At the campsite cooking breakfast and enjoying the luxury of having running water nearby, I looked up from my bowl of eggs, rice, and beans to see two park ranger vehicles flanking the bus. The rangers were as amiable and curious as squirrels. At their request we opened the hood, gave a brief demonstration, and left them pondering the possibility of running their own vehicles on vegetable oil.

“So where’s the best place to hike around here,” I asked. Lee, the campground grounds keeper.

“Anywhere’s good really, just go exploring and watch out for rattlers,” responded Lee pointing out to nowhere in particular.

Just the answer I was looking for—explore, with no set plan, just ideas ready to change and evolve with new movements and new moments.

An asphalt lot contained the station wagons, SUVs, and RVs of vacationing families and retirees, making a safe island of civilization amid the expanse of other worldly desert. People ventured from their automobiles to lean against the rail of the wooden walkway and look out over the wild landscape, as alien and foreboding as the ocean.

I filled my camel pack with water, a camera, a bag of almonds and cherries, slid on sunglasses, tied my boots tightly, and rallied the troops from of the bus. Ethan, Burkey, Chris (honorary crew member and my SAS roommate) and I climbed up the outer rock wall and looked out over deep crooked canyons, high ridges and spines of pink and white clay, and scattered rugged shrubs—the only patches of life save the vultures circling and gliding overhead.

“Let’s climb up to that peak and then walk along the ridge all the way back around,” said Ethan pointing at the horizon.

“Let’s see if we can get off this wall first, and see what happens from there,” I suggested looking down the sheer dry slope that fell away beneath us.

We climbed in and out of different gaps in the outer the wall until we found a route with enough traction to slide down. Out of the parking lot and over the wall, we entered a different kingdom of narrow peaks and ragged gorges sculpted from clay by mad weather.

We ran and hopped across the rock bridges and steps above and between the dry canyons, running free like we’d just broken out of prison. We entered the first small valley and picked a grassy plateau as our next goal and raced toward it taking different routes into the canyon and across the ridges, all of us hopping across the same final steps to the summit.

“Nice planet. What is this Earth?” Berkey asked.
On the plateau the next idea formed—“let’s go to the top of the highest ridge we can see, and see what’s on the other side. I think we can climb up that spine right there,” said E pointing to the peak of an elongated pyramid of dry clay.

We slide and scrambled down into another valley toward the peak, and crossed a dry riverbed. In the shadows of the river’s bank lay a bed of cool beautiful wet clay. The temperature was near 100 degrees, the only thing resembling shade were caves tucked in the canyon walls, and none of us had any sunscreen. I spread the cool clay across my face, neck and shoulders. Soon we all looked appropriately primal.

We walked through the canyon looking for a way up to the top of the high ridge that walled us in. I didn’t like the idea of straddling a convex ridge with only sheer slopes falling away at either side. We crawled instead into a narrow gorge branching off the river and began climbing up the dry rock wall, handholds crumbling through our fingers. At the summit, out of breath and relieved that none of us had fallen into an uncontrolled slide, we looked over the tops of the peaks and crags surrounding us on three sides and the wide valley that stretched ahead. A mule deer sprung into sight and bounded away over the grass.

We scurried down from the peak along a rabbit run, the thin clay trail falling away beneath our feet, and into the green valley below. As we turned to follow the river back to our ship, I thought different experiences other travelers may have had in crossing these same lands—the Lakota, the Spanish, French Trappers and American Settlers—those traveling to survive the valley must have felt like divine providence after the struggle across the hellish maze of heat and clay. Though the joy at finding the valley may have soon disappeared when the game and water proved scarce and the travelers again looked ahead to the next destination. The physical conditions being the same, it is the attitudes of the travelers that makes all the difference in the experience.

Around a bend in the river E and I came upon another mule deer drinking at a puddle. We climbed down to the water and reapplied mud to our faces and bodies. Stepping along the riverbed, my big boots sinking into the smooth mud and water, I did not feel like I was getting the full experience. So I took off my shoes and let my toes and feet sink into the cool earthen jelly.

The river snaked along between the canyon walls, and we followed until Burkey felt that to get back to the bus we should leave that path and crawl up into a narrow gorge that branched off the canyon. We suspended ourselves between the walls, over dry waterfalls, shady pools and through caves, jumping and kicking off one wall to land on the next platform.

“We should probably climb out of here at some point,” Chris noted.

“Let’s try right here,” I said pointing at a line that zigzagged up the canyon wall.
I climbed quickly, moving up the wall, hand and foot holds of dry clay crumbled as I pushed off.

Pulling ourselves onto the flat top of the canyon and realized that we were back where we had begun—perfect—high fives all around for being alive. We had not conquered the Badlands, if our attention had been inward, focused on the great feat we were achieving we’d probably all be lying in a heap at the bottom of the canyon. The precarious peaks and labyrinth canyons demanded that we travel like humble hobbits, with gratitude and awe for the land that carried us.

We walked back toward the wooden walkway fencing in the tentative tourists. Shirtless, and caked in mud, we must have looked like we’d been out there for weeks.

“Get you picture taken with Encino Man, 25 cents!” Burkey offered as Ethan took off his shoes and hopped around slapping the ground with his hands. Though he frightened a few people, he met more laughs than stares.

A cooler full of beer on ice awaited us on the bus. We toasted to life, the Badlands for leading in perfect spontaneous navigation. We found a hose at a campground down the road, rinsed off, and called the adventure complete.

Back onto the bus, we drove away from the stone towers of the badlands and back into the open prairie toward Pine Ridge.

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