Facing Up to Mt. Rushmore and the Black Hills

“Wook, wook, da faces, da faces,” our 3-year-old daughter, Matilda, yells.

We are driving into a tunnel carved out of solid rock, perfectly framing Mt. Rushmore. It’s as though we are peeking through a keyhole at the world-famous memorial, which is at least five miles away. “It is so-o-o cool!” says Henri, up on his knees in the back seat.

We turn another corner and the incredible mountain disappears behind a thick stand of ponderosa pines. We twist through two wiggly “pigtail bridges” on Highway 16A and cruise into the Mt. Rushmore Memorial parking lot. Rows of cars display a melting pot of license plates. Every state in America is represented here.

Up a short path, lined with state flags, we jog to the viewing platform. Henri is so excited that he almost falls over the edge. “Settle down, mate,” we tell him, trying to keep our own composure.

We had expected something grand and are not disappointed. Half a mile away, across a valley studded with dark green trees, the cloudy white faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln stand high above the half-million tons of granite that was cut away to form them.

After sunset, in an amphitheater at the foot of the mountains, we watch a film about the making of the sculpture. The Presidents are lit up nightly at 9:30 while “The Star-Spangled Banner” is played.

The next morning we find something worth shouting about: breakfast at the Buffalo Room at Mt. Rushmore. The dining room, with many tables placed alongside full-length windows, has a fantastic view of the Memorial, and we get full breakfasts, minus the orange juice, for a mere $2.25. Fans of Alfred Hitchcock will probably remember the room--from his movie “North by Northwest”--as the location of the scene where Cary Grant fakes his death.

Although we order cafeteria-style, waiters carry our trays to the table and tips are refused. We use real plates and cutlery. The coffee is fresh and hot and our breakfast companions--George, Tom, Teddy and Abe--are first-class.

Mt. Rushmore may one day be dwarfed by another rock carving that is 10 times as wide and three times as tall. The privately funded sculpture of the renowned Sioux warrior, Crazy Horse, at nearby Custer, is slowly taking shape.

There is an official Crazy Horse visitors center, but we get a sneaky free peek of the carving at an offbeat wild West tourist complex called The Fort, which also claims to be “Home to the Stars of ‘Dances with Wolves.’ ” From a high platform we can see Crazy Horse, about two miles away, and with a little imagination and some eye-squinting we can make out the shape of a head and arm. Locals say it will take another 50-75 years to finish the carving.

The Fort is also a gift shop, petting zoo, restaurant, bar, museum, music hall and everything-but-the-kitchen-sink attraction. Henri and Matilda get a kick out of watching a baby black bear wrestling a Samoyed dog in a cage, and we discover the “Dances With Wolves” stars are two horses used in the final scene of the movie.

But there is even more animal excitement at our Blue Bell Campground in Custer State Park, 30 miles from Mount Rushmore.

We are surprised by a herd of buffalo that wander into our campsite. “Buffawo! Buffawo!” Matilda says, hugging our legs in fear. There are more than 1,200 buffalo in the park, and we are told that a few weeks ago a herd charged some campers who were getting too close.

Our encounter is less dramatic. The buffalo wander slowly past our tent and then gallop across a road by the swings and slides where Henri sits, frozen . . . still.

“Were you scared?” we ask.

“No, I was not ,” Henri says, convincing himself.

During our three-day, $10-a-night stay at Custer State Park, we enjoy gold-panning, trout-fishing, snake-holding, storytelling and campfire-singing. Similar free programs are offered at most government-run parks throughout the United States, often hosted by volunteer rangers. We learn the fine art of cowboy coffee-making at an outdoor cooking class led by Patsy Shadoin, a retired school principal and her husband, Shad, a retired college dean. They avoid the heat of their Louisiana home by spending summer, rent-free, as ranger volunteers in South Dakota.

We also take a $5 side trip to the neighboring Wind Cave National Monument, the seventh-largest cave on earth. Two-hundred feet below the surface, the guide takes us into a honeycomb of rock rooms lined with box- and popcorn-shaped stone formations.

We have been in our tent for 21 nights now and decide to head northwest to Deadwood, South Dakota’s gambling capital. We hope to find a bargain hotel similar to ones in Las Vegas or Laughlin.

Deadwood is expensive for a recession vacation--the best price we find is $65 for a rather run-down motel room. Wondering if we’ll ever sleep in a bed again, we meander down Main Street, past one-room gambling venues housed in turn-of-the-century brick-and-stone buildings. Gambling was only introduced here in 1989, and the town is still busy renovating and getting up to speed.

Before we head out of town, we chuck a few nickels into a slot machine at Deadwood Dick’s Saloon, a hangout for local gamblers. Ching, ching, ching . . . the beautiful music of hundreds of coins pouring out of the machine.

We carry the winnings proudly to the cashier and exchange the 365 nickels for the grand sum of $18.25. We take the money over the border into Wyoming, where we crash in a $38-a-night room. Ah beds, ah television, ah a hot bath.

The black cloud that has followed us now brings a cold snap that has us wearing most of our clothes at once. Freezing wind whips across the Wyoming plains as we drive west on I-90, struggling to hold the car on the road. Ahead, snow-capped mountains are surrounded by dark clouds.

As we arrive in the bustling cowboy town of Cody, we hear on our radio that a tornado and severe thunderstorm warning is in effect. We find refuge in another $38-a-night hotel called The Pawnee that doubles as a tropical fish, vitamin, rock and insurance store.

“No Vacancy” signs are being turned on throughout town. Everyone here seems to be on their way to Yellowstone National Park; so are we.