I’ll resist the Montana National Forest joke, because it’s already peaking over seventy degrees (21°C) and it’s still morning – and there’s blue sky and supposedly only a fifty percent chance of thunder storms.
We’ve left the motel later than usual because we only plan to get through to the northern end – and within striking distance of – Mt Rushmore for tomorrow mid-morning. Which means only thirty minutes on the highway, it’s time to check out the roadside facility condition for my crew.
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Little Bighorn
Midmorning and we’re on sacred ground. Little Bighorn – the last time I was here decades ago, it was a quiet, reverent trip to pay homage to the two sides of my family (one can only guess which of the two sides bear a more direct lineage in blood lines since I’m not related to the sole survivor from the Custer regiment). The silence I remembered was somewhat eerie blowing across the plains, looking out, seeing the landscape as my forefathers may have seen it.
