Yee-haw kids! Time to go over yonder into them thar hills and tell ye a tale about the rootinest, tootinest city west of the mighty Mississippi: Deadwood, South Dakota!
That was exhausting and I apologize.
I was booked to speak to a bunch of high school freshman in Deadwood, the same Deadwood the HBO show was named after. I never subscribed to HBO, but from what I could surmise, it was a show about cowboys and the prostitutes who pretend to love them.
To get there you must fly into Rapid City, which is a tiny regional airport. It’s also very expensive to fly into because there are only 2.5 flights that come in per day. How expensive was it? It cost the same to fly to Amsterdam. The kind folks who booked me put me in touch with a local travel agent to help sort it out.
I flew into Rapid City in the middle of a snowstorm. Mind you, this was late April. While booking the trip, I noticed a return flight that left at 5:00 p.m. I was done speaking at 3:30 p.m. so I asked my travel agent if she thought I could drive back and make the flight. She said it would be risky because it might be snowing. I thought, “You’re full of shit, but whatever,” so I booked a return flight for early in the a.m. the next day. Basically, I’m an asshole.
Luckily, I had the perfect motor vehicle to handle the rough conditions: a puke green KIA. The drive to Deadwood is a straight shot up the highway, then a trip down a winding road that cuts through the Black Hills. When you get off the highway you are in Sturgis. As in the motorcycle festival. It used to be a “hardcore biker” rally, but now it’s more of a “accountants who bought Harleys to deal with their mid-life crises” rally.
I cruised through and it was a ghost town. This town definitely lives and dies by the bikers. Everything was closed except the bar that was promoting an appearance by the Vince Neil Band the following weekend. Other than that, nothing was open. Most buildings were boarded up for the winter, and I didn’t bother to stop.
From Sturgis, you shoot directly west to Deadwood. The drive into the Black Hills was mildly treacherous. It wound through small towns, occasionally making sharp turns with steep drop-offs into a canyon. Though it was much shorter than the highway section, it took almost as long to get through.
It was scary, but it looked rad. The hills were filled with evergreen trees that stuck out among the fresh powder trickling down like God’s dandruff. I arrived at the Deadwood Lodge with a couple hours to spare. Most times I book my own lodging, but if someone wants to hook it up, I’m all about that life, especially if it calls itself a “lodge” and not a “murder motel.”
The Deadwood Lodge is fancier lodging than I’m used to. It’s built to look like a giant log cabin. Inside there is a hotel, restaurant and casino. This was not a Vegas-level casino. It wasn’t even Reno, but they had an assortment of slot machines and a high-roller like myself was attracted to the $5 blackjack tables. Exhausted, sweaty, and hungry, I grabbed a quick shower and got out of the room ASAP. If I would’ve sat down on the bed, it would have been game over.
I got in the car to venture into downtown Deadwood. The snow hadn’t stopped, but it wasn’t piling up. The flakes disintegrated upon touchdown, leaving the roads slick but navigable. The main drag is a bricked street lined with brick buildings restored to preserve some of their historic value. The main drag would have to wait till later. I had work to do.
I did my presentation with students in the next town over. The town of Lead was another throwback to the heyday of mining and mountaineering, but less famous because they didn’t have their own TV show. Afterwards I chatted it up with some of the teachers. One of the teachers was surprised I made it out because of the weather. When I told her getting in wasn’t so bad, she told me, “The getting in is fine. It’s the getting out that is tricky.” She went on to inform me that if the snow gets too bad, they shut down the road connecting Deadwood to the highway. If that happened, the only way to Rapid City would be through mountainous terrain, which is shockingly not recommended for driving in a KIA.
This news threw me directly into twitchy traveler mode. I honestly considered just driving back to Rapid City right then and there and sleeping in the airport. I convinced myself that it was a dumb idea. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the Rapid City Airport, but I think it’s best described as “sparse.” Even though the snow was starting to stick, I reasoned that it wouldn’t get too bad and if it did, staying in the Deadwood Lodge an extra day wouldn’t be the worst idea.
There would be more time to fret later. Now that I was free from my speaking obligations, I had to go see the wild man.
Wild Bill Hickok was a gunslinger, gambler, drunk and lawman. I’ll be honest, I get all the Wild West guys mixed up. It’s hard to keep track who was a lawman and who was a thief. Most of them are a mix of both. I only remembered who Wild Bill was because I used to play a lot of poker. Wild Bill was shot in the back of the head during a poker game and he had a pair of aces and a pair of eights, AKA “the dead man’s hand.” Go to a local poker game and by the end of the night some asshole will get “the dead man’s hand,” and explain the legend to you incorrectly even though you never fucking asked.
Wild Bill is buried in Mt. Moriah Cemetery, a mountainside cemetery that overlooks Deadwood. The visitor’s center was closed, but there’s a donation box that collects a $2 admission and for that you get a map that shows you exactly how to get to Wild Bill. Or, if you’re a garbage person, you could just take it and not pay. I parked my car and hoofed it up the mountain. Wild Bill’s grave isn’t too far from the entrance and easy to spot. His bust rests atop a 3 – 4 foot pillar and is surrounded by a wrought iron fence.
Next to his grave is some poor bastard named Potato Creek Johnny and another Wild West legend, Calamity Jane. Why she’s buried next to him isn’t exactly clear. Supposedly, Wild Bill couldn’t stand her when he was alive, so the dudes in charge of her funeral thought it would be funny to bury them next to each other for eternity. Sick burn, cowboy bros. Sick burn.
I am a sucker for an old-timey Main Street. Show me a storefront specializing in artisanal jams and I will fawn over it. An old-fashioned fudge shop? Count me in. Deadwood’s downtown looks cool, but once you dive in, it’s kind of cheap. Playing off its Wild West reputation, there are plenty of bars and “casinos,” which are just old storefronts with video poker machines. Toss in a couple souvenir shops and that’s pretty much it. There are some historically significant buildings that offer insight to the town’s past, but they were long closed by the time I hit the strip. I was left with the tourist trap leftovers.
Though touristy, there was one spot I had to check out: Old Saloon #10, aka the murder site of Wild Bill Hickok. Okay, it advertises itself as the murder site of Wild Bill, but the original spot burned down on a different site, so I don’t know how they pull off the advertising. Though the authenticity of the spot was suspect, I wanted to visit because they claimed to have the chair Wild Bill was sitting in when he was shot.
If you ignored the blips and bloops from the video poker machines, it had an authentic “old as shit” vibe. They had creaky wooden floors and a long bar that you’d expect in a saloon. There were memorabilia all over the walls, lots of stuffed deer heads, and even a stuffed two-headed calf named “Cheeseburger.”
I didn’t ask to see the chair because I figured I’d see it right away, and didn’t want to look like an impatient asshole. I didn’t see it in the main room, so I ordered the house cola and sauntered into the next room. I still didn’t see the goddamn chair. I was definitely in the right place, but no luck. I stuck $10 into a “Deuces Wild” machine, blew it in 5 minutes, and decided to leave, chair or no chair.
Then I saw it.
The chair is set up in an alcove directly above the front door. I walked right under it when I walked in and didn’t even notice it. Turns out displaying an object 8 feet in the air isn’t the best way to get a good look at it. To get a good look, you have to stand about 10 feet away directly in the path of patrons entering and exiting the bar. I thought it was dumb idea, but then thought about how many jagoffs would try sitting in it if it was on the ground, and I gave them a pass.
The snow was now stacking up on the sidewalks and medians. Again, I contemplated driving straight back to Rapid City. But I was tired and hungry so I went back to the Lodge. My plan was to eat dinner, go to bed early, and walk up before daybreak to give myself more time to get back to Rapid City. I was in bed by 8pm and woke up at 2:30am.
The first sign of trouble the next morning was when I got to my KIA and discovered the lack of a brush to wipe off the snow. The lovely folks behind the counter had about 37 extra ones behind the desk, though, and hooked me up. They even offered to let me keep it because the people of Deadwood are sweet and not corrupted by big city living.
Remember that picturesque drive through the mountains which I described as “mildly treacherous”? By now it was “super fucking treacherous.” The road was not plowed, or at least it hadn’t been plowed recently. I vice-gripped the wheel as my KIA fought against the snow, the wind, and the road.
Leaving this early was advantageous because there were no vehicles on the road. Most likely because the residents of Deadwood are not idiots and know better than to drive willy-nilly in a snowstorm. The KIA struggled to keep traction on some of the turns, the same turns that border steep drop-offs into an unholy abyss. As I slid ever so close to my death, the radio was playing a song by the Chainsmokers and I couldn’t let myself die listening to that shit. Therefore, there were a couple spots where I was driving a cool 5 – 10 miles per hour.
My knuckles went from snow white to regular Caucasian white once I saw signs for the highway exit ramp. The final stretch to the highway was slick but relatively straight. I eased onto the expressway, which was mercifully plowed and salted. The rest of the ride was smooth and uneventful. I arrived with hours to spare but I didn’t care. My flight home was on time and once TSA opened, I was able to watch the guy in front of me take out all of his nutritional supplements and explain to the officers that they were not drugs or explosives, they were just for getting fucking ripped, bro.
Would I Go Back?
I would not go back in the winter or early spring. The weather is unpredictable and it can completely ruin your plans. I would definitely go back in the summer. The Black Hills are spectacular. Camping would be cool if you’re into sleeping uncomfortably for nights on end. As for me, I’d rather go back to the Deadwood Lodge after a long day of hiking novice-level trails and eating soft serve ice cream. The downtown would probably be more fun, too. Mt. Rushmore is close by, but if you avoid that monument to white supremacy you shouldn’t find big crowds, unless you go during Bike Week.
Avoid:
Bike Week.
