Tiff remarked, as we drove away, “It’s a very American monument.”  We turned away from the mountain, the car working up to speed through the hairpin turns.  “Think about it,” she said, “Only Americans would say, ‘Our leaders are so great we’re going to carve their faces into a fucking mountain!’”  

 

She’s right, though.  How very American that we would etch into the very firmament a portrait of those we hold dear.  6 stories high, Lincoln stares down, along with Jefferson, Washington and Teddy Roosevelt.  No entirely sure what they’re looking at other than a mountain of rubble below their faces, the tailings  of the original carving.

 

It might be the new avenue of flagpoles that sits at the entrance, or maybe the new state-of-the-art amphitheatre that sits at the foot of that slagpile.  Or maybe it’s the ice-cream shop.  Or the gift shop.

 

I’d like to believe it was the epic vastness of the Black Hills that they stare out toward.  The purple mountain majesty and the fruited plain.  

 

But I’m never sure. I guess I just don’t have as much faith in that part of the process.

 

We sped up Route 385, giving Klaus a bit of a workout through the curves.  Accelerating into the curve, whipping around the corners, pushing through the straightaways, we did our damnedest to get the most out of the trip.  We passed over a reservoir as the sun hung low in the sky, and watched the boats traverse the golden shimmery surface.  The water looked inviting in the sweltering heat of South Dakota.  We drove on, through “Boondocks, a 50’s town” and past the diner that advertised the best burgers around, and back toward Deadwood.  But that’s another adventure.