Charred Tree, (2018).
Nearly every tree was jet black and the charred remains prairie dog dugouts poked out through the thinning layer of snow as we drove on the narrow back road to Wind Cave. We had spent the past day and a half exploring both Badlands National Park and Custer State Park, with the hopes of getting fantastic shots of bison in the snow. Unfortunately, that didn’t really play out as I intended. We went into the recently burned Wind Cave National Park for one last attempt to find some bison.
Bubonic Prairie Dog, Wind Cave (2018).
Before we found any bison though, we did find several large and apparently thriving prairie dog colonies along the way. Surviving both the recent prairie fire and the bubonic plague, these prairie dog colonies spanned hundreds of yards in every direction. Risking the Black Death, we spent some time enjoying the whims of the prairie dogs. The close family groups would greet each other with a hug and kiss. More than a few of the “guard dogs” sat on top of bison turds for a better vantage point. The most interesting thing to watch though was a behavior I called “The Wave”, after the resemblance to the classic stadium cheer. Every so often and seemingly at random, a lone prairie dog would jump back on its hind legs, and throw its front paws in the air. Tilting its little head back, it would let out a loud “Yip!” before returning to all fours. After the first one initiated the wave, four or five others, all in consecutive order based on proximity to the initiator, would repeat the motion and noise. Doing research after I got home, I discovered that these “Jump-Yips”, as they’re known, have proven problematic to decode. However, according to Scientific American, research suggests that they could be a test for vigilance. That is, the initiator might be testing the others in the colony to see if they’re awake. Regardless of their meaning, the prairie wave was hysterically entertaining.
After a while we left the plague-ridden prairie dogs and continued on into Wind Cave to tour the cave itself. Wind Cave derives its name from the rush of air that exits the natural entrance, caused by changes in air pressure. So when, when a summer storm rolls in over the prairie, you might just get your hat blown off standing by the entrance to the cave!
Starting at the natural entrance to the cave, which the Lakota believed to be an entrance to the spirit world, I could hardly imagine how the first explorers of the cave actually got into Wind Cave. The natural entrance is no more than a few feet long and maybe a foot and half wide. Yet, as our tour guide explained, with some crafty contortions and a bit of flexibility, most people could fit through the natural opening. Fortunately, we took the unnatural entrance into the cave: a set of stairs located around the corner. Despite the extreme cold outside, the cave maintained a pleasant warmth; the deeper into the cave we ventured the hotter it got. Indeed, there’s quite a lot of cave to explore: already the sixth-longest cave in the world, scientists believe that most of Wind Cave remains undiscovered.
Interior of Wind Cave, (2018).
Descending a few hundred feet through some of the chambers of the cave, we climbed and weaved past incredible geological formations. Nearly every nook and cranny had a different kind of rock formation, from the “popcorn” and frost formations to the famous boxwork. Boxwork, named for the box-like chambers it creates is often times paper thin, adorned the ceiling of any number of inner cave chambers. Due to its fragility and because of the way in which it forms, boxwork is exceedingly rare; 90% of the boxwork in the world exists in Wind Cave.
Following the tour, which proved extremely difficult to photograph (the whole no light thing didn’t help), we spent the rest of our day exploring the prairies around Wind Cave. Wildlife abounded in the park— as we exited the cave a “small” group of no less than twenty or so deer (bucks, does, and fawns) greeted us. There were a handful of coyotes stalking the prairie dogs colonies, which were numerous. Unlike Custer, Wind Cave didn’t have as extensive burn damage. However, the most memorable encounters in Wind Cave both involved bison.
Burly Bison, Wind Cave (2018).
Driving along the road, we came across a prairie dog colony and a few bison, grazing on either side of the road, maybe a hundred yards away. Stopping to photograph both the bison and the prairie dogs, we pulled off to one side of the road but remained in the car; we didn’t want to scare off the prairie dogs or intimidate the bison. I spent most of the time photographing the prairie dogs, as they were finally close enough to take some decent photographs. As I was preoccupied, one of the largest bison moseyed down the road towards our car. I saw him start to move towards us in between shots, but ignored it, naively figuring the bison would wander off or past us. The next thing I know, a massive, furry bison head peered into my passenger side window. My girlfriend, who watched the whole thing happen but didn’t say anything until the last second, quietly panicked in the backseat. Not being a bison expert, I slowly pulled the car forward and away from my curious new friend. The last thing I wanted was a dented rental car or worse, an injured bison. I imagine that if I would have stayed parked that the bison would probably have left us alone. He might have even posed for some amazing close-ups. Before I go to South Dakota again, I need to learn a little more about bison behavior.
The bison in the window foreshadowed the events to come. We continued driving through Wind Cave, excited that the bison weren’t in corrals like in Custer. I wanted to find some bison grazing a little while away and take some photographs, so I turned down a side road that someone on our cave tour had recommended for having lots of bison. As we turned down the narrow road and drove up a hill, the horizon shifted from the peak of the hill to the trees behind it. Suddenly, a massive herd of bison suddenly appeared in the right before us. All of the bison, who had been lying down (probably sleeping), simultaneously turned towards us. Have you ever woken an entire herd of thousand-pound beasts? Have you ever seen the opening of The Lion King? The road was completely blocked by this herd, and I had driven almost into the heart of it. I felt like Simba on the tree, with no Mufasa to save me. A handful of the larger bison began to lumber up onto their feet, so I slowly and cautiously reversed the car down the hill, trying not to go off the twisting road and also not hit any bison. The group of alpha bison slowly followed us.
Big Buddy Bison I, Wind Cave (2018).
“Oh god,” I thought, “I’ve created a stampede; any second that entire herd is going to thunder over the hill right at us.”
Completing the world’s slowest J-turn, I began my low-speed escape. You could consider it as badass as a 90-year-old James Bond. The five-mile-an-hour car vs. cattle chase was on. I lurked back down the hill (not able to document any of this incredible experience) and one by one the pursuing bison got bored and wandered away.
“I’m losing them!” I cheered as I perceived myself in a slo-mo version of a Hollywood chase scene.
However, one bison wouldn’t give up. Despite that I could drive fast and he could run fast, we kept at our low-speed game of cat and mouse. I continued down the road a quarter mile: Big Bison Buddy still hot on my tail. Half-mile down: Big Bison Buddy clearly not giving up. I sped up a little bit and cleared three-quarters of a mile. I looked back.
“Slow and steady wins the race,” Big Bison Buddy mooed at me.
Eventually, close to a mile down the road, I crossed a small stream and returned to the main road. I paused at the end of the bridge, waiting to see if Big Bison Buddy would continue. Feigning disinterest, he walked into the stream and got a drink of water. After all, such a low-speed downhill pursuit can take a lot out of a bison on a cold winter’s day. Falling for his feint, I stayed parked near the end of the bridge, curious and also eager to get photos of him in the stream. However, as soon as I had time to get my camera out, he struck, hopping out of the stream at speed and jogging towards us. Big Bison Buddy had almost played his cards right. He got within a few yards of us but he didn’t know what he was dealing with. Smashing the pedal of my mediocre Nissan Altima, I accelerated to a blistering 10 mph and flicked on my turn signal. Rapidly checking both ways, I pulled onto the empty road. In the rearview mirror, Big Bison Buddy circled the end of the bridge, letting out a loud “Mooooo” in his despair. I had won, triumphing over the animal. It was cause for celebration.
Big Buddy Bison II, Wind Cave (2018).
After being stalked by two bison and later tailed by a coyote, we decided it was time to leave Wind Cave. It’s never easy to leave the majestic animals on the plains, even when they sneak up on you and play a terrifying version of peak-a-boo in your window. There’s something about the bison on the plains that creates a sense of both wonder and awe. Peering through my lens at the bison or simply watching them in their herd, one catches a glimpse into primitive America, the one from which all of our legends and folklore come. It’s an America ruled not by man but by sleeping giants (better put, grazing furry brown boulders). It’s a land where the sky dominates the landscape and, as the wind howls across the tan grasses on the prairie, making you appreciate just how exposed and alone one can be out in the wild. I’ve truly come to appreciate the beauty in South Dakota (something I never thought I’d say) and cannot wait to return. Not because I didn’t get my snowy bison photograph, but because of the excitement of untamed wilderness that still lives in western South Dakota.
Coyote on the Plains, Wind Cave (2018).
Passing Winter Storm, Wind Cave (2018).
Red Cow Near Wind Cave, (2018).