Weather: Sunny and hot, occasional light cloud
209 miles
I got up at 7.30 and had breakfast in the hotel. Showing on TV was the so-called ``closing ceremony'' from the World Trade Center site in New York, a solemn commemoration of the removal of the last of the wreckage from the site and honouring the many hundreds still officially missing.
Having loaded the car after breakfast, I went for a short walk back to the main street of the town to take a couple of photographs, some of the buildings still being very much in the style of a typical ``frontier town''. I then returned to the car for the short drive down the road to Scott's Bluff.
This is named for fur trader Hiram Scott, who was abandoned by his companions sixty miles away when he was too ill to travel. His body was later found by the bluff that bears his name. The place is impressive, with the trail route through Mitchell Pass passing beneath towering rocks on either side. (Although there is flatter land beside the river, the ground was unsuitable for the passage of large numbers of waggons, beasts and people.)
Two ``prairie schooner'' waggons were on display beneath the imposing Eagle Rock, together with examples of some of the items taken on the trail by the pioneers. The nearby visitor centre contained a small museum of the Oregon Trail, and in this I purchased a fifty-dollar National Parks Pass, on the grounds that I would very likely get my money's worth out of it over the course of the trip.
A short walk from the visitor centre led one through the pass alongside the trail route, somewhat rugged in appearance, although it was hard to tell how much was natural and how much of it waggon-ruts. I then took a longer walk of over 3 miles round trip up onto the bluff itself, passing through an artificial tunnel in the cliff-face, past some weathered rock formations vaguely reminiscent of those of Bryce Canyon, and finally to the summit. This offered excellent views of the North Platte valley to one side (and the sprawling town of Scottsbluff) and of the cliffs and buttes surrounding Mitchell Pass on the other. There was also a modest car-park for those who had chosen to take the easier route to the top.
By the time I had returned to the visitor centre and quenched my thirst with a refreshing drink, it was nearly lunchtime. I drove back to Gering and across into Scottsbluff in search of somewhere to eat. Unfortunately this seemed to be easier said than done, and I ended up returning to Gering, settling for a beef sandwich in a Subway restaurant.
I then tried to find the road out of Scottsbluff, severely handicapped by its grid system of streets and the apparent total absence of signposts. I eventually settled on a secondary road which nevertheless appeared to take me in the direction in which I wanted to go, according to my map. What I was not warned of, however, was the fact that 15-20 miles further on, the nice tarmac road surface disappeared in favour of a gravelled one.
It became evident that this unmade surface was not a temporary measure but one I could well have to continue on for many miles. I then ended up spending some considerable time attempting to find my way back onto proper roads, not helped by the fact that all roads looked exactly the same and always met at precise right-angles, this being the layout of the farmlands of the prairie states. I eventually managed to locate the road I should have taken from Scottsbluff in the first place, and followed this for around sixty miles up to the town of Alliance.
I made a stop to refuel, the petrol gauge now showing significantly less than half full and Alliance being the only town for some considerable distance. A few miles to the north I stopped at the town's only claim to fame: the site of ``Car Henge''. This is exactly as it sounds: a version of Stonehenge made from cars. It was erected in 1987 by a local artist and other members of his family as a supposedly faithful replica of the original, save for the substitution of a more readily-available construction material for Welsh bluestone. Supposedly, the necessary astronomical corrections for the lower latitude of Nebraska have been applied to ensure the correct orientation of the rising sun at the summer solstice.
Nearby stood various other examples of so-called ``car art'': a Ford estate with additions to make it appear like a prairie schooner, a series of Ford cars planted vertically into the ground and painted various colours to depict the ``Fourd [sic] Seasons'', others resembling dinosaurs and salmon. In all a bizarre place, but an amusing break on a drive on otherwise relatively uninteresting roads.
An hour further north I stopped briefly in the town of Chadron, glancing at a detailed road atlas of Nebraska in an attempt to work out where I'd gone wrong earlier, then continued across the state border into South Dakota. Thereafter the scenery became more interesting, as I headed into the forests surrounding the Black Hills of South Dakota. These were beloved of the Sioux Indians of the region and assigned to them ``in perpetuity'' by peace treaty in 1868. This treaty was soon broken owing to the discovery of gold in the hills, to the everlasting regret of Indians who were finding their old way of life destroyed and themselves confined to ever-smaller reservations, with the buffalo on which they so depended driven almost to extinction.
The Black Hills are a popular tourist area with several major attractions, the best-known being Mount Rushmore. I decided not to push on for there that evening but to stop for the night further south. On passing through the town of Hot Springs, I found myself passing several motels advertising very reasonable rates, and decided to try one of them, named the Bison Motel. For $38.00 plus tax I could have a comfortable room and breakfast the next day, and had several restaurants within walking distance. I paid for one night with the intention of paying for another the next morning unless I found serious fault with it, allowing me to spend the next day exploring the area.
I took a brief walk alongside the river down to a shop for a few supplies, then headed towards the town centre for dinner. The Elk Horn Café was recommended, and I took a table inside, admiring the heads of elk and other creatures mounted on the walls. Bison steaks were on the menu and I decided to try one, but alas they had run out and I was obliged to settle for a more conventional beef steak, preceded by a salad. Afterwards I returned to my room, wrote a couple of postcards and made plans for the next day, then retired for the night at 11.00.