I’m spoiled. I’ve seen the country on someone else’s dime, but it very well could have been yours. If so, I thank all of you.
I’ve been to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, thrice within a month and a half— and I’ve enjoyed every visit.
I found the people genuine and the scenery breathtaking (for a kid from the Jagged Edge of America). I loved that the folks there could register an all-terrain vehicle for road use.
Yeah, I found that out when a Honda Rubicon ATV passed me on I-90 while we were driving to lunch at a place that claimed to have foot-long hot dogs. They did, by the way, and they were good.
You see, I am not an accidental tourist. Since I was always working on my business trips, I made sure that I saw things that most people would find mundane. Mundane is open all the time. Life—to Timmy— is cobbled together, secured by the mundane.
I visited the battleship South Dakota memorial in the center of Sioux Falls. Silly me, being from a maritime state, I thought I’d see the entire ship. I was wrong. It was the outline of the boat in a park. I used my imagination.
Volunteers run a tiny museum. They can picture the ship because they must; it’s not there. The spirit of the battlewagon lives a proud and vibrant life, and the South Dakota people honor her and the sailors who crewed the boat. Necessity is the mother of invention and the crazy uncle of imagination. It’s a fantastic spot, respectfully done. I appreciate that.
On the one day that we were not trying to speak to a murder suspect, we made our way to Devil’s Gulch. It’s up near Garrettson. Jesse James is said to have jumped the gulch when on horseback, apparently running full speed, fleeing a bank robbery in nearby (as the crow flies) Minnesota. James jumped the 18-foot-wide chasm in 1876; there is no video. I used my imagination again.
There are some naysayers.
Volunteers staff a replica western-themed cabin near the launch site. The day my partner and I were there, killing time until our suspect could be fed lunch at the Minnehaha County Jail (not kidding), we met a pleasant gentleman who shared some of the suspicions held by locals concerning whether Jesse James indeed jumped the gorge on a horse. We appreciated his honesty.
Myself, I believe it. I must. I must believe, for I have been there.
I’ve been to a lot of other places, usually because the murder suspects got there first while trying to avoid speaking to me or another cop or two.
Missoula, Montana, Baltimore, Maryland, Spokane, Washington (one suspected killer wouldn’t stay put, so we followed him around for a few days; eating the perfect steak in northern Idaho made the trip worthwhile).
On our final trip across South Dakota, we were getting tired and thirsty from the seven-hundred-mile day of driving. With the sun at our backs, we hurriedly drove from Rapid City toward our hotel in Sioux Falls. We were in awe as we drove, watching the vast fields being scoured clean by huge combines, something two simple cops from the Jagged Edge had never seen. We both were impressed with how many of those combines sported a very proud waving American flag. No one was burning them there, I can assure you.
We’d been near Wyoming and had done a few witness interviews, taking a quick visit to Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse memorial between conversing with humans who, in part, were lying to us about our suspect’s past. We were used to that part of the job. None cared that they were being watched ever so carefully by honest Abe or the notoriously honest George Washington. I digress.
We pulled off at a non-descript exit for fuel and cheap snacks. Rolling to a stop just off the exit, we ended up on a gravel farm road infested by dusty, rustless pickup trucks, some without tailgates. At the store, maybe a mile from I-90, we didn’t fit it, but mostly because we weren’t dusty or sore.
The thing I remember most was how cordial everyone was. It was clear we didn’t fit in; we wore ties. Oh, they were loosely hanging from our necks, but they were ties nonetheless, hovering over dress slacks and formerly shiny shoes. We’d locked our guns in the glovebox, figuring we were safe from malfeasant ne’er-do-wells. We didn’t need no stinking badges either.
I talked with a ballcap-wearing farmer who didn’t even ask what we were doing there. He looked tired and worn out, but we chatted; I asked questions about how long the harvest would last. He smiled after explaining so an idiot could understand, then said, “Have a safe trip,” knowing that I didn’t belong but offering hope for no problems on the way to where I was going.
Outside, my partner finished filling the gas tank. He looked at me and said, “I like it here.” I stood in the dust-filled breeze and strongly agreed, passing him water and a portion of beef jerky. I said, “I think I’d like living here,” knowing I never would.
Why do I write about this? I can’t tell you, except that it’s mundane yet memorable.
That’s why traveling, no matter the reason, is essential: to see life, even a glimmer of it, outside the place where you are most comfortable.
In the years since those trips to the bread basket of America, my partner and I have often waxed profoundly about that trip and the ensuing journey driving a now convicted, since freed, man across America in a minivan. That’s a story in itself.
And, yes, he and I disagree about whether Jesse jumped the gorge and whether there’s a better way to represent a storied battleship without water to float the hull. But we both loved the hot dogs.
It’s the mundane that makes our time here worth remembering. Keep it in mind.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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