Doug and Laurel Go West

Note: The following is a transcription from a journal I kept when Laurel and I went on a seven day camping trip. Because it is a fairly direct transcription, you may find it under-edited and over-rambling. Well, you may find all my writing to be that way, but this is even moreso.


Day 3: Tuesday 7/1/2003

Odometer: 927.4 miles
On the road out of Spearfish near the Wyoming border

Day 2 was not at an end. The dream was over but the nightmare had just begunÖ

I couldnít sleep. Thatís not a camping thing Ė itís been a problem, on and off, for most of my life. It started to rain a bit, and gust a lot, which was fine, because it gave me something to watch. I was a bit nervous when a side of the tent would billow, but I had complete confidence in our tent, just as I used to have complete confidence in my first girlfriend, my judgment, and my government.

According to the next dayís news, the winds reached 75 mph on the ground, and we were on a mountain.

Around 1 AM there was a ZZZ sound, and the bottom of the door flap was open. Wind swelled up the tent like a box kite. Wait- do box-kites swell? I donít know. The wind swelled up the tent like a sail on a cubical sailboat. The zipper at the bottom had come undone! So I tried to zip it back up, but because of the wet and the noise and my mathematician-like night vision, I was having a hard time finding the zipper.

"Uh?" said Laurel, waking up.

"Iím trying to zip up the tent flap."

"Uh?" she asked.

"The zipper on the bottom opened, and Iím trying to close it."

"Uh."

"What?"

"I said, ĎThere is no zipper on the bottom of the tent flapí"

The tent rocked back and forth as the tear (for that is what it was) widened. I grabbed it to hold it shut, and Laurel joined me. We had to fight it very hard as the winds picked up. She was losing the battle with her side. The tear began to creep vertically up the seam, and the metal supports began making angles that were Bad.

"Maybe the storm will die down," I opined.

"Kraaaaccckkk," replied the storm.

After several stupid ideas were shot down, Laurel came up with one that was smart, if not particularly heroic. Abandon ship.

We got wet, but not as wet as you would think, as we transferred the contents of the tent into the car. We forgot to transfer the towels we had left to dry on a line, but (uncannily) they were dry the next morning. I forgot to transfer one other thing.

Dougís camping tip #3: If your only footwear is a pair of tennis shoes, then donít leave them in a rainstorm all night.

We then enacted phase two of Laurelís plan by driving the car onto the tent to weigh it down, and then phase three, which was to try to get some sleep in the car.

The night was horrible. For me. Laurel got to sleep pretty quickly, after saying something that made me mad. "This is the worst thing that ever happened to me while camping." That sentence was too close to "What else could possibly go wrong" or "Things canít get worse" to suit me. You donít have to believe in fate to know enough not to tempt her.

But I drifted and woke up eventually with Laurel and the Sun. The 1/8 mile walk to the bathroom was murder on my bare feet. Stones, wood-pieces, weed-pokeys and ash vied to make a Happy Mosaic on my soles. When I got out, I begged Laurel to bring the car around, so I didnít have to walk back.

On our way to the Rapid City Target, Laurel mentioned that she got a few weird looks when she slowly backed the car off of the tent. "That couple must have had some fight," Iím sure people were thinking. Also on the way, Laurelís "Things canít get worse" hex took effect. It took effect on me. Delicacy prohibits going into details, but suffice to say it lasted half of the day and had to do with poop.

We had planned on getting our friend Jeff ("Letís bet on how long before they sleep in a hotel" Jeff) a T-shirt when we visited Crazy Horse. Laurel and I had been as youths, and couldnít wait to see its progress. His face was done. Neat! Crossing the gate would have been $18. We looked a bit more, turned around without going past the gate, and proceeded to Target to get a new tent.

Target was like another world, the world Iíd left two (only two?) days ago. The culture shock was immense, like the episode of Lost In Space where Billy Mumy found himself on Earth but instead of staying he just picked up needed supplies and left.

We bought flip-flops for me (I was wearing Laurelís which are literally five sizes smaller than mine) and a new tent and ice for our cooler and no chocolate bars because I forgot Dougís Camping Tip #1 until we were gone.

Given that weíd lost a second half-day (the first was on Sunday when Mikumi had his emergency) we decided to eschew the caves and head straight on to Deadwood. I was hoping to play a hand of Poker in Deadwood, because that is where the great Wild Bill Hickok poker story took place, and the epitome of the Wild West city. I had seen a casino brochure, so I knew they had at least one place to play. Deadwood turned out to be lousy with casinos, each one very small. Donít think of Las Vegas. The buildings were the size of old-west buildings, but each one had within a low-limit casino with a few slot machines and gaming tables.

Look, Iím not the type of city-slicker who believes that people who live in historic towns should have to keep everything as it was in 1876 on the off chance I happen to stop by and want to experience a living history museum. I am completely copacetic with the idea that they sold out to try to attract tourists. Itís their choice. I hate liberal purists who microwave their Miso Soup and get mad that the Brazilian government gave electricity and hamburgers to the cold and starving Usukmi tribe. But Deadwood was clearly redesigned without a trace of love. The historical buildings were there, the museums were there, the gift shops and casinos were everywhere, displayed attractively, but it was clear that no Deadwood resident over 40 sat on the development committee. The place reeked of consultants from the East.

They did have a $3 all you can eat breakfast buffet. I hadnít had eggs, bacon, or sausage in 3 days. I think my poop issue might have been partially caused by my bodyís being modified to run exclusively on grease and gluttony. I got the buffet, felt great eating it, and my problem cleared up by lunchtime.

We arrived too early in the day for Poker, but I did play (and win) a little blackjack, and got to hang out in the bar where Wild Bill was shot. According to the historical diorama and the pictures on the T-shirts, his "dead mans hand" was black aces and eights, and the nine of diamonds. He lost the hand and then was shot in the back by someone he beat the previous night.

There would be a Wild West shoot out later in the day, but Laurel and I decided not to wait. When we go back to South Dakotaís Black Hills some day, I want to go back at night and play 5 card draw in Deadwood.

The casino limits were all $100 which was nice in that it kept the really scary people away. Everyone in town was very friendly, not in the Disneyland "I am smiling at you, but only looking forward to my own death" way, but a "Hi! Where are you from?" sincere way. They are pretty good actors down in Deadwood.

[later] When I was in college, I stayed with Melanieís family for Christmas. I got along well with her wee twin brothers, telling them jokes and giving them horsey-back rides. My friend and colleague, Jason, is in the office across from mine. He is smarter than I, better looking, and in good shape. It turns out he went to the Illinois Math and Science Academy with Melanieís brothers. Not in the same class Ė they were older. Older.

Anyway, Jason found the website of a South Dakota artist named Dick Termes, who specializes in Termespheres. These are six-point perspective paintings done on spheres. Here is how he would paint a picture of a town square: He would imagine himself standing inside a glass ball in the town. Then he would paint what he would see from there. So the bottom of the sphere would have the sidewalk he was standing on, the top would have the sky, etc. Itís hard to describe Ė go to the website.

So, when Jason heard I was going to South Dakota, he showed me the website and I got excited, too. His address was in the Black Hills, but the site did not mention a gallery. I emailed the artist, and he wrote back with his phone number. "My galleryís in my home Ė call before you come to make sure Iím there."

It was a short drive from Deadwood. His house is a series of connected domes, the gallery in the first. The website could not possibly show the greatness of his works. They are 3D objects, meant to be viewed that way. The Termes gallery has them hanging at all levels, with various sizes, like Christmas Tree ornaments. He has a mechanism that keeps them slowly rotating.

To see a Termesphere is to be transported to another place. You are in a Cathedral. You are in a town square. The manís art is incredible. Unfortunately, it is also expensive.

He is also a nice, interesting person to talk to. It turns out Iím not the first enchanted mathematician who has made the pilgrimage, but I may be the first non-famous one. A math professor is in town now, giving seminars for Youth, and visits frequently. His name? John Conway. (John Conway is a mega-great mathematician who is the creator of some puzzles and games such as Conwayís Life that got me interested in Math when I was very young) Mr. Termes told me how he was getting interested in four dimensional objects, and someone recommended a classic book on the subject. It turned out that its author had been staying with him for the past few days, in his loft.

Given the inside-outness of his work, I suggested he do a portrait of a person from the perspective of his heart or his brain, and Dick said that he thought it an interesting idea, but he may have just been being polite. We talked math a bit, art a bit, the World Wide Web for a bit. I didn't want to leave because I was surrounded by such incredible artwork. I volunteered to help him staff a boot at the annual AMS-MAA meetings, but he said that although he gives talks, he doesnít really do the booth thing. I think I made a faux pas. Wouldnít be my first. He also mentioned a recent work, a huge portrait of 1800ís Deadwood, commissioned by the city, and currently hanging there. And I missed it. Damn Damn Damn.

I bought a T-Shirt for Jason. He may have grown too big for me to give horsey rides to, but he's still young enough to carry off a T-Shirt.

[later] We are approaching Devilís Tower. It was spooky when Laurel said exactly what I was thinking as I was thinking it: "Man, the West got the good scenery."

[later] The best view, in my opinion, is right outside the gate. You see the regular world and then thisÖ thing rising above it. As you get closer to the tower, it gets harder to appreciate its massivitude. But you get to see beautiful amazing detail. I saw one detail that isnít in the literature: one of itís columns looks like a praying monk. I pointed it out to several people, including Laurel, and all saw it as plain as day. We took a picture, but donít have a zoom lens, so it is going to be hard to see.

At some point today I was thinking I would like to spend a week just in the Black Hills of South Dakota. We could drive all day Saturday, spend the week, and drive back the following Sunday. They are gorgeous, and there are plenty of things to do. Literally, as I was thinking this, Laurel said, "You know, Iím thinking we can spend a week in the Black Hills."

Although I thought of the Beatleís song Rocky Raccoon often, I didnít sing it aloud once. I am capable of restraint.

Laurel just said, "Each day has a theme. Day 1 is worry about Mikumi. Day 2 is have a great time that ends in disaster. Day 3 is wait in a line of stopped traffic for something to happen." We are riding behind a house on a trailer, waiting to get off the highway for a leg-stretching. If you are keeping score, it is 4:20 PM, we are at 1045 on the olí odometer, 4142 feet high and at 44 degrees, 16.79 minutes North, and 105 degrees, 29.528 minutes on the old G.P.S. We are in Gilette, having left Devilís Tower and are on our way to the bighorn mountains, evidentally formed in 1927 AD due to fallout from the fall of Sodom and Gamorrah.

I think Iím going to make a flat-earth web page, with all sorts of information from the Flat Earth society, and all. The motto on top will read, "At least we are not creationists."

[later] We found a campground at the foot of the bighorn mountains. I took an evening shower, and returned to my campsite to find Laurel in a staring contest with a quite good-looking deer.

The night was calm, as were we in our new tent. We slept well.

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© Douglas J. Shaw, 2003