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Winter Mornings in West River

Highland Ridge Road in Wind Cave National Park is one of my favorite places to experience the breaking of a new day. Flanked by prairie dog towns and grazing buffalo, an early riser is sure to hear a coyote chorus across the rolling landscape. If you are really lucky, grazing elk, pronghorn and even a glimpse of one of the coyote choristers is possible when the morning light breaks above the distant Boland Ridge to the east.

I spent two mornings in early January getting my fill of morning’s glory in this special place. The first morning was mostly clear and the rising sun revealed pronghorn grazing on the edge of a prairie dog town with a small herd of bison in the distance. Coyotes sang all around me, unseen but close enough to count five distinct voices. Elk grazed on the northern ridge just opposite Custer State Park’s southern fences. It’s no wonder that folks liken this part of South Dakota to the Serengeti in East Africa. I have visited both places in the morning, and the experience does have similarities when it comes to wildlife and natural beauty.

As the morning progressed, I noticed slight hoarfrost in the lower draws of the park. Hoarfrost forms when water vapor in the air condenses on cold surfaces on clear, windless nights. Crystals freeze directly from the vapor state and do not turn into liquid water in the process. This is different than rime ice that is seen accumulating during fog events. Hoarfrost is typically finer and more delicate, but it is just as fun to photograph. With my trusty macro lens and some bright sunlight to help light the minutiae of grass, chokecherry branches and slender yucca blades adorned with ice structures, I spent nearly an hour bent close to the earth trying to record the beauty in detail. During the process, I came across a young buck overseeing a small group of mule deer. The does did not seem concerned, but they moved after the buck decided I was too close.

On the second magical morning, the sky was gray and colorless. There was fog in eastern parts of the park, which left rime ice on the grass and pine trees. Three bull elk weren’t far from the road and allowed me to photograph them before moving on. It was my last day of my West River winter vacation, and it did not disappoint. As is my usual habit, I detoured through Badlands National Park. Strong flurries added snowy drama to the scenery. My favorite sites were a few lone bison moving slowly through the weather and the colorful Yellow Mounds portion of the park framed by white snow. Winter in South Dakota may not get raving reviews, but in this case, my camera says otherwise.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midco he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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West River Autumn

September usually signals the end of hot summer weather in South Dakota, but this year things have been warmer than usual. The dry and dusty days of late September reminded me of the hot and dry summers of my youth growing up along the Ziebach and Dewey County line. The only difference was a lot more grasshoppers back then and these days I pack a camera any time I’m back in West River country. Such was the case when I took a much-needed vacation to the Badlands and Black Hills the last week of September.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that as amazing as these locations are, it is in the golden and blue hours when magic happens. For those of you wondering, the golden hour is the hour before sunset and after sunrise. The blue hour is the time after the sun sets or before it rises when the sky is not fully dark. These are the times that wildlife is most active, particularly when the day is going to be baked with a side of gritty wind.

Since daylight shortens in late September, there is also more night. In the Badlands and more remote parts of the Black Hills, added darkness is a boon to stargazers and amateur astrophotographers. The Milky Way can be observed as a near vertical shaft of distant starlight in the southern sky about an hour and a half after dark in late September. As the night wanes, the Milky Way slides westward and slowly sets. This year, I finally attempted a Milky Way composition I’ve been wanting to do for about a decade. I wanted to align the Milky Way with the Needles Eye in Custer State Park. With clear weather, this was the year to give it a try. At elevation, the hot air of the day cooled as the evening deepened. The wind died except for an occasional vehicle passing by and I soon became alone with the stones and stars. It’s hard to explain that feeling, and photos can’t do it justice.

Late September also brings out the first blush of autumn’s color, particularly in the high draws and high country. Spearfish Canyon is a national scenic byway, and early fall is among the best times to take the drive. Further up and into rural Lawrence County, even more beauty can be found with stands of aspen and birch glowing in the sunlight. And there are fewer tourists and dust clouds along the county roads to boot.

I spent my last few days in Custer State Park just after the big annual buffalo roundup. Call me anti-social if you want, but I prefer the quiet parts of that park and adjacent Wind Cave National Park. I did stumble on quite a scene, thanks to the roundup. While traveling the Wildlife Loop Road, a scene that could have been taken from centuries ago revealed itself as I approached the bison corrals. The trees of Lame Johnny Creek were showing off their autumn color and scattered beyond on the receding hills was a portion of the big bison herd grazing peacefully. Moments like this are what keep me coming back to this part of the world when the seasons change.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midco he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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Summers Like Watermelons

Illustration by Darya Tsaptsyna.

The summers were like watermelons: we split them open and dug our spoons into the red flesh, claiming no melon had ever tasted so good, the juice running down our chins. The summers were huge and round and bright green, too big to carry, containing everything.

We threw open the screen door and took off running. We ran everywhere. To the barn where wild momma cats curled around tight balls of kittens in the square straw bales. To the corral where the bum calves waited for their bottles. To the shelter belt of pine trees that stood like ladders to the sky. We climbed to the top, sap on our legs and hands, and surveyed the prairie like eagles.

In the summer we were best friends. We saw the town kids occasionally, the other farm kids even less. But we needed and missed no one. We had each other, and the land, and Mom and Dad, and animals: two dozen cats, a border collie, horses, cows, raccoons, rabbits, deer, antelope, badgers, songbirds, and coyotes howling at sunset.

We got up early and whisked powdered milk with hot water in a 1-gallon Schwan’s ice cream bucket and funneled the milk into white plastic bottles and stoppered them with red rubber nipples. We carried in hay and pellets and checked the water tank. We named the calves after Disney characters and rubbed their backs while they sucked milk.

In the evening we pitched hay and poured buckets of corn for the butcher steers in the corral. We scratched their necks and sang them songs, named our favorites and took their pictures with the FunSaver cameras Mom bought us. Someday the steers would be eaten, likely by us, but that felt far away. We didn’t feel anything about our role in fattening them for slaughter. The corral was across the gravel road from our house, at the bottom of a deep draw with a small marshy creek. The smell of sweet clover hay mixed with wet creek mud and the earthy scent of manure: that’s the aroma of summer evenings as a child.

We were 8, 5 and 3 years old. Then 10, 7, 5 and 1 (we got a baby sister that year). Then 12, 9, 7 and 3.

On Sunday afternoons we crammed into a’70s-era Ford pickup with Mom and Dad and set off to the pasture to”check cows.” We always hoped the cows were on the other side of a steep draw so we could gasp and cringe as Dad went off-roading. The cows gathered around the pickup as Dad filled the salt and mineral tubs, and by hand we fed the friendly ones cake, tasty pellets as round as cigars. When Dad parked the pickup truck by the stock dam, we leaped out and followed cow trails deep into the cottonwoods, tasted ruby red buffalo berries and wild purple plums, smelled sunflowers and sweet clover.

Most days we looked as wild as we felt. We wore slip-on shoes that were green inside from the grasshoppers we squashed under our heels while running in the grass. In the morning we put on whatever looked comfortable — our dad’s black T-shirts that fit like dresses, jeans cut into shorts, those free but too big XXL shirts from the annual Farm Safety Day Camp. We destroyed our clothes with dirt, cow manure, grass stains, popsicle drips and cat claws.

Some years we grew a big, shared garden of vegetables and flowers with our mom. Other years we divided it into personalized plots that reflected our individual tastes. Once we planted a corn maze. In the stalks we played hide and seek with kittens and munched on raw peas, pod and all, and dug our fingers and toes into the dirt. We were big on dirt.

On branding day, we watched our dad and uncles sort the calves from the cows and push them down the chute and onto the branding table. With a mix of curiosity and remorse we pressed our foreheads to the fence and watched Dad brand a calf, give it shots, notch its ears, and, if it was a male, castrate it. Blood and iodine, testicles and bits of ears, the smell of burning hair and skin. We got older and left the fence one by one to join the men. We filled the vaccine gun and angled the needle, pushed the calves down the alleyway while they kicked our shins and returned them to their mothers when the day ended.

The erratic prairie weather was our guiding force. On hot days we jumped into the little above-ground pool Mom set up for us. On cold days we fled to the barn. We wore knee-high black rubber boots when the corrals were muddy. We stayed up late watching lightning storms and huddled in the basement when the tornado warnings came. When hail destroyed the wheat, we stayed silent and serious like our parents. When it rained, we rejoiced with them.

We ate strange things: the chips that flaked off the tubs of Crystalyx, a sweet, crystallized blend of molasses, fat and minerals meant for cows; wheat kernels straight from the beard; starchy field corn before it ripened; the caramelized cracked corn and oat mixture we fed the bum calves. We opened our mouths wide and drank from the water hydrant.

But watermelon — that was the taste of summer. It seemed there was always one in the fridge. All summer we anticipated that perfect melon: sweet but not sugared, juicy but crisp, the kind that let out an audible”crack” when split open. And when we found it, we gorged.

Then we were 13, 10, 8 and 4, and everything changed.

That summer I went to the fields with Dad, and the season went from being a time of play to a time of work. I raked windrows of hay with a Farmall tractor and a twin rake, bouncing down the field, Dad following with the baler. Then I cut hay with a Hesston swather with no cab for a summer before graduating to a bigger machine that would be”mine” for the next four years. Dad and I would leave at 5 a.m. and take lunch to the field. I came home at night dusty and tired. Because I loved the farm, I loved the work.

Then came boyfriends and beer cans and rodeos. Sundays at the lake with friends and late-night cruises in my pickup truck. Strongly worded declarations about moving to the city. The many forms of teenage trouble I got into during the summer. I spent those long days and nights with friends instead, and my siblings did the same. And then I was gone to college across the state, then to a job across the country.

No family stays young forever. But there are kind ways to grow up, and not so kind ways. As a teenager I was independent and quick to anger. I thought I deserved my space. Now I see that I pushed my family away to create that space, to create myself.

We are 30, 27, 25, and 21. We live in four different states. Though one sibling occasionally travels to visit another, Christmas is the only time all four of us are together. We text and call, but our lives are more complicated than we thought possible. The time accumulates like snow between phone calls and suddenly it’s been two, three, four months since we talked.

Sometimes I find one — a perfect melon. I eat a forkful and I’m sitting at the kitchen table on the farm. We’re 12, 9, 7 and 3 again. It’s Sunday afternoon in late July and we just ate Mom’s fried chicken and gravy and Dad is sprinkling salt on a watermelon slice, his funny habit. Our hair is bleached white from the sun and we’re making plans to check cows. The wheat is ripening in the fields. We dig into the watermelon and declare it to be perfect, the best one of the summer. We’ll never find one this good again, we say.

Editor’s Note: Stephanie Anderson grew up on a ranch near Bison in Perkins County. She lives and writes in Boca Raton, Florida. This story is revised from the July/August 2020 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Surprising West River

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies.

What is this world’s delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

— Percy Shelley (excerpt from poem entitled”The Flower That Smiles Today”)

Seasons are distinct in this part of the world. A rhythm that is both seen and felt. The older I get, it seems that the timing picks up. Wasn’t it just a few days ago I saw the first pasqueflower of early spring? How are we past Independence Day already?

Percy Shelley’s poem snippet above reflects the ephemeral nature of well … nature. The lines focus on the heart-quickening beauty of a wildflower bloom while reminding us of the ever-present and underlying sadness of knowing that same flower will quickly fade. Lately I’ve really noticed how much I follow the seasons. I always have, but looking back over my photos and columns posted here, it becomes quite evident I’m a creature of habit shaped by the wind and weather of South Dakota. Nothing proves it more than my annual pilgrimage West River in the days surrounding Memorial Day weekend and my subsequent posting about the trip right here in this column. It is quite amazing, however, how each post brings new discoveries and new ways to enjoy the countryside. We truly do live in a land of infinite variety.

This year was a bit different in terms of what I did and where I went, but it was not different in the recharge I felt when spending time out under the open sky. That sky makes a big difference in what I tend to point my lens at. This year is green, which means moisture. Storm clouds lumbered overhead while I was in the Badlands and dropped slushy hail before finally moving out. It was so heavy that the ravines and rivulets looked like thousands of snow cones. The good news was there was just enough sunlight left as the clouds left to produce a rainbow. Also, many birds were out on fence posts and other perches attempting to dry out after the moisture. This makes for great opportunities to get their portraits.

I spent some time west of Belle Fourche on a family friend’s small ranch taking photos of both the landscape coming to life as well as their small herd of cows and calves. This took me back to my youth chasing cows along the Ziebach and Dewey County line between Isabel and Dupree. Meadowlark song accompanied me as I slowly discovered and documented the landscape. Better than any song on the radio in my opinion.

On my last day on the prairie, a friend from Perkins County released a herd of bison onto his pasture in the South Grand River breaks just outside the town of Bison. The prairie hills were green and welcoming. Pincushion cactus, wallflowers and beardtongue were all in bloom to greet the new residents. Just 150 years or so ago, they all would have been common sights on those hills. And so the world turns. The rhythm of life on the great Northern Plains just added back in a long-lost beat. I’m glad to have been a small part of it all.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midco he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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The Trainer from Marcus

Bud Boudreau says every dog’s mind is different, “and it takes patience to understand each one.”

Bud Boudreau wakes at 3 a.m. on most mornings. He drinks a cup of black coffee, dresses and dons a cowboy hat and boots, strings a dog whistle around his neck and walks out to the barn to start another day of training border collie sheepdogs. He hasn’t missed a sunrise in 60 years.

One morning I rose early as well and drove down Highway 34, past Bear Butte and Union Center in Meade County, to learn more about a little-known man who is credited with changing the way we herd sheep on the Northern Plains. The daughter of a sheep rancher, I still remember the excitement of Boudreau arriving at our ranch with a mule named Lenore, a truck full of border collies and a lifetime of stories.

I spent the last 7 miles of my drive that morning on gravel roads. Admittedly, I had to call Boudreau to confirm I wasn’t lost. I arrived just in time to accompany him as he headed to the barn. A symphony of wagging tails, excited whines and barks greeted us. The old man fed the dogs and cleaned the kennels. Then he saddled his palomino horse, collected the dogs from their individual kennels and let them exercise for a while. He told them to sit and they sat. He called them by name back to the kennels. The dogs were quiet as they waited to see who would be the first to work. He called for Dot, and she waited triumphantly by the barn door.

Boudreau, who is now 84, rode his horse out to the pasture with Dot by his side. She watched him intently for a signal to bring in the herd of Targhee sheep. With one word,”Away,” he sent the dog counterclockwise in a graceful, wide arc around the herd. I squinted to see Dot’s dark silhouette against the sleepy horizon — about half a mile away.

With varying sounds from his whistle, Boudreau signaled Dot to go clockwise, counterclockwise, walk up, look, speed up, slow down, stand or sit. Dot interpreted the slightest change in tone of the dog whistle or pitch of Boudreau’s voice to mean a different command. Boudreau and his border collies have their own language.

“The dogs have such instincts bred into them,” he says.”It’s remarkable. It’s easy to teach them because a well-bred dog already has the instincts.” Watching Boudreau in the field with his dogs is like watching a music conductor. He makes the slightest sound and the dog bursts into obedient motion. The dogs are sensitive to his body language as well as the subtle movements of each animal in the herd.

“It was the strangest feeling for me,” Boudreau says of his move from Maryland to the open spaces of West River.

Border collies have been used for centuries to herd sheep. Today they are invaluable members of many sheep ranches in South Dakota and other states where herds are large, in part because Bud Boudreau came here 40 years ago.

It’s fitting that”collie” is Gaelic for”useful,” because a sheepdog can do more with sheep than several cowboys on horseback. The border collie breed can be traced back to the United Kingdom, to an era when wool was a big part of the economy.

Sheepdog trials also originated in Europe but soon became popular in the eastern United States. Trials are competitions that test a dog’s ability to herd sheep in cooperation with its handler. Dogs must successfully complete the”outrun” or initial gathering of the sheep and”drive” them through different patterns of panels. Typically dogs must then”shed” the sheep or separate a few from the rest of the herd, and then pen the sheep in a corral within a time limit.

According to Boudreau, Englanders literally wrote the book on how to train sheepdogs. He learned the basics by reading an English text when he was in his early 20s, but his fascination with border collies started long before that. When he was 10 years old, his aunt stole him away from the family dairy farm in Michigan to see a short film called Arizona Sheepdog. The black and white documentary kindled his lifetime fascination.

Several years later, a neighbor imported two dogs from Great Britain and brought them to the dairy. Boudreau was amazed by how they could round up cattle, just as he remembered seeing in Arizona Sheepdog. By then, Boudreau’s dad had converted the dairy farm into a racehorse training facility. He helped care for more than 40 racehorses and he broke thoroughbred colts. A fearless young horseman, Boudreau preferred to gallop the ornery young horses around the track in the early morning because they”weren’t so tough if they couldn’t see where they were going.”

Boudreau embraced his dad’s racehorse business and eventually took it over. But he also dreamed of training border collies. As a father of four — Dean, Jean, Jimmy and Susan — he marveled at the neighbor’s dogs’ habitual herding of his toddler children.”I got real excited one day when that dog was herding my kids around the yard,” he remembers.

Boudreau became well known in the horse racing world and ran the family business successfully for more than 20 years before his ambition led to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to train and shoe horses for Alfred Vanderbilt, owner of Sagamore Farm and Baltimore’s Pimlico Racetrack where the Preakness Stakes is held today. Alfred, a pillar in the horse racing community, was the grandson of Cornelius Vanderbilt, the world’s richest man in the late 19th century.

Sagamore Farm gave Boudreau the opportunity to work with famous trainers and fine horses like Kentucky Derby winner Native Dancer. However, Boudreau arrived in Maryland in a full body cast after a”brawl” with a young colt. Knowing Boudreau’s reputation, Vanderbilt waited a month for him to recover. He started his job caring for broodmares, shoeing horses and training 2-year-old colts.”I woke up at 4 a.m. and was done by mid-morning with nothing to do in a strange place. I was bored and had a lot of time to think,” he remembers of his Maryland days.”I thought a lot about sheepdogs.”

Bud Boudreau has trained dogs and horses. He prefers dogs, he says, because of their intelligence.

Life changed when a friend gave him a border collie as a gift. Boudreau took the dog to a sheepdog clinic in Virginia in 1982. Jack Knox, a famous Scottish dog trainer, led the program and was impressed with Boudreau’s self-taught knowledge and his ability to interpret a dog’s movement. Boudreau soon met Ralph Pulfer and Bruce Fogt, two of the most respected experts in the industry. He credits them with making him the trainer he is today.

He returned from Virginia determined to train sheepdogs. After working on the track each day, he spent time with his dogs and a small herd of Barbados black-bellied sheep he had purchased.”I would shoe horses for folks in exchange for time on racehorse farms to work my dogs. I would pull up with my trailer, unload my Barbados, then spend the afternoon training the dogs.”

However, he felt he had a foot in two quite different worlds — horse racing and sheepdogs. He knew what he wanted to do with his life, but the decision to train dogs full time would be costly. He had spent years in the horse racing world, achieving credentials, connections and financial security. In six years, Boudreau had become Sagamore’s resident farrier and even shoed horses for the historic Green Spring Valley Hounds and Hunt Club.”I had it made, but I felt like I wasn’t fully committed to the horses or the dogs. I had to choose. I chose border collies.”

When he revealed his plans, the head trainer at Sagamore Farm told him he was,”making a big mistake.” Boudreau chuckles at the memory.”Everyone thought I was plum crazy.” Boudreau left the stables in the hands of his son, Dean, who had been his apprentice.

Not long after deciding to train dogs full time, Boudreau saw an ad for affordable land in South Dakota near the tiny community of Marcus, about an hour’s drive east of the Black Hills. In 1986, he loaded all his belongings, including nine border collies and eight sheep, in a homemade trailer and Toyota truck and headed west.”I moved with my dogs to a cabin on White Owl Creek,” he remembers.”It was the strangest feeling for me; I went from a very crowded area in Maryland to not seeing another human being for weeks at a time.”

In 1988, Boudreau’s three sons traveled there and built a log home for their dad from scratch, incorporating materials from the original homestead 2 miles from the house. Boudreau had spent the winter collecting stones from the dilapidated homestead shack for his sons to repurpose into a hearth and chimney. The original homestead stove sits in Boudreau’s kitchen, a tribute to the pioneers that lived at Marcus before him.”I still make my famous waffles on it from time to time,” he says with a smile.

Boudreau’s sons pooled their skills for the cabin construction. Local ranchers provided further assistance. For example, Boudreau traded help installing Sheetrock for dog training.”My boys had so much fun building the house and the neighbors got a kick out of it too. They would stop by to see the progress every now and then. It was a special time for me.” Boudreau also planted a tree grove behind his house that now provides protection from the strong prairie winds.

*****

With hill country, a river and expanses of land, the Marcus ranch proved ideal for training sheepdogs. Boudreau also fell in love with the resiliency of his neighbors. He believes South Dakotans are special.”People here understand hardship but are some of the most content people I’ve ever known. It’s because they’re doing what they want to do with their lives. Out here in the country, you have to love what you do to stay. I feel I have lived in the best generation that ever was in the U.S. and I couldn’t be luckier to end up in South Dakota.”

Bud Boudreau’s house includes a stone fireplace and a woodstove salvaged from a homesteader’s cabin.

Despite the rural location, sheepdogs have taken him on adventures he would have forfeited had he stayed at the racetrack. He has even competed at international competitions in Ireland.

One of his most memorable trips came in 1993 when he met his future wife, Sarah, at a sheepdog trial in Durango, Colorado. They have worked dogs together nearly every day since they got married in 2000 at nearby Sturgis. Sarah shares his love for sheepdogs and competes in trials. She also serves as a judge at competitions.

For eight years, the Boudreaus hosted a dog trial at their home near Marcus that attracted judges from Great Britain and competitors from all over the country. Bud and Sarah, along with help from Ross Lamphere and Jim Roth, also started the popular midwinter North American Sheepdog Trials at the Black Hills Stock Show. Apart from dogs, the Boudreaus also share a love for music. Sarah spent five years in Italy playing the French horn in Milan’s Pomeriggi Musicali Orchestra. Today, Bud’s old guitar hangs in their living room, and he says he knows he’s”doing okay” when Sarah recognizes a tune. He thinks playing the guitar has similarities to training dogs.”You never want to practice a mistake,” he explains.

The couple’s accomplishments also led to an adventure on a big ranch along the Rio Grande River, where Tommy Hayre raises more than 20,000 goats and sheep on 110,000 acres. Boudreau’s skill with dogs was an invaluable resource on the rough, West Texas terrain.”The goats were so smart, they’d hide in caves and you’d have to ride in with the dogs on horseback to gather them,” he recalls. During the drought year of 1998, Hayre sent Boudreau to his ranch in Argentina for two weeks to show Argentinian cowboys (gauchos) how to use sheepdogs.

Boudreau recorded the trip in a detailed journal that he shared:”We stood around the adobe kitchen, with a fire going in the fireplace. Later on I found out there was never an oven in a gaucho residence. There is always a fire in the fireplace, both summer and winter. On the table was a blackboard that had been purchased in town, with the commands — ëaway,’ ëcome,’ ësit,’ ëwalk up,’ and ëthat’ll do’ — written out in a way that they could pronounce.”

Boudreau drank mateÃÅ from a silver gourd and bombilla, ate mutton ribs from a 2-foot machete and rode countless miles in the pampas.”Living with the gauchos was an experience I’ll treasure forever,” he says. He left Argentina confident that his dogs had found worthy handlers in JoseÃÅ, Tabares and RamoÃÅn.

Sheep ranchers in South Dakota and around the world appreciate the talents of the man from Marcus. Boudreau was inducted into the American Border Collie Association Hall of Fame last September, an honor he considers a highlight of his life. He was”in shock” to hear the news, but western sheep ranchers believe the recognition was long overdue.

In a nomination letter, Montana rancher Kelly Bradley wrote,”This part of the country had big numbers of sheep running on it and yet, in the 1980s and 1990s, there were not many places using dogs and certainly not realizing the potential of a well-bred and trained border collie. Bud Boudreau almost single-handedly changed all that for us ranchers when he came to this country and went to work educating so many of us about border collies. For many, it was the first chance to see stock dogs that did more good than harm to their stock.”

My father, Gene Johnson, met Boudreau at a neighbor’s sheep shearing in Harding County. He’s become a reliable presence at our own sheep shearings ever since. Dad says the trainer brought better technique and finesse to our ranch.”I appreciate Bud’s knowledge of sheep and dogs,” Dad told me.”But I also appreciate him as a great friend and mentor to me. He has a way of making hard work more enjoyable because he’s there.”

Boudreau helps ranchers train their own dogs and he has sold dogs to others. Just as he did at our family’s ranch, he also taught sheep growers the benefits of dogs by just showing up to help. When he came to our place, we always offered him a room, but he preferred to sleep in the truck near the dogs, who had a strict bedtime of 7:30 p.m.

We loved his visits because the work always seemed to go more smoothly. Boudreau and a couple of his dogs could round up huge groups of sheep without help. Their movements were like magic to me and I wanted a dog of my own. Finally, Dad traded Boudreau some sheep for our border collie, Kate, after he took her to the National Sheepdog Finals in 2015. He also gifted me a dog whistle, and he came to the ranch to show us how to use the many commands.

He says every dog has its own peculiarities.”I won’t sell a dog I’m not confident in. Sometimes a dog will take years to get to the place where I feel confident in finding him a home. Every dog’s mind is different and it takes a great deal of patience to understand each one,” he says.

Because every dog needs hands-on attention, it’s an inexact and difficult business model.”I’ve been dead broke,” Boudreau admits.”Some people live paycheck to paycheck; I live border collie to border collie. Once a dog gets to be worth a certain amount, I can’t afford to keep him. If he gets hurt, there goes my paycheck.”

Still, he has never regretted leaving his better-paying career with East Coast horses.

“Training dogs has made training horses boring because of their intelligence. It’s a different kind of art form. It requires more finesse because the dogs get so fixated on the sheep, they have to rely on your voice only, and you have to hope they listen, and keep cool if they don’t.”

Boudreau’s philosophy on raising dogs sounds like parenting advice.”You have to be somebody that commits. A collie’s mind is like a growing child — you can’t miss a day. You have to be prepared to exercise their mind daily.”

He also emphasizes positive reinforcement.”I want them to stop doing wrong because they love the outcome of doing right. I want them to think of me as a safe place to look to. In order for that to happen, you have to keep calm. You can’t lose your cool. I want my dogs to look forward to training as much as I do.”

Spend a morning with Boudreau and his dogs and one thing becomes as clear as a Meade County sunrise: The dogs live to hear his gentle voice saying,”that’s a good boy.”

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

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The Respectful Shepherd

Sheep deserve our respect, says Belle Fourche writer and rancher Sentel Schreier.

Sentel Schreier learned the usual life lessons when she left her hometown of Belle Fourche to study economics at Augustana University in Sioux Falls — things like self-confidence and independent thinking — but she also had a dietary revelation.

“I just figured everyone enjoyed lamb once or twice a day,” she says. She was surprised to discover that most of her new friends didn’t know a lamb chop from a karate move.”They hadn’t grown up with it like I had,” she says. Lamb wasn’t served at the Augie dining hall and wasn’t to be found on the menus of restaurants in her home state’s largest city.

It was a culinary culture shock for a young girl who grew up on a fourth-generation family ranch believing that sheep are magical creatures that generously provide food and wool for mankind, all while maintaining an aura of dignity that she notes is even lauded in Bible passages.

On a college field trip to India, she was even more chagrined to discover that lamb was more popular there than it is in her home state, which ranks sixth in the nation in sheep production.”And most people are vegetarians in India,” she says.

Despite the change in diet, Schreier’s love for her West River roots never changed, and upon graduation in 2018 she returned home to teach Spanish at a secondary school. She married Nathan Schreier in July of 2021, and of course barbecued lamb was served at the wedding dinner.

Now she’s hoping to turn her husband into a sheepherder (he works in technology at the Belle Fourche schools). After two years, she left the classroom to join her father, Johnny Johnson, on the ranch. On a typical day, she rises long before the sun. She often”rounds up” a few ranch hands to help, and then makes the 50-mile trip north to the ranch where — depending on the season — they might rotate livestock to greener pastures, do some fencing, tend to newborn lambs or do the myriad other tasks related to raising cattle and sheep in western South Dakota.

South Dakota ranks sixth in the nation in sheep production.

Over the summer, she was also taming and breaking two wild mustangs that came from a Bureau of Land Management range, while keeping watch on a big ranch dog that was hiding a litter of pups in the high grass that surrounds the outbuildings.

Through it all, Schreier still accomplishes some teaching; she does it now through a website she created to share thoughts on rural living and lamb chops. Her online essays are not the mushy cliches and stereotypes penned by too many western writers who only glorify the blue skies, beautiful landscapes and resilient cowboys.”Rugged individualism isn’t all that great,” she suggested in a recent article.”People who make a life out of isolation tend to be bitter towards society — perhaps because interacting with others takes practice. Complete solitude makes one rusty and we typically don’t like things we’re not good at. But it’s also really easy to hate people; we’re all infected with normalized self-absorption, greed, slander, everything that’s always, always been a problem for our species ….”

She even dared to critique Archer Gilfillan, an early 20th century sheepherder who became regionally famous for his humorous books and entertaining speeches to livestock groups. While she enjoyed reading Gilfillan’s book Sheep, she adds,”I do remember how egotistical and bitter towards other people this guy was … plus he put random Latin in the book everywhere. I hate it when authors do this without any reason other than to say, ‘Hey, I know Latin.'”

In another essay, she admits that as a teenager she sometimes wanted more entertainment.”On the ranch, there isn’t a whole lot of recreation. Your options are limited to either reading, radio talk shows or roping buckets. We barely have cell service so social media is an option only if you want to walk out to a hill or stand on top of a truck.” She surmised, however, that”when you have no one to entertain you, you see what a good, amusing friend you can be to yourself.”

Schreier also writes about her workdays, her family and her faith, including highlights and doubts. Her thoughtful reflections on the complicated culture of consuming the creatures she coddles are a rare take on rural life.

“Last week my dad, husband and I butchered a sheep so we could have grass-fed meat in our freezer for the summer,” she writes.”In about five seconds it was over, and the sheep was dead. It struck me how remarkable it is that the sheep never made a sound. They are silent under stress. Even when docking, it’s very rare for a sheep to cry out in pain. The prophet Isaiah related Jesus’ dignity in the face of death like that of a sheep for a reason. ‘He was oppressed and afflicted yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.'”

Schreier believes there should always be”an air of respect” when eating meat.”Try to buy meat from someone who gave that animal a good life,” she suggests.”Perhaps before a dinner of delicious lamb chops, thank God for that creature’s life and ask Him to make you more generous like the critter whose life ended to preserve yours. Let’s make dinner sacred and special again.”

The hubbub of shearing season interrupts the solitude of life on a West River sheep ranch.

She and her father sell their lambs in the fall to feedlots but someday she hopes they might market meat directly to consumers.”Nathan and I even flirt with the idea of opening a restaurant that features lamb,” she says.

However, she says people need not wait for their grand opening to enjoy the flavor because there’s nothing very difficult about cooking lamb meat.”Lamb chops are comparable to a good beef steak,” she says.”Maybe marinate them with some olive oil and lemon, something acidic just as you would the steak. My dad and I will sometimes grill a lamb chop for breakfast. Lamb and eggs.”

She also recommends serving lamb with a Grecian sauce called tzatziki, which is made from sheep’s milk mixed with seasonings, herbs and cucumbers.”Nathan likes to go Mediterranean, and that’s always delicious,” she says.

She has learned that some people seem to avoid lamb because they think it is more complicated to cook than other red meats.”Or maybe they worry that they are going to mess it up,” she says.”But really there is no difference. You can go rare, medium or well done. You can make burger patties from ground lamb. And you can go traditional, just lamb and potatoes.”

She says her father remembers hearing that Americans soured on lamb after World War II, when the U.S. military supposedly served rations of poor-quality lamb to the troops. For many, it was their first taste of the meat, and they brought home a bad impression.

Give it another chance, suggests the young rancher who at age 25 is already developing a reputation as a rural spokeswoman who thinks for herself and respectfully encourages others to do the same.

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

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Desert or Not?

The flora of western South Dakota, which includes cactus, yucca and deep-rooted native grasses, reflect the region’s semi-arid climate.

FAMOUS EXPLORERS and scientists labeled a big portion of the Northern Prairie a desert in the 19th century, including all of South Dakota’s modern day West River country.

The description took hold for more than a century because desert is one of those words in the English language that has a mysterious and ominous aura, especially to any brave man or woman who owns cattle — or, even more disconcerting, a corn planter — in western South Dakota.

Zebulon Pike, the namesake of Colorado’s Pike’s Peak, was among the first to use the”D” word. Pike made several expeditions in the early 19th century, and though he probably never reached the borders of today’s South Dakota, he compared lands west of here to the African deserts.

Thomas Nuttall, an English naturalist, traveled up the Missouri River valley in 1819 and collected samples of the prairie cactus and yucca plants that still thrive today. Perhaps he encountered a stretch of hot and dry weather, but for whatever reason he also described it as an inhospitable desert.

A few years later, the highly regarded explorer Stephen Long — who was born in New Hampshire and educated as an engineer at Dartmouth — came to the region and famously proclaimed it,”The Great American Desert.” It’s unlikely that Long also never set foot in the borders of South Dakota. Most of his explorations followed the Platte River in Nebraska, but his blanket assessment was considered geographic gospel for decades.

Even in the 1890s, a generation after the Homestead Act of 1862 encouraged western settlement, scientists were warning that the plains climate could be incompatible with East Coast expectations. John Wesley Powell, a geologist who mapped the plains states and was often called the dean of the American West, bravely bucked the pro-development optimists and warned that land west of the 100th meridian, which divides South Dakota east and west, was too arid to farm.

However, politicians and railroad officials promised that the western plains were not a desert but an untapped Garden of Eden that only needed cultivation.”Rains follows the plow,” promised Illinois entomologist Cyrus Thomas. Rain might even condense from the steam of the locomotives, boasted one railroader. Land-hungry pioneers became believers.

Edith Ammons Kohl was one of those hopeful homesteaders. She settled in Lyman County, and later wrote about the experience in her book, Land of the Burnt Thigh, in which she tells of a well-dressed land agent who came from Pierre to see if she was ready to sell her land. She offered him a drink of dirty well water from a can she kept in the shade of the shack, but the agent couldn’t stand to drink it.

He looked at the glazing sky, the baked earth, a snake slithering from the path back into the dry grass which rustled as it moved.

“So this is the land you want to save,” he exclaimed.”The incredible thing is that people have managed to stay on it at all.”

“They will stay,” I assured him.

*****

EDITH AMMONS KOHL was correct. Stay they have. It’s common to meet fourth, fifth and sixth generation ranchers, surviving on lands where yucca and cacti still grow, and where snakes still crawl — the very land that was once labeled a desert by educated and worldly travelers. We traveled to Butte County, one of the driest places in South Dakota, to meet some of the survivors.

David and Holly Ollila and their sons, Tate (far right) and Finn (seated on fence) raise sheep and cattle on their Butte County ranch. “Sheep are a desert animal,” David Ollila says. “They’ll do fine on what the cattle won’t even touch.”

David Ollila’s great-grandfather immigrated from Finland to work at Homestake Gold Mine, and then homesteaded in Butte County in 1916. He died of miner’s lung in 1936, leaving his son (David’s grandfather) to run the ranch.

Ollila (pronounced O-la-la) is a lanky, soft-spoken South Dakotan who has the appearance of someone Big Tobacco might have once recruited for their cigarette commercials, though he’s not a smoker. He and his wife, Holly, have three sons. Ethan works as an electrical lineman in Wyoming. His parents believe it’s likely that he’ll someday return to the ranch. Finn, 11, and Tate, 17, are still at home and actively involved in raising sheep and cattle.

Butte County enjoys 13 or 14 inches of moisture from snow and rain in an average year. During droughts, the moisture often dips below the 10-inch threshold that soil scientists now use to separate arid (desert) lands from semi-arid regions.

“Stephen Long was not wrong [to call the land a desert], considering where he came from and what he knew,” Ollila says.”Neither was Frank Popper, who called this country the Buffalo Commons and declared it wasn’t fit for farming. If you take Midwest farm practices and try to do them here, then it’s not sustainable. Take away crop insurance and you’d fail in a hurry.”

Ollila, who taught agriculture at the Lemmon and Newell high schools for 25 years, says most of the people who survive today have learned to temper their expectations, lifestyle and practices with the land.

“They often say that the only ones who make money are the ones who sell out before they are broke,” Ollila jests. However, his wry country wisdom has a ring of truth. Regardless of the desert connotation (and maybe in part because of its wilderness mystique), land prices have far outgrown any reasonable assessment on what an acre of ground might be worth as an investment. The surest path to success for most ranchers would be to sell their land and cattle.

The land was free to homesteaders who promised to plow a few fields, plant trees and build a shack. A generation later, during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, the land could hardly be given away. Ollila remembers it selling for $25 an acre as recently as the 1980s, which was another difficult era for agriculture.

“Now the same land brings $800 an acre,” he says.”Think of that. Try to factor $800 an acre into how much a cow can return.”

*****

OLLILA SAYS HE and many of his neighbors are looking to the past, trying to learn from both the mistakes and the successes of their predecessors. He says the buffalo culture that predated the arrival of homesteaders is a centuries-old example of what today’s ranchers call rotational grazing. Buffalo herds constantly migrated across the short-grass prairie, moving on quickly before they damaged the roots of the all-important native grasses. Deer, elk and pronghorns followed them, grazing on shrubs and weeds that the buffalo wouldn’t eat.

Sassafras is one of three donkeys that protect sheep from predators on the Ollila ranch.

Today, conservation-minded ranchers do the same — rotating cattle from one pasture to another, then following with sheep or goats.”Sheep are a desert animal,” Ollila says.”They’ll do fine on what the cattle won’t even touch.”

Every generation of ranchers has learned new tricks.”Our grandfathers developed the idea of cover crops, and now today that’s a huge part of good management of cropland,” Ollila says.

Ranchers have also developed the concept of”flushing,” a practice of feeding ewes a rich diet during breeding season to boost the number of multiple births. Just like deer and elk in the wild, domestic sheep are much more likely to have twins and triplets when nature is signaling that the food supply is good.

“We’ve moved our lamb crop from 120 percent to 180 percent, and we’ve even hit 200 percent, by pasturing them on cover crops,” Ollila says. Most ewes can manage to nurse twins, but when triplets are born the Ollilas usually remove one of the lambs from the mother and bottle feed it in a big pen of”orphans,” though that’s a misnomer because the Ollila orphan lambs are very pampered. Finn even gives them each a name.

Sharing such ideas and best practices is the mission of two new organizations, The South Dakota Soil Health Coalition and the South Dakota Grasslands Coalition. Ollila, who is active in both, says they are landowner groups that cooperate with other organizations, such as the U.S. Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management, Nature Conservancy, the Audubon Society and anyone who has an interest in the land.

“What we’re doing is encouraging people in ranching and farming to maximize their natural environments,” he says.”Part of this is just lessening the expectations and figuring out how to work with the land and what it will provide — not trying to make it produce more than it can.”

That’s in stark contrast to much of the agri-business world, where chemicals and fertilizers are used to chase bigger and bigger yields.”Sadly, some folks pay too much for the land and then they have to expect too much out of it, even in more fertile parts of the country,” Ollila says.

*****

WE LEFT THE OLLILA RANCH, crossed Dry Creek, and drove west on Highway 212 to Belle Fourche, the biggest city (pop. 5,600) in Butte County and a place that clearly exists to serve farm and ranch families. The most visible business enterprises involve tractors, fencing, livestock services, irrigation equipment and wool.

Hills along the Bad River valley near Wendte are subtle reminders of when the region was an ancient desert of sand dunes. Today, the soils are rooted in place by a dense but fragile ecosystem of native grasses.

Belle Fourche has bragging rights as the Center of the Nation. The geographic middle of the continental U.S. is just a short drive north of town. It’s also known as the convergence of the Redwater and Belle Fourche rivers.

Yes, there’s water in this arid country. Just a few miles east of town lies an 8,000-acre lake known as the Belle Fourche Reservoir, which was created in 1911 by a mile-long dam on Owl Creek.

Tucked into a small house near the junction of the two rivers is the town’s Green Bean Coffee House. That’s where we met Mary Clarkson Buchholz, whose family ranches northwest of town near the Montana border. Mary also serves on the board of Pioneer Bank, which is just west of the coffee shop, and she writes a history column for the town’s weekly newspaper, the Belle Fourche Beacon.

She says the drought-stricken 1930s were a defining era.”My dad always said that before that, there was one homesteader on every quarter section [160 acres] and now it takes 40 acres for one cow-calf pair, maybe twice that much in dry years. When it got tough, some left, and others dug in.”

Ed Goss, a friend of the Buchholz family and a retired manager of the town’s big wool cooperative, was born and raised 350 miles east of Belle Fourche in Kingsbury County, where the average rainfall is double that of Butte County.

He says he learned at an early age that the very concept of drought and deserts is relative. He recalls that farmers on the west side of Kingsbury County always lamented that they got less rain than their counterparts on the east side, just 20 miles away.

Mary Buchholz says the same is true in Butte County, where there are grain fields on the east side, thanks in part to the irrigation systems, and nothing but cattle and sheep on the drier western side.

It must be human nature to look for dividing lines. Goss says there is such a line between the arid west and the eastern croplands — the invisible 100th meridian, a longitudinal line that divides South Dakota in half.

“Go look by the town of Blunt, east of Pierre,” Goss advised us.”There’s an historical marker there that says the bankers shouldn’t loan money for farming west of that point, on the 100th meridian, because it’s just too darn dry for anything to grow beyond that point.”

*****

AS DRY AS IT GETS in West River, two of its best-known wordsmiths say they don’t often hear their rural neighbors use the word desert.

Rancher and author Dan O’Brien practices “regenerative agriculture” on his family’s Wild Idea Buffalo Ranch.

“I’ve never heard that term applied to the landscape here,” says Linda Hasselstrom, a writer and ranch owner at Hermosa.”My father used to joke that where our land over east of the ranch broke into the Badlands that it was desert, but that was a very small portion of what we owned.”

Regardless of terminology, Hasselstrom says West River is a challenging environment that requires a close relationship with Mother Nature.”One of the best conversations I ever had with my father was when I was about 12 and we were haying,” she says.”We were lying down after lunch, under the trees in the field. He said he wondered if trees were really conscious beings and aware of us, only living at a slower tempo than ours so we never grasp their consciousness. I’ve never looked at a tree the same way since.”

Dan O’Brien, a buffalo rancher and writer, agrees with Hasselstrom.”I don’t look at this place as a desert, even though there are some similarities.” He pictures a desert as a barren land of blowing sand,”while our prairie is a diverse ecosystem of grasses that have evolved not only to survive but to thrive.”

O’Brien’s book, Buffalo for the Broken Heart, is a parallel story of how his own life has become woven with the natural world, particularly the native grasses and buffalo.

He borrowed money to buy a small ranch southeast of Rapid City in the 1990s because he was attracted to the wildness of the region, but he soon discovered that neither his heart nor his pocketbook found satisfaction in raising cattle, the traditional hard-luck method of making a living on grass.

O’Brien switched to buffalo, and soon realized that the wild beasts were a better fit for both him and the land. Today, he and his family run Wild Idea Buffalo Company, a ranch devoted to what he terms”regenerative agriculture.” Their goal is to have a positive impact on both the arid landscape and the food supply. The experience has given him both hope and worry for the future.

“This landscape has been politically charged from the very beginning,” he says.”The railroads were out to get people here and they promoted it as a Garden of Eden. Of course, there were a lot of disappointed people. There are seven old homesteads on our land alone. Every now and then, I’ll see an old cast iron stove that was left behind or some lilacs still blooming that were planted long ago by some woman who was trying so hard, and I’ll think, ëDamn it, things aren’t so tough today.'”

America’s founding fathers championed an agrarian ideology.”I would rather be on my farm than be emperor of the world,” said George Washington. Thomas Jefferson designed a plow and advocated for a”manicured democracy,” a dream world in which everyone might have a few chickens and a cow. Unfortunately, he didn’t realize that there was a land west of that 100th meridian where it might take 40 acres of grass for a cow — and 500 cows to pay the bills and taxes.

“Jefferson thought there’d never be 25,000 people in the state of Kentucky. That’s how short-sighted one of our wisest presidents proved to be,” O’Brien says, and he fears that modern-day leaders are even less prepared to produce good public policy for farmers and ranchers.

O’Brien once flew over West River with a U.S. senator who wondered aloud why there were so many”tiny lakes” scattered among the grasslands. He says the senator was shocked when he learned that they were all man-made stock dams.

He believes such a lack of understanding from urban policymakers, mixed with modern agriculture’s insatiable appetite for short-term profits, might be more of a threat to the grasslands than the lack of rainfall.

A U.S. Geological Survey map of the 1890s reflects scientist John Wesley Powell’s concerns about the agricultural viability of western lands.

“When I see anybody trying to fix it, I’m rooting for them,” he says,”but I’m also pitying them because most of the government programs have actually encouraged the plowing of the prairie and other bad practices.”

O’Brien sees some neighbors practicing good management, but he says that’s not the norm.”Too often guys are running their cattle the same way and in the same places where their grandfathers ran the cattle, and generally that’s been destructive.”

Jefferson’s plow also remains a threat, he says.”These grasses are our rain forest. Their roots can go 10 feet deep. Our long-stemmed native grasses store as much carbon as the rain forest. They’ve been packing carbon in our soil forever. Every time we plow one of these up and put in a corn field or a golf course or a trailer park, that disappears forever.”

*****

WEST RIVER ranchers might avoid the”D” word, but not Mark Sweeney, who lives in Vermillion — a college town surrounded by flat, lush fields of corn, soybeans and alfalfa.

Sweeney is a professor of sustainability and environment at the University of South Dakota. A native of Phoenix, Arizona, he has researched and studied arid landscapes. Much of his field research has been in the southwestern United States, where sand dunes and the saguaro cactus leave little doubt about the ecosystem. However, Sweeney is also well-acquainted with West River country, and he is well versed on John Wesley Powell’s 19th century assertion that the 100th meridian is a dividing line.

“Powell was quite a character,” he says.”He was a one-armed Civil War veteran who was also a geologist. He led some of the first expeditions through the American West, including the Grand Canyon. The notion of him canoeing down the rapids with one arm is pretty amazing.”

Powell’s climate stance took courage in the 1890s, and it even cost him his position as director of the U.S. Geological Survey. However, Sweeney says time has proved Powell to be right. In fact, just 25 years after Powell’s death, the western plains were decimated by drought.

Sweeney recently mentored a student from Baylor University, Taylor Weeden, who documented over 700 dust storms that hit South Dakota in the 1930s.”One of the leading reasons it was so dusty probably had to do with the percentage of cultivated land at the time. Taylor found that between 50 and 70 percent of the land was in cultivation in East River, and if you go West River, it was less than 20 percent except in Tripp County, where it was closer to 40.”

Like the West River ranchers, Sweeney still stops short of the”D” word.”Semi-arid is probably a better descriptor of that region today,” he says.”Not quite desert, because it still has grasses and other vegetation that have adapted to the climate. The grasses that grow there are critical to binding the soil. If they were not there, you’d be generating dust storms and there would be barren soil farther than the eye can see.”

Actually, says Sweeney,”there’s evidence of that in the past. If you go back to the last Ice Age, maybe 17,000 years ago, there were glaciers east of the Missouri River but west of the river there was no glacial ice and big areas were wind eroded.”

Sweeney says the resulting geographic depressions are still visible in western South Dakota, subtle reminders of the ancient desert.”The troughs are all aligned with the ancient prevailing winds,” he says.”Some streams that occupy these troughs today took advantage of the topography created by the wind.”

Researchers have found evidence of other long periods of mega drought, one as recently as 1,000 years ago that caused some of the dune crests in the Sandhills to reactivate. The Sandhills are considered a Nebraska ecosystem, but they begin on the south edge of Bennett and Todd counties in South Dakota.

An abandoned church southeast of Edgemont by Hat Creek is a relic of when the West River prairie had many more farmers and ranchers.

The Vermillion professor says that, without the grass cover, the soil makeup of the West River prairie is quite vulnerable to wind erosion.”You find Pierre shale west of the Missouri River, and when it gets dry and exposed it breaks down into tiny aggregates, little mud balls, that dance about and generate dust as they break away in the wind. It’s like a sandblasting of the prairie.”

*****

SURE ENOUGH, IF YOU drive east of Pierre on Highway 14, you’ll find an historical marker at the 100th meridian, just west of Blunt where Ed Goss said it would be.

Erected in 1956, the marker notes that lending agencies would not,”lend a shiny dime west of this line because some geographer had labeled it the EAST EDGE of the Great American Desert. Today, more than a quarter of America’s new animal wealth alone is produced from that misnamed desert.”

The marker seems to be a 20th century rebuke of Long, Powell and other 19th century explorers and scientists who dared to use the”D” word. Yes, they slightly underestimated the average rainfall, and they underappreciated the tenacity of the native grasses. They also couldn’t know how ranchers like Dave Ollila, Dan O’Brien and others might treat the land.

However, it once was a great American desert. Will it be a desert again?

Sweeney and other modern-day scientists say that depends on climate, as well as on how landowners and public policymakers treat the native grasses. The answer to the future of the arid plains, as the poets say, is blowing in the wind.

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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Elk Magic

Elk bugle during the fall as part of the mating season ritual.

We sat in the truck and waited for the October sun to set over the gentle hills of Wind Cave National Park. A giant buffalo sauntered just a few yards away. Through the windshield we saw coyotes hunting in the distance. We heard geese calling and coyotes howling. Not a bad opening act, I thought, for what we had come to hear — the distinct and haunting bugling of elk.

I had never heard an elk bugle, and I had avoided the temptation to search for the sound on the internet before our outing. But I knew those were the words often used to describe the sound: distinct and haunting and also ethereal, eerie, powerful.

We waited for sunset because the first rule for hearing elk is that timing is everything. Elk only bugle during their mating season, primarily in September and October, and most often from sunset to sunrise.

I learned this from my guide that evening — Dan Tribby, a lifelong elk and nature lover. Tribby’s day job is the manager of Prairie Edge and Trading Post, a Native American goods and art store in downtown Rapid City.

Tribby said Wind Cave is a good place to start for beginners because there is no hunting in the park. Consequently, the elk are less likely to be wary of the sounds of people and vehicles. We met at the visitor’s center and drove a short distance to the parking lot near Cold Brook Canyon Trail on Highway 385.

Along the way, Tribby educated me on elk behavior. Bull elks, he said, build harems of 15 to 20 cows, and then fight off other bulls. That’s mostly what the bugling is about every fall. They are signaling to other bulls in the area that they are with their cows; be scarce or beware. However bulls without a harem may also be bugling. They are assessing the lay of the land, and probably hoping to steal some cows.

Elk once roamed as far east as mountains in Pennsylvania and West Virginia. Their original name is wapiti, a Shawnee word meaning”white rump.” English settlers called them elk, the term for a European moose. Hunters greatly diminished American elk numbers from 10 million to under 100,000, and by 1900 South Dakota’s elk population was near extinction. Rocky Mountain elk were captured and used to repopulate herds in South Dakota between 1911 and 1916, and by 1928 herd numbers had grown to around 1,000. Today, 6,000 to 8,000 elk inhabit the Black Hills National Forest, Custer State Park and surrounding prairies. They can also be found on grasslands in Butte, Bennett and Gregory counties and on the Lower Brule Indian Reservation.

As we waited for the sun to go down, Tribby reminisced on his first experience with elk.”They are just so magnificent,” he said.”I was in high school when I saw my first wild elk in the Black Hills and I have loved them ever since. They were such a rarity, like mountain lions back in those days. And the more you saw them the more you fell in love with them.”

Tribby had an archery license to hunt elk in 1997 and a rifle license in 2007. He describes the time of hunting elk with his bow tag as among the most joyful 30 days of his life.”They are so big, the size of a horse. I can’t understand how a horse with antlers can sneak up on you but they do. I was hunting outside of Sturgis one day and I turned around and there was a monstrous bull just 50 feet away. It was magical. I could look through the spruce tree and could see his eyes and he was looking at me through the spruce tree.”

I saw a pattern. People who have heard the bugling use the same words; majestic, magnificent, charismatic and magical. While I don’t think you can become addicted to a sound, they all want to repeat the experience.

The sun was setting, so Tribby and I began to walk to the top of the nearest ridge because the bugling carries farther at higher elevations. Meanwhile, Tribby continued to tell me of his elk adventures.”There have been so many good times calling them in for people,” he said.”It changes their life, you know. I still love going for rides with my mom, whether we see them or not. We call them from the car. She’s 90 now and won’t go trudging through the woods looking for them, but she sure likes to hear them bugle.”

Dan Tribby, manager of Prairie Edge Trading Post in Rapid City, has been enamored with elk since he first saw one in the Black Hills as a teenager. He still enjoys trips into the wild each fall to hear them bugle.

That night we listened atop the ridge in Wind Cave for about an hour. Coyotes continued to call. It did feel magical — merely being in the mountains after dark was a thrill. But we didn’t hear any elk. Instead of being disappointed, I was intrigued and promised myself more opportunities.

A few months later I called Chad Lehman, senior wildlife biologist at Custer State Park to ask about bugling in the park. Lehman, too, it turns out, is an elk enthusiast. He has hunted elk for 22 years throughout the West. He had some additional tips for first timers hoping to hear bugling.

“Bulls will start bugling at the end of August but it is rare to hear,” Lehman said. The rut picks up around Sept. 20-25, but the best bet is Sept. 20-30.”That’s when cows are being bred. So you could hear a bugle every minute during that time, but in early September maybe only one or two bugles an hour.”

Lehman recommends keeping a safe distance from elk, but he doesn’t see a problem with elk safety in South Dakota.”In Estes Park some elk have lost the element of being scared because they aren’t hunted. They have attacked cars and people. But fortunately we don’t have a population habituated to people,” he said.

I asked him why people are so intrigued by elk. He chuckled and understood the question.”I look at it as people in general love being outdoors and studying the behavior of animals. That’s anyone from someone who grew up in the country or someone from the city. There’s an innate characteristic in people who love being outside. And with elk, when you’re talking about the peak of rutting season, you can see and hear things in nature that are unmatched.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson philosophized in his essay”Nature” that experiencing the outdoors is the closest one can get to God, and to truly be at one with nature and God is to not only observe it but also be absorbed by it.”Standing on the bare ground — my head bathed by the blithe air — and uplifted into infinite spaces — all mean egotism vanishes,” he wrote.”I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.”

Tribby, Lehman and other elk-lovers I’ve met all seem to share an appreciation for the wonder and majesty as described by Emerson. At the end of our night at Wind Cave, Tribby told me about a time when he was walking in the forest and happened to see an elk tooth out of the corner of his eye.”Just to walk around and see an elk ivory is unheard of,” he said.”Every elk only has two ivories.” Tribby picked it up and resumed his hike.

When he returned to Prairie Edge, he overheard two co-workers who were making an elk tooth dress for their daughter. They needed one more elk ivory to complete it, and they wondered where they might find one. Tribby happily gave his to them.”The spirits were working for us that day,” he said.

Magical.

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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West River Green

The mixed grass prairies of western South Dakota can seldom be described as vibrant. In my experience, the extended verdant green I’ve seen West River this growing season typically only lasts a month. Some years the lush prairie views do not appear at all.

I was between 7 and 8 years old when one of most brutal droughts since the Dirty Thirties took place in Ziebach and Dewey counties. Rain was on everyone’s mind. Prayer meetings at church and conversation at the cafe all centered around the need for moisture. The grasshoppers were so bad they decimated the leaves and bark of our decorative shrubbery in front of the house and caused driving hazards on Highway 65 down by the Moreau River. The old timers commented that at least they didn’t consume the wood fence posts like they’d seen in the 1930s, but that was small consolation to a 7-year-old. At least we didn’t have to push the lawn mower all that much. The only thing that made our lawn green was kosher weed near the water hydrant and garden where the water hose had gone. That was the year I learned how to long for and love rain on the prairie. Thankfully that particular dry stretch did not last long.

In May of 1982, we had nearly two weeks of slow and soaking rains. It was the first time I’d really noticed how green the prairie could get. As I grew older and began to take on more duties, like haying and summer fallowing, rainstorms became double boons. Anything over 10 hundredths would get me out of the field for a brief break and allow for a little goofing off — until Dad realized I could be out fencing instead.

The spring of 2023 has brought good rains to western South Dakota so far. I spent the week after Memorial Day chasing photos in the Badlands and Black Hills as per my usual habit. For four afternoons in a row, rain clouds built in the distance, then burst forth over the Hills, bringing rain, then leaving evening rainbows as a final sign of their passing. From those rain-soaked days in 1982 until now, I’ve always thought the first light after rain on the prairie is the prettiest light on earth. To be able to witness that kind of light on consecutive nights, plus rainbows, was a triple blessing for a wandering photographer on a week-long break from the rat race.

Recently I came across a poem by Badger Clark called”The Rains” that describes the feeling:

But last across the sky-line comes a thing that’s strange and new,

A little cloud of saddle blanket size.

It blackens ‘long the mountains and bulges up the blue

And shuts the weary sun-glare from our eyes.

Then the lightnin’s gash the heavens and the thunder jars the world

And the gray of fallin’ water wraps the plains,

And ‘cross the burnin’ ranges, down the wind, the word is whirled:

“Here’s another year of livin’, and the Rains!”

You’ve seen your fat fields ripplin’ with the treasure that they hoard;

Have you seen a mountain stretch and rub its eyes?

Or bare hills lift their streamin’ faces up and thank the Lord,

Fairly tremblin’ with their gladness and surprise?

Have you heard the ‘royos singin’ and the new breeze hummin’ gay,

As the greenin’ ranges shed their dusty stains–

Just a whole dead world sprung back to life and laughin’ in a day!

Did you ever see the comin’ of the Rains?

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midco he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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Where the Pronghorns Play

Pronghorns are swift, hitting speeds between 60 and 65 mph when they run across the West River prairie.

PRONGHORNS, THE SLEEK and beautiful creatures that have the run of big sections of South Dakota prairie, are the fastest land animals in North America. They can hit speeds of 60 to 65 miles per hour.

Many of us learned that fact in elementary school before we knew the animal’s true name. For generations, Americans called pronghorns antelopes — a misnomer hard to overcome partly because of Daniel Kelley and Brewster Higley’s classic song,”Home on the Range.” It describes a Great Plains landscape where”the deer and the antelope play.” In fact, our South Dakota animals are not only geographically distant from true African savannah antelope, but completely distinct biologically. (No South Dakotan, though, will admonish you for using the term”antelope.”)

Biology has endowed pronghorns not only with strength and agility that translates to their terrific speed, but arguably the most remarkable eyes of any North American mammal. Their eyeballs are the size of an elephant’s. A pronghorn’s vision can be compared to ours when we’re equipped with a set of 8 x 50 binoculars.

Hot Springs wildlife photographer Dick Kettlewell has witnessed how that keen eyesight can prompt group action.”Sometimes I’ll be photographing a group of them and I’ll notice them stop and look at something in the distance,” he says.”And so I’ll look and look, but when I finally see what they see, they’ve run into the next county.”

Pronghorn eyes, adds Kettlewell, bulge almost like fish eyes and can see wide degrees of landscape. And there’s more.

Pronghorn does are skilled at hiding their babies and defending them from natural predators such as coyotes.

“They have those wonderful eyelashes,” Kettlewell says.”Especially the fawns. I call them Elizabeth Taylor eyelashes.”

Unseen is a big brain. Pronghorns are smart and able to learn. For example, conventional wisdom in the West long held that pronghorns couldn’t jump barbed wire fences. But Kettlewell thinks more are leaping fences in recent years, because the species has learned how.

“They probably prefer crawling under fences because their legs are made for running, not jumping,” Kettlewell says.”They could always jump over creek beds as they ran, but fences were something new when they appeared just 130 or 140 years ago in the West. That’s a very short time when you’re looking at the evolution of a species.”

The evolution of the pronghorn over the past few thousand years is an incredible story, one that made them perhaps the quintessential plains animal (only bison aficionados are likely to challenge that). Species of Asian goats made their way across the Ice Age land bridge and migrated as far south as the Florida peninsula, Mexico and maybe even Central America. But they apparently thrived best on the Great Plains, and it was from here the modern pronghorn emerged.

They made their way into the mythology of plains Native peoples, from creation stories to accounts of other creatures foolish enough to challenge them to races. According to those myths, wagering on those races is how pronghorns acquired such a vast amount of prairie grasslands. Natives also hunted pronghorns, sometimes shooting them and sometimes driving them over steep embankments on horseback.

Despite that history, Lewis and Clark had no knowledge of pronghorns until their journey into the West in 1804. They first spotted them along the Missouri River, somewhere downstream from where the Niobrara flows into it, south of present-day South Dakota. Members of Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery, as they navigated the Missouri up through the middle of our future state, saw big herds on both sides of the river. They managed to shoot some and prepared two for mounting so that President Thomas Jefferson could take a look.

“Lewis and Clark called them antelope because they knew of the animals in Africa,” Kettlewell says.”You can’t blame them. The colors are similar.”

That was 217 years ago. Outsiders passing through South Dakota today are also often baffled by pronghorns.”They’re not especially well known outside our region,” Kettlewell says.”Travelers often think they’re some kind of deer.”

A pronghorn’s eyes are as big as an elephants and accentuated by “Elizabeth Taylor” lashes.

Few people have done more than Dick Kettlewell to help the public learn about this under-the-radar animal. He paraphrases Henry David Thoreau in describing himself as”a self-appointed inspector” of Great Plains and Black Hills wildlife. Kettlewell’s pronghorn photography (as well as photos of most every other Northern Plains wild creature) have been featured in books, magazines and online resources. He takes photos by knowing what their behavior is likely to be in any given season, and then blending into the habitat with them.

He grew up living on three continents. When it was time for college, he selected a school near the center of the North American continent — Nebraska’s Chadron State College. A few weeks into his freshman year in 1964, Kettlewell and some buddies drove an hour north and, he recalls,”that was the first time I saw the Black Hills, elk and pronghorns. I kind of put the Black Hills in my pocket that trip, thinking I might want to come back there to live.”

First, though, Kettlewell worked as a photojournalist in Texas and New Mexico. He learned techniques for capturing speedsters — human athletes — on film as he covered sports. In 1995 he moved north and worked a dozen years for the Rapid City Journal. His”Spring Creek Chronicles,” a series of outdoor photo essays for the Journal, won both fans and awards.

Kettlewell loved all Black Hills prairie landscapes and wildlife but found pronghorns hard to top.”I like to show the motion in their legs,” he says,”especially when doing pan shots — moving the camera with them as they run — so that the background is blurred.”

Photographing those big-eyed fawns led Kettlewell to learn something else about pronghorn biology. Does, except for their first pregnancies, usually produce multiple births. That’s important because for all their speed, pronghorns — especially fawns — get picked off by natural enemies.

“Coyotes come after fawns, and I’ve seen eagles do the same,” says Bob Speirs, a Spearfish High School language arts teacher who also works as a hunting guide.”Fawns are smaller than jackrabbits, and eagles can pick them up.”

That’s not to suggest pronghorns aren’t tough.”Unbelievably tough,” Speirs adds.”I see them on windswept hillsides in winter because that’s where they’ll get to the grass.” And in mid-September, mating season, bucks are tough on one another.”That’s when they act like goats, ramming each other. Sometimes bucks are injured brutally,” Speirs says.

But nothing brutalizes entire herds like bitter winters that seem to come once or twice a decade: mid-1980s, late-1990s, three in a row from 2008 to 2011, and Winter Storm Atlas in 2013. Come spring, South Dakotans look across the emptied plains and wonder if pronghorns will bounce back, but they always do, and usually surprisingly fast.

Photographer Dick Kettlewell collected images of pronghorns in all seasons for his book A Pronghorn Year, released in 2014.

Unregulated hunting and disease in the West nearly drove pronghorns to extinction in the late 1800s and early 1900s. In 1911, the South Dakota legislature outlawed harvesting pronghorns, and shortly after, early wildlife management efforts (including a Harding County preserve) met success in bringing the animals back. By the mid-1920s, about 700 grazed the state’s grasslands, mostly west of the Missouri. Devastating as the Dust Bowl years of the 1930s were for people, they proved beneficial to pronghorns in the long run because they drove lots of farmers off the land and opened up wider habitats. The 1930s, in fact, saw state-regulated hunting put to work to maintain healthy herds.

Today nearly 50,000 pronghorns live in South Dakota, according to state Game, Fish and Parks pronghorn management documents. They’re mostly found in the northwest, on tribal lands and all along the South Dakota-Wyoming border. Open, rolling and untilled lands make prime habitats.

While out-of-state travelers in general may not be attuned to pronghorns, that’s not the case with those inclined to hunt. They love the challenge of quick, small targets (an adult buck may weigh only 120 pounds). Speirs is noticing increasing popularity in archery pronghorn hunting.

There is a payoff. Pronghorn meat, says Speirs, is sweet and tender. Many people who say they don’t like wild game make an exception for pronghorn.

Kettlewell, meanwhile, still picks up new knowledge about the species while in the field with his camera.”I think most of us have the impression that mother pronghorns protect their young by leading predators away from their prey,” he says.”But I have also watched a pronghorn doe defend, protect and kick a coyote to keep fawns safe.”

One day Kettlewell dropped into a ravine where a fawn lay hidden in deep grass. A coyote descended from the other side of the ravine. Suddenly, Kettlewell saw the mother appear and”sprint right into the coyote and roll him over. Then she kicked him with her front legs and he went running. This doe was right behind him, biting, and she chased him out of the ravine. She was gone for 20 or 30 seconds and came back to the fawn.”

The three- or four-week-old fawn stood, oblivious to its close call, and followed its mother out of the ravine. The doe had won the battle, ensuring survival for the youngest of a species that has learned to thrive on the plains of South Dakota.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the January/February 2021 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.