Dead Presidents

Back on the road, all that was left to do was try to beat the sinking sun to Mount Rushmore. Kind of felt like we were in a movie, because it was already pretty dimly-lit out. At least the fate of the known world wasn’t at stake. I would say about this time, it was about 4:00pm and we knew that anywhere around 5:00pm is lights out. Luckily, like the rest of the state, there were hardly any cars on the road, and with no more Wall Drug signs to distract us (except for the initial ones right as we got back on I-90, desperately informing us that if we got off at the next exit, we could still make it back to the Western emporia!), it was just a straight shot, through flat roads. I was surprised at how nervous I felt. I mean, if we didn’t get to see it, it wouldn’t be THAT big of a deal, but it really did kinda feel like my only crack at the thing.

According to our brand, spanking-new Rand McNally map, once we turned off of I-90, it should only take us 24 minutes to get to Mount Rushmore. Of course, what the map doesn’t say is that a steady, unending, uphill climb through the mountains in an overpacked Honda Civic that’s forced to frequently downshift instead of rolling backwards may not take you a mere 24 minutes. It’s pretty sad when semi’s loaded down with enormous lumber logs pass you in a cloud of dust laughing their asses off at your feeble attempt to ascend (and with Beau flooring it the whole time).

We finally began passing through the small town that harbors the monument, which was akin to a mini Las Vegas for cowboy and Mount Rushmore fanatics. Yet again, nearly every shop, restaurant, and even the hotels were dark. You could tell that the place would make quite a glitzy show when lit up, but again, it was just another ghost town.

But to end what is surely making-you-crazy suspense, I will tell you, we made it. Woo woo! Just as dusk was drifting down, we drove up to the main gate where one lonely attendant stood. We paid our entrance fee (good for a whole year! Ha!) and she directed us to a very specific section of the parking garage, which seemed a bit peculiar considering the entire structure was empty. At least I hoped our assigned space was right under Abraham’s chin!

Well, not quite, but it was close enough. We exited the garage and climbed the many many steps toward the monument. It was pretty clear that in summer they must enjoy enormous crowds, because the place was built with a vastness in mind, dozens of benches, wide open sets of stairs, etc.

We reached the main vantage point, just a wide concrete area below the monument, and far enough back to get a good view. The only other humans around were a modest and boisterous group of athletes from Bismark State, their bus rumbling patiently nearby.

As with the Statue of Liberty, I found Mount Rushmore to be smaller than I’d imagined. I guess when you see photos of things you’re whole life, they take on this giant persona (literally and figuratively). This happened to me a lot in Europe as well, where things I’d seen in books throughout childhood as massive and majestic ended up being interesting, but a bit less impressive when I actually laid eyes upon them. Nevertheless, I really really liked Mount Rushmore. It truly has a bit of grandeur and wonder to it, and like all great structures ever built, there is an interesting story behind it. I was fascinated to learn that the majority of the carving was done by dynamite blasts. I somehow imagined in my mind some guy hanging by ropes with a little hammer and chisel tap-tap-tapping away at Washington’s sizeable proboscis. We continued to stare at it for awhile, and I took photos from every angle I could think of (which weren’t that many), and then there was nothing left to do but leave (and of course, it was dark now). We loitered in the gift shop for awhile, me getting a super cute “Merry Kissmoose” ornament (I’ve been a bit of an ornament freak the past two holidays), and mini flags of a few states and nations. Then, with the night now fully on, we got back into our car and once again headed for I-90 and the nearing Montana border.

The next morning when eating breakfast in a diner, I was reading trivia questions about the monument to Beau, and we both were surprised to discover not a single person died. I have always known great monuments to kill and maim at least a few workers along the way, usually in some truly horrific way. When I was climbing the Sydney Harbor bridge, our guide recounted to us the story of Irishman Vincent Kelly, who fell off during the bridge’s construction and cheated death by his quick thinking (see page two). Five others who fell and additional 11 men with other work-related injuries were not so lucky. I’ve also been told about the construction of the infamous Manila Film Center in the Philippines in 1981. As the story goes, apparently about 169 workers were buried into wet cement of the theater floor when some scaffolding broke, and then Governor Imelda Marcos (the women with all the shoes and the dictator husband), felt it was more important to continue the project which was scheduled to open for the Manila International Film Festival, and so halted any rescue efforts (this has also been claimed to be an urban legend and that only 12 workers died).

I know, horrific. And with that cheerful note, on to Montana.
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I was a dam builder
Across a river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around
I'll always be around..and around...and around...and around...