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Bird Signs at Bear Butte

By Alex Zappala

Bear Butte, an ancient volcano in Meade County, is a sacred place for Native tribes.

GRANDMA USED TO SAY that her father shouldn’t have been a farmer, though he made do. Besides wearing overalls, the man liked to dance and take photographs and had a deep, bellowing laugh. During the summer, he’d come in for lunch, turn on the radio and lay down on the cool kitchen floor, listening to voices discuss grain prices. His wife did all the farm thinking, bought livestock and paid the bills. That was before they had children, and then she delegated most of the management to her two oldest sons while the younger sisters drove the grain truck with their father.

My grandmother was born in Gary in 1927. Back then, people not only watched, but looked for birds — and believed in them — as signals. Cardinals came in spring, an owl was a ghost, a red-tailed hawk was good luck (three of them worth a harvest) and an eagle was a sign of greatness.

Each Sunday, our family would visit Grammy in the nursing home, and she’d tell stories; how her mother had premonitions, signs of things to come, like when a glass was broken in the kitchen on the same afternoon an ornery hog trampled a farmhand and bit off the tip of his thumb. As she spoke, she would turn her attention to each audience member and then let her eyes drift off to the horizon.

Four months before she passed away in October 2021, Grammy took a road trip to Bear Butte, a place she had always wanted to visit. She saw the buffalo pasture, fell asleep at the lake and stayed at the Hotel Sturgis, closer to Rapid City for an evening dinner with her sister. It was left unsaid that it would probably be her last trip back to South Dakota. To give Mom, Grammy and her sister some time alone, I decided to hike Bear Butte.

*****

NORTHEAST OF THE STURGIS”Hollywood” sign, the hillside rises into a thicket of pine trees, a brief territory that expands roughly 2,000 feet and encompasses prime land for cabin plots. From a bird’s eye view, ripples of igneous rock run parallel to Highway 34, eventually disappearing into a plain of county highway, foothills and hay country. The air is clear, and you can smell the sweet oil from miles of prairie grass that can grow as high as a buffalo, pitched with a wind that makes the fields appear to roll like the Atlantic Ocean. From a distance, the saddle of an isolated hill forms two small, furry bumps, the shoulders and rear haunches of something gargantuan. It looks as if some beast might be sleeping on the wide prairie.

As you approach on a wide-bending county road, signs mark the beginning of Bear Butte National Wildlife Refuge. The lake appears on your left with a burgundy sign for the Centennial Trail head and then another sign showing you through the buffalo pasture at the base of the butte.

Bear Butte is Mato Paha to the Lakota Nation, or Bear Mountain. People don’t agree on whether the geographer’s standard appropriately rules-in the formation as a butte or just a lonesome hill, deep with rocky crags.

For hundreds of years, the mountain has been an active ceremonial site, with indigenous tribes utilizing it for a variety of spiritual experiences. The mountain has also served as a destination waypoint for travelers across the Great Plains long before the creation of an iPhone, Wi-Fi or Google Maps. As the ancient volcano rises 900 feet abruptly into the sky, the rocky laccolith is considered a bridge from this world to the next, a place to communicate with, interpret, signal and understand a world beyond the physical one we experience.

I started early, just as the middle of night began to shrug off. At sunrise, I watched light pour into the creek valley. The reflection looked like a golden Colossus, a giant with arms reaching toward the sky. With each step up the trail, light expanded across the horizon, warming the back of my ears. Immersed in the cozy scent of pine, I felt a force, a great spirit, as if it might lift me off the Earth.

Thousands of people ascend Bear Butte every year, some seeking spiritual clarity.

From the lodge at the base of the mountain, the trail furrowed through the forest. I saw trees filled with sacred offerings: articles of cloth tied into pouches with tobacco, peppermint and other prairie herbs, each offering knotted around branches of cedar and pine. The cloths flapped in the quickening wind, the number of offerings so great that the bundles looked like people in a caravan toward the top. The scene reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

Approaching the trailhead, I saw two mule deer and they saw me. They turned to stone, the white button of each tail tufted into the dark air, their ears turned flat in my direction. Stepping forward, my heel crunched the gravel. They moved 10 or 15 feet and then looked back again with the same curiosity. They moved off further. I moved and they moved, turning to look back one last time before pelting off down the slope of the mountain.

Closer to the summit, I saw a shirtless man meditating off the trail on the eastern face of the rock, the boundless wind lifting his long, braided ponytail into the sky. He seemed to be inviting the sun onto the mountain. He must have started his journey earlier than me — or he was there all night. He gently tied a knotted piece of cloth to the outer branch of a young pine, careful not to cause a change in the growth of the stripling. The article is offered to the elements: the Great Sky, the Sun, the Earth, eternally blessed by the spirit of the morning light.

The man stopped at each promontory on his travel down the mountain. As the switchbacks slither up and down through the jagged slopes, these portions triangulate, leveling off to cradle valuable lookout points where the soil is amenable enough for yucca to grow.

At each nest of rocks, the man paused. He cupped his hands to his mouth, but there was no noise at first. Then I heard a flickering whistle.

Weet, weet, weet.

The warble of a bird, as if a meadowlark shadowed him up the mountain. He continued this ritual until I could no longer see him in the folds at the base valley. I descended the trail feeling better than when I began, my mind quiet and more connected, thinking of ways to take this sacred mountain with me wherever I go.

*****

AFTER MY GRANDMOTHER’S death, I returned to Bear Butte in January wanting to reconnect, looking for a sign. I thought of my grandparents, and how they made their home into ours when we moved to Nebraska from the East Coast. How they sheltered us from the storms in life. How they showed us good and believed in enduring altruism. I carried these spirits as well as a promise to look for something great, like an eagle. Incredibly, I saw one as I left Lincoln, Nebraska, for the Sandhills. It was a good sign and a rare sight for the capital city. I knew it would be a wonderful trip.

From the Sandhills I traveled through Pine Ridge, Rapid City and then Sturgis, arriving just as the sun pushed the horizon. The blue daylight turned an orange cream, like the inside of a Cadbury egg. The stores in town still slept, and there was no place to eat besides the gas station. I filled up on coffee and bottled water before heading out to Highway 34.

The temperature started in the teens. The wind was festive, always present and nipping before the 900-foot ascension. Sunrise on January 16 was at 7:26 a.m. I plowed into the mountain, feeling the furnace on the horizon beginning to brighten.

Prayer cloths and bundles, found along the trail to Bear Butte’s summit, are left as offerings to higher spirits.

Halfway up I saw a couple farther along the trail, perched on the slope 75 feet above. The wind unexpectedly rushed, brushing off my stocking cap and making me teary-eyed. Heavy clouds in the distance indicated that a weather system was sprinting towards the butte. The couple appeared, then disappeared before emerging again on the trail before me. The man carried a plastic bag and a bone-pipe flute. I suddenly realized they wore blue jeans, sneakers, stocking caps and thin cotton gloves, the kind you’d use to detassel corn. I felt empathetically cold, dressed in coveralls, hiking boots and insulated gloves.

It began to snow. With this wind, the flakes bit at my cheeks, sharper than glass.

ìDid the weather scare you off?” the woman asked as she pulled the hood of her windbreaker around her chin.

ìSomething like that,” I replied.

The man told me that they had to reach the top of Bear Butte for their ceremony; a sacred rite, part of which requires summiting the mountain under any circumstances and depositing their offerings at the top. The objects to be offered were in the plastic bag — an umbilical cord and placenta. These pieces were bound in clothing and tied into the trees. Some were placed underneath the yucca. He described it as a blessing. For their children. For better education, opportunities, wealth and beyond that — a home. So that no matter what happens, they will never be lost, they will always have a home, a place they can always return to on Bear Butte.

We exchanged a warm wave and they departed.

ìHave a good day,” the man said.

ìSafe travels,” I replied.

I watched them travel down the mountain, stopping at the next promontory 50 feet below. He held the flute to his lips. I could hear it, the notes sounding tiny in the wind, the high-pitched air fluttering through the bone tube towards the sun. The warble of a meadowlark. To the west the sky was dark, hiding a range of rock behind low clouds southwest of the mountain. In the east, the glowing sun peacefully climbed.

That’s when I saw two mule deer, perhaps the same pair that I met during the summer. They stared like they knew me, perhaps carrying the spirits of what was. I thought of the eagle, and my promise to look for something great, and I was reminded here on Bear Butte, no one is lost. Wherever life takes us, there is always a place, if only sometimes a feeling, that we can call home.

I listen.

Weet, weet, weet.

I thought of my grandparents, loved ones, lost or not, imagining them as part of the caravan of colored cloth traveling through trees.

Alex Zappala is a writer and musician living in Lincoln, Nebraska.

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

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Pilgrimage for the Soul

By Lex Talamo

Lex Talamo became immersed in Lakota culture as she spent several years teaching writing to middle schoolers on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

I was 22 when I struck out from my home in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, for the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, teaching license in hand. My assignment seemed simple: teach 80 Lakota middle school students how to love writing, and to write well.

Pine Ridge, among the poorest places in the United States, soon assailed me with unanticipated problems. Many of my students’ home lives were marred by violence, poverty and abuse, which often resulted in unruly classroom behavior. My isolation, two hours from Rapid City, led to many”dark nights of the soul” that threatened to swallow me. I had fallen into a slump of dreading the mornings, the days, the rest of my life, and I didn’t know how to refocus my energy.

One afternoon, the Lakota Studies teacher wheeled his squeaky cart, complete with feathered rod and buffalo skull, into my classroom. His lesson was about the seven sites he said were sacred to the Lakota. “There is still power for our people in those places,” he told the students.”That is why our people still make pilgrimages, to this very day, to reconnect with the Great Spirit and pray for healing.”

I copied the list: Wind Cave, Sylvan Lake, Black Elk Peak, Bear Butte, the Badlands, the Black Hills and Devil’s Tower. I promised myself I would visit them all.

***

I decided that Wind Cave — the origin place of the Buffalo People, according to Lakota legend — would be the perfect place to start. The 115-mile trip would take me about two hours from the village where I taught. I spotted only a handful of cars as I followed Highway 18 west through a land of windswept beauty that left me dazed. Tawny prairie dogs barked and bustled around their colonies and several majestic buffalo grazed nearby as I arrived in Wind Cave National Park.

Bison, the noble beasts at the core of Lakota culture and once on the verge of extinction, still dot the West River landscape.

I signed up for a cave tour, which our guide began by recounting the story of Alvin McDonald, an eccentric teenager who moved with his family to the area in 1890. He had trouble making friends, so he sought sanctuary within the cave’s uncharted depths. Our guide flipped a switch in the large room, plunging the space into absolute darkness.”Think about that,” she said.”Think about exploring this cave, with its sudden drop offs, by yourself, and with only a candle for light.” She flipped the switch again, illuminating the water dripping off cave formations and cratered walls.

McDonald rolled out string as he explored so he could find his way around the cave, she continued. He left little puzzles — strings of letters — along the cave’s walls with the candle’s flame. Our guide showed us sooty markings on the cave ceiling, and then beamed her light into a crevice in the rock wall.”But my favorite story about Alvin involves this room and this passage,” she said.”If you’ll look toward my light, you’ll see a rare and beautiful crystal formation. Alvin knew there was a passage behind this, but to get there, he would have to destroy the crystal. He chose to leave the passage unknown, and the crystal intact, out of his respect for his cave.”

After the tour, I found McDonald’s grave, marked by a bronze plaque, near the natural entrance to Wind Cave. A Native American proverb popped into my mind:”Give thanks for unexpected blessings on their way.” McDonald’s story had sparked something in me, made me feel alive and reminded me that every day could hold unexpected blessings, as long as I showed up.

***

My next pilgrimage took me to Black Elk Peak, the sacred mountain where the Lakota welcomed the Thunder Beings each spring. KILI radio, the single station my car picked up, blared from my stereo as I tore down Highway 44. The road to Sylvan Lake, from which I could access the mountain trailhead, meandered through such tight turns above sheer rock precipices that my palms were sweaty and white. I reminded myself of what Reagan, my teacher friend on the Rosebud Reservation, had written to me once:”The hard stuff is always the good stuff. The hard stuff is what makes the story.”

Prayer flags adorn tree branches near the summit of Black Elk Peak. Photo by Paul Horsted

Halfway around the lake (really a manmade dam), I found a trailhead leading to Black Elk Peak and veered off the paved path. The way was steep and rocky, with giant metal handrails posted in one haphazard section of boulders. Jumping from craggy rock faces to the trail below, I felt like a child. I felt free. Unhindered. The sunlight on my face, which I missed so often due to the long hours I put in at school, invigorated my spirit. The solitude of the trail also strengthened me; I passed only a few people on my ascent.

I reached a point where the dirt path led to a wash of tangled woods; when I retraced my steps, I could not find the trail. I was still lost when the sun set and the temperature dropped. I found a cave-like crawlspace under an outcropping of rock. It was at least 10 degrees warmer inside than out, so I crawled in. I listened to the wind shriek past my sanctuary. I resolved to sleep if I could.

The sun’s rays peeked into my cave at dawn the next morning. I crawled from the space and tried to find the trail. Hours passed. Miles passed. When the sun shone directly overhead, hot and heavy in the sky, I abandoned all efforts to find a path. I picked a direction and ran. I did not stop until I heard the sound of a highway. I burst from the woods and found myself on an endless stretch of asphalt that gave no clue as to my location. No signs. No cars. No people. Then, a red sedan. I stayed by the side of the road, waving my arms above my head in distress. The car sped up and rushed past me.

I had no watch, no phone and I was out of water. I am going to die out here, I thought. Then a white minivan appeared on the horizon, making slow but steady progress down the hill. I prayed there were nice people inside. Then I stepped into the center of the road, waving my arms wildly. This time, the vehicle slowed and stopped.

I knew I must look crazy. My arms were scratched and bleeding from my crazed run through the woods. I had bits of leaf litter and twigs in my hair. I kept my hands loose and visible by my sides as I approached the minivan.

“Hello,” I tried, when the driver’s side window rolled down an inch. My voice came out choked and scratchy. I tried again.”I was hiking and I got lost …” My voice cracked. I took a step back, wanting to show that I was harmless, terrified he or she would leave me.”I was hoping you could point me in the right direction,” I said.”I’ve been wandering for the last 14 hours. I had to spend the night on the mountain.”

The window rolled down to reveal a pale-skinned couple in the upper bounds of middle age.”You poor thing,” the woman said. She sounded British.”You must be frozen. It was 34 degrees last night.”

Arriving at Sylvan Lake proved to be a turning point in Talamo’s pilgrimage.

I waited while the British gentleman searched for Sylvan Lake in his phone’s GPS.”It’s that way,” he said, pointing down the hill. I asked how far. He said,”Thirteen miles.” I started crying. The woman twisted in her seat and started clearing out the back of the minivan.”Get in,” she said.”We’ll give you a ride.”

The man got out of the driver’s seat and opened the door for me. I slipped inside, babbling my thanks.”I promise I’m not a serial killer,” I said. They laughed; the man assured me they were not serial killers, either,”just an old British couple eager to see the great United States of America.”

They seemed at ease with me. They were also chatty. They asked what I did for a living. I told them I worked as a teacher in a reservation school. They showed genuine interest.”How is that?” the man asked.

“It’s hard,” I said. The woman asked how I coped, if I believed in God. I told the woman I did not know.”God is my answer to just about everything,” she said.”I trust that the people He puts in my way will be the ones I am supposed to meet and learn from.”

About 5 miles later, the Silver Bullet came into view.”There!” I shouted, way too loud.”That’s my car!” The man pulled into a parking spot near mine. They refused money when I offered. The man thanked me for”adding some excitement” to their lives. The woman said, softly,”I can’t wait to tell our friends that we picked up a hitchhiker.”

I waved as they drove off and thought, too late, that I had not asked for their names. I turned and looked out over Sylvan Lake.

The pilgrimage’s mission was accomplished. I had never been so glad to be alive.

***

In November, temperatures plunged. I knew I had only a short amount of time left to explore before blizzards, with their shrieking winds and bone-chilling cold, ravaged the state. After Sylvan Lake, I was terrified of getting lost while hiking by myself. But I wanted to continue my journey.

I took my scathed soul to the Badlands. The sky was a wet, watercolor blue, in sharp contrast to the sand-colored rocks and white cliffs I passed on the way into a parking lot by an overlook. The rest of the parking spots were empty.

I chose Notch Trail, the shortest of three trails detailed on a brown sign. The trail led to a breathtaking vista — layers upon layers of striated rock, sharp angles, peaks like steeples stretching out to specks on the horizon. I found a rock crevice that cradled my body perfectly. I sat down. I put my palms flat against the rock. I closed my eyes. I felt the increased pulse of my heart, and through my hands, the heartbeat of the earth. I felt the strength of the land lace up my palms, through my body. When I opened my eyes, the world seemed three shades brighter.

The Badlands hold significance for the Lakota and several other indigenous tribes. Photo by Paul Horsted

“Thank you,” I told the winds, the earth, and whatever might be listening.

I walked back to my car, believing I had completed a successful hike. Then the wind blew, so fiercely that it turned me around toward an exhibit sign that declared,”The Baddest of the Badlands.” I spotted the first trail marker, a stubby yellow pole about a foot high just beyond the sign, and I felt a hunger so sharp and fierce it surprised me. I wanted the challenge. I started forward.

Mushroom-like formations sprouted from a sea of craggy rock. I felt alive, following this trail across the beautiful land of extremes. My walk became a symbolic act of spirit. I was not sure where I was going or how much farther I had to go, but I was willing to take the journey. Going one step at a time, I reached the final yellow marker, identifiable by a corresponding red stripe at the top. Another canyon vista stretched out to the horizon. Below, the rock dropped steeply away, leaving me dizzy from the height.

I stood on the precipice, lost in the savage beauty surrounding me, until the wind buffeted me away from the edge. The sun was sinking, and I beat a reflective retreat to my car. Blown by the wind, now caught under one of my car’s tires was a crumpled Badlands brochure.

While my GPS calculated my route back to the reservation, I flipped through the brochure, with its colorful photographs of narrow-leaf yucca, prairie dogs and black-footed ferrets. My eyes settled on a quote, attributed to author Kathleen Norris:

“The prairie is not forgiving. Anything that is shallow — the easy optimism of the homesteader… the trees whose roots don’t reach ground water — will dry up and blow away.”

The trip left me feeling empowered, eager and unafraid for what might come. That night, safely ensconced in my school-issued housing, I emailed my principal.”I feel very grateful and blessed to have this job,” I wrote.”I would like to stay for a third year as the middle school writing teacher, if you think I am doing a satisfactory job.”

I looked at what I had written, felt a trill of fear in my heart, and hit”Send.”

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the May/June 2019 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Bear Butte Burning

A weekend fire, reportedly caused by debris that escaped from a nearby rancher’s burn pile, scorched 150 acres on the north side of Bear Butte, near Sturgis. Firefighters, aided by an inch of snow that fell Sunday morning, had the blaze under control about 15 hours after it was initially reported. No buildings were damaged and none of the animals in the Bear Butte State Park bison herd were injured. John Mitchell captured these images as the blaze burned.

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Cattle and Hogs

By John Andrews

Meade County, at 3,471 square miles, is the largest county in South Dakota, and its geographical vastness is matched by the variety of experiences travelers can have within its borders. You can don western chaps in downtown Faith or leather biker chaps in Sturgis. You can spend the night in an old missile command center or a notorious brothel and gambling den. You can enjoy the rowdy camaraderie of half a million motorcyclists during one busy week in August or the serenity atop one of the region’s most sacred places.

Meade County got its start in 1887, when voters in what was then eastern Lawrence County voted 690-26 to separate. It became official two years later and was named in honor of Civil War Union General George Meade, also the namesake of Fort Meade, a military outpost established in the new county in 1878.

The cavalry’s presence in the area began in August 1876, when a temporary camp was set up along Spring Creek near Bear Butte and named for Lieutenant Jack Sturgis, who died at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. A more permanent location was chosen two years later in the eastern foothills of the Black Hills.

The men at Fort Meade were charged with protecting new settlements in the northern Black Hills, especially the area around Deadwood, which had boomed with the discovery of gold. It was home at various points to the Fourth, Seventh and Tenth Cavalries as well as the Buffalo Soldiers. The Fort Meade National Cemetery is the final resting place of several of these soldiers, including men who survived the Battle of the Little Bighorn.

Bear Butte, a unique geological formation, is a sacred place for several Indian tribes.

Fort Meade is also the answer to an interesting historical trivia question. In 1893, post commander Col. Caleb Carlton began the custom of playing”The Star Spangled Banner” at military ceremonies and requested that everyone rise and pay it proper respect. The song became the official national anthem of the United States in 1931.

KJ Leather Company in Faith specializes in leather chaps for locals.

But long before European settlement, Indians made pilgrimages to Bear Butte, a unique geological feature northeast of Sturgis that many tribes consider sacred. Bear Butte is the result of ancient volcanic activity that occurred about 65 million years ago. Molten magma from deep within the earth pushed upward but never broke through the crust. Over millions of years, the magma cooled and hardened and the topsoil eroded, leaving the laccolith that we see today instead of a true volcano.

The butte is sacred to the Cheyenne and Lakota, who believe it is where they can communicate with the Creator through visions and prayers. Religious ceremonies are often held there, and worshippers who make the pilgrimage to the top leave offerings, such as prayer ties and tobacco pouches, in the trees along the path to the summit.

Bear Butte stands 1,253 feet above the surrounding plains and 4,426 feet above sea level. Nearby is a small campground and Bear Butte Lake, created in 1921 when speculators drilling for oil struck an artesian well. Motorized traffic on Bear Butte is prohibited, but anyone is free to hike the 1.85-mile Summit Trail to the top, which also serves as the northern terminus of the 111-mile Centennial Trail.

Bob Hansen ran the Howes Corner store for 38 years.

Several trailblazers made their way through Meade County en route to the Black Hills. A monument along Highway 212 between Maurine and Mud Butte memorializes one such group from Bismarck, North Dakota. Boosters of that young town wanted to promote Bismarck as a jumping off point for the Black Hills and wanted a party to head west and bring back reports of gold. Ben Ash, whose father Henry operated a hotel in Yankton, and four other young men set out in December 1874. The monument along 212, dedicated in 1949, stands in the place where the group caught its first glimpse of the Black Hills, still 100 miles away.

Early homesteaders in Meade County tried to farm like they did in Iowa and Minnesota, but departed when they realized the land was best suited for cattle. Today sprawling ranches cover most of Meade County’s prairie. Faith is a cow town in the far northeast corner of the county. It sprang up when the Milwaukee Railroad bridged the Missouri River, crossed the Cheyenne River Reservation and laid track into the county. You’ll find a school, places to eat, a golf course and even a lake, but cattle keep the town alive. KJ Leather Company specializes in western chaps and there are three cattle feed stores (as opposed to one grocery store). The Faith Livestock Commission Company sells up to 5,000 head of calves at the regular Monday sales during the fall calf run. In late October, so many calves are coming off grass that there’s a special three-day sale to accommodate buyers and sellers.

The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally brings 500,000 bikers to the Meade County town every August.

Another interesting chapter in Meade County history is the presence of Minuteman Missiles. Nearly 50 missile sites dotted the landscape, ready for launch during the decades long Cold War. They are long gone except for one, which operates as a museum, but Walter and Diane Fees turned a command center into Juliet Bed and Breakfast near Opal. The federal government bought seven acres from the Fees family in the 1960s to build the Juliet 1 base, one of 15 bases that once dotted West River. When it closed in 1993, the family bought the land back and opened the B&B in 2006.

The tall fence, gate and antenna cone outdoors are the only reminders of the deadly serious business once conducted there. Inside the Feeses turned the telecommunications room into a TV room and put a hot tub in the water treatment area. Juliet also features six decorated bedrooms, a restaurant and lounge. Interested travelers can head west of Faith on Highway 212, turn south at Fox Ridge Road and follow the signs.

Poker Alice’s house stands on Junction Avenue in Sturgis.

Several tiny towns and villages lie within Meade County: Howes (with its general store) Elm Springs, Maurine, Mud Butte, White Owl, Union Center. But the county’s other major urban center is Sturgis, founded in 1878 founded in 1878 and originally called Scooptown because many of its residents”scooped up” their pay from nearby Fort Meade, according to longtime Black Hills historian Watson Parker. The name was later changed to honor Samuel Sturgis, another Civil War Union general.

Sturgis’ claim to fame is the annual motorcycle rally, which draws 500,000 people to the town of 6,600 every summer. The rally traces its existence to Clarence and Pearl Hoel, who ran an ice businesses until electrical refrigeration put a dent in their livelihood in 1936.

That’s when Clarence decided to open a shop in their garage, specializing in Indian motorcycles. To enhance the new business, Clarence organized a riding club similar to a larger club in Rapid City supported by the Harley Davidson dealer. One Sunday the club was picnicking in the Black Hills when an automobile tourist said they looked like a bunch of gypsies, and the Jack Pine Gypsies was born.

They decided to host a rally in 1937 to introduce motorcyclists to the Black Hills. The 76th such rally takes place during the first full week of August, and includes concerts, races and rides through the Hills.

Hotels and campgrounds are often booked months in advance. Some Sturgis residents rent out their homes. But visitors also have the opportunity to stay in the home of Poker Alice, a legendary figure of Black Hills history. Originally from England, Alice landed in the Black Hills and took an interest in gambling. She played professionally and worked as a dealer. Her house in Sturgis was built in 1895 and once featured a poker room, gambling and dance halls and a brothel in addition to Poker Alice’s living quarters.

Editor’s Note: This is the 26th installment in an ongoing series featuring South Dakota’s 66 counties. Click here for previous articles.

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Beautiful Bear Butte

Jeanne Apelseth shared these photos of Bear Butte State Park and Bear Butte Lake, just a few miles north and east of Sturgis. The area is sacred to many Native American tribes. According to Cheyenne custom, Bear Butte is where holy man Sweet Medicine met the Creator and the Four Sacred Persons who guard the universe. Traditional religious ceremonies are still held there.