveled at the mountain air that seemed to magnify distant objects and kept Venus visible on bright days.”Such is the climate; the birds; and the sky that holds men to this enchanted land,” he wrote.

The ranch felt less enchanting through the Dust Bowl years of the 1930s. Thomson wrote of clouds of grasshoppers, and he also observed clouds of windswept topsoil, both of which nearly obliterated the sun.”I stood and saw my field of winter wheat of seventy-eight acres, top soil and seed wheat, being lifted by a strong west wind and carried high over Lookout Mountain that towers eight-hundred feet above the city of Spearfish,” Thomson wrote. The date was April 24, 1937. To his great credit, Thomson worked to rehabilitate his land in the coming decades.

He did it well. Rosalie Aslesen first experienced the ranch nearly 50 years after that vicious wind of’37 and found it breathtaking. In school, she and Johanna knew one another, and they shared a love of horses though they had never ridden together. At a Spearfish High School reunion in the 1980s, Johanna asked Rosalie if she still rode. Rosalie said yes but added that she didn’t then own a horse.”I’ve got horses,” Johanna said, and suggested a ride together through her recently acquired Oak Hills Ranch. It marked the beginning of nearly 20 years of trail riding for the two friends.”I remember wildflowers in summer, fall colors, views from the high points, and staying cool on hot days riding in Hungry Hollow,” Rosalie says.”They were unbelievable rides, and we could take many without repeating one.”

Spearfish rancher and conservationist Karl Jensen (pictured in the doorway of the Thomsons’ now-dilapidated ranch house) believes easements are an important tool for the agriculture community.

Frank Thomson, like most South Dakota farmers, never named his land. Johanna and Guido called it Oak Hills. Some Black Hills neighbors said they liked the sound of it but wondered if it was a misnomer. Looking at hills leading up to the ranch, pines dominate.”But there are oaks, beautiful oaks,” Rosalie affirms.”From the ranch buildings you look over the oaks and see the pines below.”

Some days, Rosalie and Johanna packed picnic lunches for their rides, or they relaxed over dinner with their husbands back at the ranch cabin. In their discussions, Rosalie could tell how committed her friend was in finding a way to preserve Oak Hills Ranch forever from the encroaching concrete of civilization. Johanna considered national organizations, but she chose the South Dakota Agricultural Land Trust because it reflects the state’s values of keeping agriculture strong and respecting landowner rights.

“Johanna had an incredible opera career, and she did something incredible, too, in coming home to South Dakota and conserving land that would have been worth millions had she decided to sell to housing developers,” says Tony Leif, the Land Trust executive director.”It’s really humbling that she put her trust in our organization. It’s helping us to be seen as an entity that can and will get these things done.”

The South Dakota Agricultural Land Trust was incorporated in 2019. Leif says it is currently working with about 50 landowners interested in establishing conservation easements for properties ranging from 30 or 40 acres to 13,000.”We never contact landowners and solicit easements,” Leif says.”They have to make the first contact.”

Johanna appreciates how much latitude she had in structuring her easement, even the option of keeping some land open to development.”But for me,” she stresses,”it means absolutely no development whatever. People in the Black Hills are so accustomed to open space and natural beauty that they may think one more piece of development won’t hurt. But it’s easy to get caught up in the sweep of concrete, and when a piece of land is gone, it’s gone forever.”

Mark Weber, whom Johanna selected as ranch manager, shares that view and the belief that as a working ranch the property must limit public access. A former law enforcement officer for 37 years with Lawrence County and then the City of Spearfish, Weber knows how to handle trespassers. Increasingly, trespassers with no connection to ag lands pose threats to both livestock and themselves. Weber says there are plenty of public lands near Spearfish, including the national forest and Spearfish Canyon.

The public can get a closeup look at Oak Hills, however, by hiking the city’s historic Thoen Stone Trail, which stops just short of the ranch. The Thoen Stone is a controversial bit of local history that possibly dates back to gold miners who were there in 1833. Ezra Kind, the last of the ill-fated miners, reportedly scratched the story of their misadventure on a sandstone slab found across the valley. Frank Thomson believed in the stone and defended its authenticity throughout his long life. The short trail can be found at the end of St. Joe Street in southwest Spearfish, and Oak Hills Ranch stretches west of the trail’s end.

Corrals at the ranch feature stone walls built by the Thomsons.

Weber appreciates the history, heritage and natural environment of the ranch.”I love this place and it feels like I’ve gone full circle with it,” he says. He grew up in Spearfish and at age 9 earned”a nickel a bale” loading hay for the Thomsons. As a teenager, Weber sometimes spent nights during calving season on the ranch. His wife’s grandfather, Bud Sprigler, helped Thomson rehabilitate the land after the Dust Bowl, terracing fields with just a blade and horses for better water retention.

“But I didn’t really understand the ranch until recent years,” Weber says.”How it’s a watershed, how important healthy grass is, how the shape of cattle hooves aerates the soil. You hear some people gripe about farmers and ranchers, but there’s lots of land that wouldn’t have survived like this without them.”

Of course, nature contributed what can be seen as ranch amenities today, long before humans knew the Black Hills. It is bordered by two steep canyons, Fish Hatchery Gulch and Hungry Hollow, about a mile-and-a-half apart and forming a natural barrier to livestock movement.

South Dakotans who respect the importance of maintaining farmland can rest assured, along with Johanna Meier Della Vecchia, that these unique 800 acres will be part of South Dakota’s agricultural culture for perpetuity. However, even strangers to the state’s farm culture will benefit.

“Travelers on I-90 can see the ranch a couple miles off, turning into town at Exit 12 at Spearfish,” Leif says.”It’s the green plateau straight ahead. Everybody gets that view forever.”

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 2023 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Last Hunt with John

By Lucas Nogelmeier

Time spent outdoors helped soothe Lucas Nogelmeier’s grieving soul after the death of his father-in-law. Photo by Dean Pearson

When we lose someone dear to us, we yearn for one more conversation, one more Christmas or one more smile. When I lost my father-in-law John Wiles in November of 2019, I wanted one more hunt with the man who took me on so many memorable outdoor excursions in South Dakota. Thankfully, we got it.

On my annual West River deer hunting trip, my phone rang with the news. My father-in-law had been in the hospital for several weeks. After many ups and downs, he ultimately suffered a setback and there was nothing keeping him alive beyond the machines. I loaded my gear and came home. I stayed with the kids, and my wife went to be with her mom and family. I could have gone, and maybe I should have, but I remembered my grandfather in the hospital during his final days and selfishly decided that wasn’t the memory I wanted to have of John. A little after 2 a.m., the call came. My father-in-law was at eternal rest.

I spent most of the following morning feeling sorry for myself, thinking of the times John and I shared. As most South Dakotans know, hunting isn’t about the harvest. It’s about the connection we feel when interacting with the outdoors. My hunting trips with John were no exception. I remembered watching the sunrise with him out at the Pass, our local hunting club near Watertown, where he would recall moments from his childhood, his early adulthood and as a new parent. His life was tethered to that spot and it was a gift to be there with him. My memories weren’t of bag limits or trophy animals. They were simply of being together.

Unable to clear my head, I grabbed my gun and loaded up my dog. It was a magnificent mid-November day, the perfect medicine for my soul. I didn’t care about shooting a pheasant. I just wanted to be outside with my yellow lab Sage, to feel the sunshine on my face and the grasses brushing the backs of my hands as I walked through the prairie.

Using the Game, Fish and Parks map, I picked a spot I’d never hunted before. I arrived to find that cattle had grazed the ground so short it would be hard for a mouse to hide. Sage and I walked around the edge toward a slough to see what we could find. The property extended back into more public ground that had served as pasture but was fenced off and probably hadn’t been grazed in years. It was about 75 acres of overgrown feedlot.

It was a nightmare to walk through. The habitat was thick, layered and tall, but I knew it was prime hunting ground. About 10 yards in, Sage pointed and we dropped our first rooster. Another bird took flight. I kept an eye on where he landed, and Sage and I trudged over to the spot. As excited as we were to get to him, I slowed my pace. Soon my dog’s tail and demeanor indicated we were close. Sage moved north and I followed.

Watertown’s John Wiles (far right) loved hunting, and used the outdoor experiences to impart life lessons to his family, including (from left) son-in-law Lucas Nogelmeier and daughters Amber Nogelmeier and Shannon Bahr.

And then it happened. It was one of those moments that people travel from all over the world to South Dakota to experience. Hens exploded from the ground like popcorn. There were roosters in front of me, behind me, next to me. Cackling and beating wings roared in my ears. I shot once, twice three times, and didn’t touch a feather on any of them. I didn’t have time to reload completely, so I threw a shell in the chamber and shot. And missed again. Pheasants kept flushing, so I threw in another shell and still I missed. No less than 75 birds were piled into an area the size of half a basketball court. My dog looked at me quizzically, and all I could hear was my father-in-law’s boisterous laugh. He had a laugh that rose above the crowd. Amidst my tears, I couldn’t help but laugh as well.

Sage and I headed to a spot where the habitat was a little lighter. I was hoping for easier walking, and maybe some water for my dog. Just before we reached the easier stuff, a rooster flushed. This time, I focused and put him on the ground. We made a beeline out of the nastiness and back to the grazed land.

I walked Sage over to the slough and busted a hole through the ice with my heel so she could drink. Naturally, she ignored the water and acted birdy. I imagined that any one of the horde of birds we flushed could have landed anywhere, even out here in the short grass. I wandered behind her as she worked back and forth into the wind. We were close to the truck, but I didn’t want to go home and I didn’t want to keep pressing for my limit. I simply needed to be outdoors. Just as food and water nourish the body, nature nourishes the soul.

I was deep in thought as Sage and I walked the edge of the slough. The shoreline wound its way back into the thick cover, and soon we came to the spot where we first entered the overgrown feedlot. Rather than jump back in, I walked the grazed outside and let Sage work the edge of the prairie wilds.

I strode slowly north, the ancient, overgrown pasture on my right and the setting sun on my left. Geese honked above and two deer ambled out of the trees while I tried to wrap my head around losing someone who held such an exalted place in my life. Then Sage flushed a rooster about 30 yards into the mess, but I just didn’t feel like shooting. The purples, blues and greens radiated from the bird, and the scene was so idyllic that it seemed better just to admire.

Up ahead, the public land cut off and on the other side was an alfalfa field. Our hunt would soon be over. Fifty yards to go, then 20, then 10. And quiet. Sage and I stop. Tears began to pour down my cheeks again. I knew what was coming. My dog knew it too, and I could feel my father-in-law’s hand on my shoulder. My word for Sage to break point is”okay.” I let it out and Sage pounced. I heard the wingbeats before I saw the pheasant rise above the habitat, colors ablaze. Deliberately, I pulled the gun up and made a good shot. I knelt, sobbing, and Sage returned with the bird in her mouth.

For most of the day, I had been grieving, desperately wishing for one more hunt with my father-in-law. It was on my knees on the South Dakota prairie, my dog by my side and a limit of roosters in the vest that I realized this was that hunt. I didn’t want it to end, so we stayed a moment, together in spirit, in prayer and thanksgiving.

The same warm, November sun shone a bit brighter as we headed back to the truck, and my grief had been replaced with gratitude. A small trickle of water ran amidst the pasture, and Sage found the muddiest place to lie down and cool off. I typically try to keep her out of the mud, but if she’s willing to let me do the easy walking while she busts through the hard stuff to flush pheasants, I think it’s fair to let her wallow in the muck. She stepped out looking two-tone with mud covering every square inch from the middle of her belly and down. And I heard John laugh once more.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the November/December 2020 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

Upland hunting fall 2019 Grouse Pheasant
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The Paddlefish Opener

By Bernie Hunhoff

Boats dot the Missouri River near Yankton for the annual paddlefish season opener on October 1.

Fishing is often a solitary sport in South Dakota, where anglers drift and cast on massive reservoirs, or on prairie rivers that flow for hundreds of miles. That changes every Oct. 1, however, when hundreds of people gather along a very short stretch of the Missouri River for the opening of the month-long paddlefish season.

Paddlefish are filter-feeders, meaning they won’t bite traditional bait, so they are caught by snagging hooks that are cast into the tailwaters of Gavins Point Dam, just a few miles west of Yankton. Men and women cast and drag, again and again, somewhat like fly fishing but less ballet and more muscle. They fish from boats or the rock-strewn shore. Some stand atop a tall concrete wall on the north side of the dam. When a fish is caught, all the anglers and spectators watch.

Paddlefish is a primitive species that swam eons ago with the dinosaurs. Due to its size and shark-like appearance, it seems like a creature more fit for the world’s oceans rather than the lakes and rivers of middle America.

The largest ever caught was speared by an Iowa fisherman in 1916. It weighed 198 pounds. The South Dakota record is a 127-pounder landed by Bill Harmon in 2014 at Lake Francis Case. Hundred-pound fish measuring 4 to 5 feet are not uncommon.

Bryan Mendlik, Scott Mendlik and Kellen McClure caught and released a “slot” paddlefish below Gavins Point Dam that measured just under 45 inches.

Landing such a large fish is no easy matter. On some occasions, it takes many minutes and several men. As soon as a fish is brought out of the water, the angler and his friends grab a tape measure, but they don’t stretch the tape along the paddle-like snout, which can be one-third of its overall length; the scientific measurement is from the eye to the fork in the tail.

The sport of paddlefishing is heavily regulated in South Dakota, and one of the rules states that fish between 35 and 45 inches must be immediately released because they are in their breeding prime. The six Missouri River dams greatly interrupted the natural spawning of the great fish. Much of the slack has been replaced by artificial breeding programs in hatcheries, but paddlefish do still breed in the wild.

Biologists want to give them every chance to do so, and the anglers obviously agree because there’s always an urgency to get every fish measured and then released when it’s within the range.

The snagging season at Yankton runs the month of October. There was a time when it began on Oct. 1 and then concluded after a certain quota of fish were harvested. That created a bedlam of action, as everyone rushed to snag a fish before the season ended. The river and shoreline became so congested that authorities deemed it unsafe.

Naturally, such mayhem created more regulations. Today only 1,600 licenses are made available in a June drawing. (A May season is held at Lake Francis Case, where just 350 licenses are allowed.)

License winners at Yankton now have the entire month of October to bag a fish, but opening morning is still a sight to behold — especially when it turns out to be a classic autumn morning with blue skies and gold leaves on the cottonwoods that shade the river.

Anglers and spectators alike mark Oct. 1 on their calendars.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 2022 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Birder to Birdwatcher

By D. George Prisbe-Przybysz

Is George Prisbe a birder or a birdwatcher? Yes, he says, there are differences.

I was introduced to the world of birds when I was 31 and living in Aberdeen. My early mentors were both named Dan. One was a degreed ornithologist and bander who zealously pursued birds, the other was a laid-back amateur who perched in a lawn chair and let birds come to him. Despite their differences, both were influential and supportive as I muddled along, convinced that I would never be able to distinguish one sparrow from another.

Those early years of birding were exciting, and my new interest felt natural. I was curious, enjoyed the outdoors and really liked solitude. I also relished competition, so I took to the idea of checklists as a type of scorekeeping. Each check mark came to represent a victory. This concept was central to my motivation to go out and look for birds. In some ways it became more about the birds I had not seen than about the ones I had.

I became that strange, suspicious character stalking the elm-canopied streets and overly manicured city parks of Aberdeen, binoculars permanently collared around my neck. Soon I was migrating to Sand Lake National Wildlife Refuge northeast of Aberdeen at least once a week and peeping down every back road. My home range expanded quickly as I searched for new habitat and boxes to check. Long daily excursions — Sand Lake to Sica Hollow and Hartford Beach, ending with an evening roost at Waubay National Wildlife Refuge — became routine.

Like most birders, I kept a variety of checklists: yard, patch, year, state, life, and even county by county lists. My desire to amass totals culminated in a turning point in my birding life — a quest to see 300 species within the borders of South Dakota in one year.

Then I moved to the northern Black Hills, and I knew that sojourns to the prairie — particularly east of the Missouri River — would be limited, but necessary, if I was to reach my goal. Differences in bird diversity and distribution, especially during migration, would make reaching 300 difficult without winging my way east several times. By the end of that year, successful as it was, I still felt unfulfilled and disillusioned. Unsuccessful excursions, in pursuit of specific species, were discouraging and felt like wasted time, plus I felt pangs of guilt over my carbon footprint. Even successful sojourns, like a day trip to Hot Springs to spot a lesser goldfinch, began to lose meaning and significance.

The trees around Prisbe’s home in the northern Black Hills teem with wildlife, including this northern saw-whet owl.

My appreciation of simply being in the field and observing whatever nature presented had been parasitized by the pace of my quest, my fixation on target birds and list totals. What I had always described as my passionate obsession had lost some flight feathers. How much had I failed to appreciate, or even notice, along the way? Had I become jaded by my search for”good birds?” Was I guilty of a”just a robin” mentality?

It was time to learn from my lawn chair mentor and just let the birds come to me. I established Hanna Circle — a 3 1/2-mile radius from our home at Hanna in southcentral Lawrence County — as my”patch.”

Limiting my range proved difficult. I found myself verdant with envy when reading reports of migrating warblers and shorebirds and species that I was unlikely to see in the Black Hills. The urge to respond to reports of rare or unusual species was difficult to cage.

My focus shifted from searching to observing — from birding to bird watching. Gradually, I began to recognize the rewards of this new and slower pace. I began to appreciate birds as individuals instead of members of a particular species with a corresponding box to be checked. I stopped using common birder expressions like”good birds” and”trash birds,” coming to regard such terms as disrespectful and inappropriate. I now understood my wife’s displeasure every time I said,”just a robin.” My binoculars became judgment free. So complete became my reformation that I would admonish total strangers when I overheard them using the phrase”kill two birds with one stone.” I suggested a substitute:”fledge two birds with one nest.”

I was happy and enjoying birds more than ever. Daily hikes into the diverse habitat surrounding our home became routine, bordering on obsessive. I grew familiar with the area and the activity of its inhabitants. Soon, I was sure that the local birds were becoming familiar with me, too. I kept a daily journal, recording species in the order in which they presented themselves, noting the number, nesting and behavioral activity, weather conditions, and whatever else seemed relevant, such as wildflower blossom dates, butterfly flight periods, and getting down on my knees to inspect fungi and overlooked downscapes underfoot.

For the past 15 years, I have been able to compare observations day to day, week to week, season to season, year to year and marvel at the serendipity. Not possessing the power of omnipresence — something every birder must desire — I know that many species have escaped my observation, simply because of my many remarkable and unexpected sightings. My Hanna Circle list now totals 210 species, 61 of which are one-time wonders. Another 43 have been observed three or fewer times.

Most birders, at least the ones I know, would be uncomfortable with a year list that is consistently and substantially fewer than 200. I have no qualms with listing or chasing, but it’s not for me. My commitment to observing birds simply cannot be measured by marks on a checklist or miles on an odometer.

Birder or birdwatcher? Is there a difference, or is this a nuanced description of the same thing? To me, they are not the same. I have spent considerable time thinking about my relationship with birds and the natural world. Like birds, we have behavioral traits that define us, and we adapt individually to circumstance. My evolution from avid birder to birdwatcher, or patch observer, is probably a rare morph, but it has brought me to a comfortable place: home.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the May/June 2020 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Butterfly Week

Story and photos by Olaf Danielson

A mustard white at the Waubay National Wildlife Refuge in Day County.

Every year, a colorful bonanza appears on the prairies of northeastern South Dakota. I call it the”Biggest Week of Butterflies.”

From the last few days of June through July 4, some of the state’s most colorful and shortest-lived residents emerge to mate, lay eggs and impress those who are in the field watching. One of these is the diminutive Dakota skipper (Hesperia dacotae), a prairie butterfly listed in 2014 as threatened under the Endangered Species Act. It appears for its only”flight” of the year, frequently perching on coneflowers awaiting a mate or a lucky photographer.

I didn’t think much about butterflies in my youth. I got into this hobby as a bored bird watcher looking for something to amuse myself. I chase rare bird reports all over the country and have seen every breeding bird in North America. It took 300,000 miles, but in 2016 I saw them all in a single year, plus many other rarities.

Bird watching can get slow in the dog days of summer. A few years ago, I bought a new camera lens in July and needed something to film. An orange butterfly caught my attention. I posted the picture on Facebook and instantly people wanted to know where I had seen it.

Once you’ve seen a few interesting insects, a guy like me gets hooked, buys a field guide and wonders what else is out there. I was instantly drawn to the rarer species, since few decent photographs of Dakota skippers existed online (and a few were not even of the correct species). I made a goal to get better photos of them.

The locations of the skippers appear to be a closely guarded secret. These little butterflies can be difficult to find or even see, unless you know where, when and how to look for them. I have found skippers through dumb luck, persistence, researching federal filings, and once, while I was lost. On that occasion, I stumbled upon a Roberts County ranch for sale at auction. I walked around the property, which led me to bid on the land, and the next thing I knew I was a landowner. Later, while again ambling aimlessly around my new prairie, I stumbled upon my first Dakota skippers.

Despite the challenges, my bucket list item of seeing the Dakota skipper has been rewarding. Some of the undisturbed fields on the Coteau des Prairies in northeast South Dakota’s lake country hold the last refuges for this insect devastated by pesticide and the slow and steady loss of virgin prairies. Whether or not you successfully find this butterfly, roaming the prairie in early summer is a grand adventure. At least I have saved my parcel from further damage.

A rare Dakota Skipper found in the Enemy Swim Lake watershed.

These small orangish butterflies live simple lives. Dakota skippers have four basic life stages: egg, larva, pupa and adult. During the brief adult period in June and July, females lay up to 250 eggs, one at a time, on the underside of leaves, if enough nectar and moisture is present. Eggs take about 10 days to hatch into small caterpillars. After hatching, larvae build shelters at or below the ground surface and emerge at night to feed on little and big bluestem leaves. This continues until fall when the caterpillars become dormant. They overwinter in shelters at or just below ground level, usually in the base of native little bluestem bunches. The following spring, larvae emerge to continue developing. Pupation takes about 10 days. The males emerge first, about four to five days before the females. Their lives are at most three weeks but usually less and right in the heat of the summer.

There are other butterflies to see besides the Dakota skipper. Another much more impressive resident of these same areas is the regal fritillary (Speyeria idalia), a large, colorful butterfly that was once widespread over the eastern half of the United States. It is now also one of the nation’s many vanishing species of butterflies as its eastern range has now retracted into small, isolated populations and into an area of the historic tallgrass prairies and plains from Kansas to North Dakota. The area around Summit, northeast of Watertown, seems to have more of these colorful butterflies than most. Starting around the last week of June many can also be seen lazily flying over the grasslands for a few weeks.

There has been much concern about this species’ future with a loss of more than 99 percent of the original native tallgrass prairie land cover, decreased sustainable habitat and a generalized loss of its caterpillar foodplant — violets. Although this butterfly is not listed as threatened or endangered, there is much speculation that it will be listed soon.

Not all skippers are Dakota skippers. Most are a different species (South Dakota is home to dozens of skipper species), and many are difficult to identify. The state is also home to at least eight commonly encountered orange colored fritillary species that range from large ones like the regal and the great spangled fritillary (Speyeria cybele) to ones about a third the size, like the meadow fritillary. Luckily, only the regal fritillary seems to be in immediate peril. Not all butterflies emerge in mid-summer. Some come out in early May and others wait until late summer. Sometimes, when you see them is almost as important as what you see them feeding or displaying on.

One butterfly species has already disappeared in the Upper Midwest. The Poweshiek skipperling has not been seen in South Dakota since 2008 when a few were spotted in Day and Deuel counties. People like me hope they are quietly living in some hidden spot. Sadly, I have never seen this diminutive butterfly that now clings to existence in some isolated meadows in Michigan. I would love to photograph one. Still, there is other life on the prairie and like anything, one needs to get out and see these creatures before they are gone. I did, and I feel I am better for it.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the May/June 2022 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Ten Outdoor Adventures in South Dakota

Where do your outdoor skills and experiences rank in the wild woods, waters and prairies of South Dakota? Do you know the lay of the land? Can you find wild mushrooms? Have you ever seen a gray kneebobber, or the holey rocks of Roberts County? Here are 10 popular activities to help you break the cabin fever of a long winter and enjoy the South Dakota outdoors.

1. BEFRIEND THE MONARCH

Monarch butterflies rank among South Dakota’s most interesting creatures. A butterfly typically hatches here in August, and then as autumn arrives it flies 2,500 miles southward to the Oyamel fir forests where it will hibernate through the winter, often in the same trees as its ancestors. When it reawakens and flies north in the spring it lays eggs, which dramatically shortens its lifespan. Soon it dies. The process repeats itself as the butterflies travel northward. Monarchs that arrive in South Dakota around Mother’s Day are the fourth-generation descendants of those that departed the previous fall.

2. PONDER THE HOLEY ROCKS

One of South Dakota’s great and unresolved mysteries is the”holey rocks” of Roberts County. All of northeast South Dakota is rocky, thanks to glaciers that brought the rocks here 10,000-plus years ago. Some of the biggest boulders have holes about as wide as a quarter. A geologic detective documented 57 such stones in the early years of the 21st century, though there are probably many more. They are not limited to Roberts County. Some have also been discovered in Minnesota and other northern states. One theory is that the stone holes were chiseled as guideposts by Viking explorers who traveled here from Hudson Bay in medieval times, although it requires a rewrite of immigration history.

3. HIKE BUFFALO TRAILS

First, let’s be very clear. We are not suggesting that any of our paying readers should ever intentionally walk near a wild buffalo — unless they can run faster than a horse (because a buffalo can). The big brown galoots have been clocked at 40 mph. Still, it’s a fact that some very cool outdoor trails exist on popular buffalo reserves. Samuel G. Ordway Nature Preserve in northern South Dakota has hiking trails and a buffalo herd, but there’s a fence in between. Wind Cave in the southern Black Hills has 30 miles of hiking trails, and you share the terrain with a herd of 400 bison. Badlands National Park has an”open hike” policy, and that goes for humans and the park’s buffalo so it’s up to the former to be smart. They say if the buffalo notices you then you’re too close … and it may be too late.

4. MUSHROOM HUNTING

South Dakota has many edible mushrooms, but the morel is king. Though the season changes throughout the state, morels are usually found from early April to early May. The best habitat is a moist forest floor, especially near rivers, lakes and swamps. Morels, which only grow in the wild, are difficult to find because they blend into spring’s grassy-brown environment. Look for yellow or tan mushrooms with spongy caps but beware of the false”brain” mushroom. It is toxic. True morels have a honeycomb cap and hollow stems, while false morels are solid. Don’t pull a morel from the ground because it is connected by a hypha to other mushrooms that may soon emerge. Just snip or pinch.

5. STARGAZING

South Dakota has less light pollution than most states, so we should all be amateur stargazers. Badlands National Park is the most enchanting place to watch the stars; park officials offer a Night Sky Program on weekend evenings through the summer. However, rural areas across the state — even in more populated East River — are conducive to seeing the Milky Way and other mysteries of the heavens.

6. GROW A TREE

Statistically-speaking, South Dakota is 4 percent forested. The trouble with statistics is that 99 percent of our approximately 601 million trees are in the Black Hills. Much of our prairie country looks like the aftermath of an immensely successful deforestation program. It’s not that South Dakotans aren’t trying. We once visited a West River ranch and saw a spindly elm tree trying to grow from a crack along the concrete foundation of small barn.”Shouldn’t we pull that out before it widens the crack?” asked our writer. The rancher was horrified.”I’d move the barn before I’d kill that tree!” he exclaimed. Want to do something good for South Dakota’s outdoors? Go plant a tree (or at least leave them alone).

7. PASQUE WATCH

South Dakota’s state flower is the prairie pasque, Pulsatilla patens, a tough and dainty flower that blooms briefly at the first sign of spring. Though it grows throughout the state, many South Dakotans have not seen one in the wild because it blooms so briefly and because it survives best in rugged, natural terrain. The best habitat is north-facing slopes, and the ideal time is just as the snow melts in early April. Finding a patch is a visual treat. For a real challenge, try transplanting a pasque to your garden. Its long roots, developed to survive drought, make it nigh impossible. You’ll have better luck harvesting its seeds, though even that is difficult. It is truly a wild flower, a fitting symbol of springtime in South Dakota.

8. SPOT THE DIPPER

Thirty years ago, a Minnesota birdwatcher alerted South Dakota Magazine that while fishing on Little Spearfish Creek he witnessed a slate-colored bird that could walk under water. He said he reported it at the nearest pool hall, where everyone laughed at his story. They called it a gray kneebobber.”Probably huntin’ for mountain oysters,” laughed one of the locals. Our Minnesota reader later discovered that it was the endangered American dipper, and fortunately the aquatic songbird can still be found in Spearfish and Whitewood creeks in the Northern Hills. Have you seen a dipper and been reluctant to tell anyone for fear of ridicule?

9. TRY SPELUNKING

Even though the Black Hills is home to more than 100 known caves, including several of the world’s longest, spelunking hasn’t caught on like downhill skiing, pheasant hunting or even watching paint dry. Something about the fear of crawling on your belly in the dark through tight canyons shared by bats doesn’t resonate with the outdoors crowd. But add the experience to your bucket list. Wind Cave and Jewel Cave are run by the National Park Service and offer fascinating guided tours, as do several private caves. The names of the passages in Jewel Cave suggest what you’re missing: the Promised Land, the Mind Blower, Boondocks, Wildflower Walk and Spooky Hollow.

10. FIND A FAIRBURN AGATE

South Dakota is heaven for rockhounds, and the Fairburn agate is prized. The state’s official gemstone was first hunted in the moon-like Kern agate beds east of Fairburn in Custer County, but it can also be found in Teepee Canyon west of Custer and elsewhere West River. People have even discovered them mixed with landscape rock and fill material taken from pits near the Cheyenne River. Serious rock hunters have spent days and even weeks searching for Fairburns with no luck, so consider yourself fortunate if you spot even one.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the”South Dakota Outdoor Challenge,” which appeared in the March/April 2023 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.