Instincts, Unmarked Roads & The Nebraska Badlands

I discovered the Nebraska Badlands by chance while perusing my Roadtrippers.com map for unique, offbeat places to visit along the way from Rapid City, South Dakota to Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Those might sound like unique, offbeat places in and of themselves, and they are. All on my must-see-again list as well.

The roads to many wonderful places are not always paved. They're not always marked, named, or regularly traveled either. Toadstool Geologic Park in Harrison, Nebraska is one of those places. 

Heading down from South Dakota, SD-71 becomes Toadstool Road – leading you to believe that you're a lot closer to the park than you really are. The 30-some-odd miles between Hot Springs, South Dakota and the Nebraska borderline have a distinct, rural, hilly terrain. Vast gaps of grasslands are punctuated by herds of trees that crowd the curves of the road, while dense waves of Ponderosa pines cast the shadowy backdrop of the mountainous Black Hills. The closer you get to Nebraska, the farther out of sight that rugged range becomes. Grasses of green and gold sweep the Great Plains until your car rolls around the first bend in the road you've seen for a few miles, and suddenly you're in Nebraska, the Cornhusker State. 

I'm always fascinated as to how the terrain changes from state to state. Crossing the border from North Dakota to Montana, you immediately discover why it's called "Big Sky Country" out there, and as soon as South Dakota turns into Nebraska, it becomes visibly evident that you're in a completely different state. The landscape changes instantly, and for a minute you entertain thoughts of state lines being drawn with aesthetic purposes in mind.

Now, when I plugged Toadstool Geologic Park into my GPS back when I was leaving Wind Cave National Park that afternoon, I was forewarned that roads along my route were unpaved. I got giddy, jittery, and a bit confused all at the same time. Where might these roads be? I hadn't seen a single dirt or gravel road in North or South Dakota. Readers from back east might get the same jumpy, skittish feeling when they think of driving on an unpaved road. I have certain family members (who shall go nameless) who grip at their head and chest the moment I mention driving on an unpaved road. Folks from the West and Midwest would probably giggle at this reaction, assure you that most of these roads are well-maintained, and they might even advise you as to whether or not you'd need a high-clearance vehicle, or if a standard sedan would suffice.

So there I was, just chugging along all alone and loving the looks of Nebraska life. The quiet sweeping plains, the solitude that surrounds the middle of America, sunshine with a severe storm warning in my future – all in all, a pretty perfect day by my standards. Eventually, just before the town of Joder, my GPS told me to make a right on an unnamed gravel road. "Continue for 13 miles," the app told me. I checked my ETA, and somehow there was still another 28 minutes left 'till I'd hit the park's parking lot. Could I really do half an hour on a gravel road, my very first ever, all by myself? I was determined to. I tried not to be intimidated by the three pick-up trucks that zoomed past me doing at least 50 mph each, kicking up dust and pebbles all over my sweet little sedan. It really wasn't tough to navigate, but I really wasn't comfortable doing more than 27 mph. So I just carried on at a nice steady clip of 25-26 mph; roving at my own pace. A few miles in I lost cell service and my phone said that it was searching for GPS signal, but since the map was still useable, I was still able to see where I was headed. And even if the signal wouldn't come back 'till I hit that main road again, there was only one way in and one way out of Toadstool Geologic Park. It's pretty much situated at the dead end of a gravel road that's really long on the way in and not so bad on the way out.

I arrived in a circular parking lot that had several posted-up campers, a few cars like mine, and those speed-demon pick-ups that probably beat me by a whole eight minutes. It was a bit hazy out, but it didn't make the land any less beautiful. Black cows grazed the green grass that sprawled beneath some beige badland formations. Red, purple, and pale-hued rocks were strewn about along what was once a river running 'round the park. There was nothing displeasing to the eye – not even the campers behind me as I walked deeper into the park to explore. I was smiling so naturally. Similar to how dogs wag their tails involuntarily – I just couldn't help but beam from ear to ear. I was digging the vibes this lesser-known destination was putting out. The only thing I wasn't feeling was the intrusive, man-made humming that was hovering above the land I was so quickly growing to love. It was a big, new drone, shiny, bright white with buzzing, spinning wheels. It reminded me of a weapon; it just didn't belong in this peaceful place. I have nothing against drones in general. I have a great appreciation for the footage they capture, but its sounds and presence were definitely a bother to me. I just didn't want it there. This place was so untouched, so rarely visited, I just wanted to hear its quiet, its natural sounds, maybe the cows would make sounds, but I couldn't hear anything over that humming that grew louder and louder as the drone hovered directly over my head. The closer it got, the more displeased I was, and the closer its owner got, the more that feeling was amplified. 

It's so rare that I ever come across anyone in my travels that I don't instantly gel with, or at least enjoy a brief, but memorable exchange with. I love meeting people from all walks of life, kind local couples excited to share their little corner of the country with a newcomer, solo trekkers like myself, on their way out of visitor centers and such. "Have you been before?" "No!" "Awesome, you're gonna love it!" I love interactions like that with complete strangers. I can probably count on one hand the amount of encounters I've wanted to avoid while exploring the great unknown. And for an introverted solo traveler, I'm my most extroverted self while adventuring independently. I love exchanging stories with people I cross paths with. I wonder if they'll remember me. I never forget my precious chance encounters.

I hate to admit it, but this drone owner just kind of rubbed me the wrong way. And it wasn't just that I found his drone to be a nuisance. I was skeptical of him, not captivated, but particularly cautious – teetering between being creeped out by him and just not wanting to make his acquaintance. Perhaps it was because he was male and I sensed some semblance of romantic interest on his part, and I just wanted absolutely no part of that. I just wanted to wander around, take my pictures, soak it all in; I didn't feel like getting to know someone, or at least not him.

But I didn't want to jump the gun; I wanted to keep a watchful, yet somewhat open mind. I can't remember where he said he'd moved to Nebraska from, but he had an accent like I'd never heard before. He wore a floppy fisherman's hat, a white t-shirt, cargo shorts, and he just seemed to want to chat it up. I didn't want to be rude, but every moment I spent facing him for conversation was one less moment my eyes would spend gazing out at this surreal foreign landscape. Without being overtly rude, but refusing to compromise on how I wanted to spend my time just to engage in conversation I didn't want to be part of, I responded to his remarks about his brand-new drone, I answered his questions, all while continuing to walk through the brush, towards the cows, without making eye contact. He asked what had brought me way out there to the middle of nowhere Nebraska. I usually love questions like that because it opens up a whole new window of dialogue and either drastic differences between me and my new acquaintance or striking similarities. But something about the way he asked it made me realize that this young man wasn't a person to be concerned about – he was probably just a little lonely and looking for a person to connect with. He didn't seem like he was the sad kind of lonely, just a human craving interaction with another human. And at that moment in time, I really wasn't after the same, but I finally stopped walking and turned to him. I decided to ask him a question, give him a glimmer of the interaction he was seeking. I'm big on sensing people's needs and helping where I can without compromising myself. So once I perceived that he was not a threat, I asked, "Have you been out this way before?" "Me? Oh, yes, sure, I have been here very much since my move." He stopped for a moment as if to re-appreciate the beauty of this place he's probably gotten a bit used to after many visits. "Oh! But you haven't! This your first trip...here let me take your photo." Before I had time to consider, he had parked his drone and controller on a rock beside him. Then with some pep in his step, he led me several steps over, framing the background with his fingers. "No, no," he quietly muttered to himself. He shuffled back left a bit, tested the frame with his hands again and said, "Here is good. Do you have a camera phone?" I handed it to him, unconcerned and he backed up a bit and got down on one knee in the dirt. "Oh, perfect, beautiful!" He snapped several shots. "Ok, now make a pose!" he said very sincerely, but somewhat humorously. I laughed awkwardly, "It's ok, I don't really..." "Oh give a pose!" He took a bunch more photos, and no doubt would have continued, but I stepped out of the frame and thanked him profusely. Handing my phone back to me with a genuine smile he said, "Hey, you should really check out the trail up there...see where that father and daughter walk? It's a short walk, but wait until you see what's over that hill! You're gonna love the view! That's where all the toadstools are!" I was pleasantly surprised that he didn't offer to walk with me. I think that respecting and encouraging my independent exploration made me less desperate to escape his presence. Perhaps he sensed how much I relish my freedom. Or perhaps he just wanted to get back to shooting footage on his new drone. Whatever the reason, I was grateful to go it alone, but I felt a bit of regret for judging him. He just had a peculiar way about him. It was unfamiliar, a bit uncomfortable, and I really just wanted to frolic freely in this new place I'd found. But I decided not to waste another moment judging myself for my intuitive reaction. After all, when you're flying solo, you have to rely on your instincts and gut reactions to people, places, and situations. But I'm happy my perception shifted within a short period of time, in this case. I thanked him again for the photos and tips and told him it was nice meeting him, which in the end, it wound up being. Completely candidly and totally unfazed by losing a chatting buddy, "Hey, you too! Thanks, and I hope to see you in New York someday. Enjoy your hike!" He barely took his eyes off his shiny new drone.

I was smiling again, genuinely, and up and over the Nebraska badlands I went, along a particularly narrow, white-sand trail. Soon, the parking lot and the buzzing of that drone were out of eyesight and earshot, and all I could see was the whiteish-gray sky meeting layers and layers of rock formations shaped like toadstools. It was plain to see why this landscape had been described as a moonscape on the tourism pages I'd perused before officially adding this place to my list. About a hundred yards over that rim, the name Toadstool Geologic Park began to make sense. The toadstool tops of these atypical rock formations rise from the ground horizontally, vertically, and in some places, even diagonally. Some of the formations look like overturned flying saucers and colossal cremini mushrooms. Most of the inner badland walls look as though they were eroded in a pattern, while other parts seemed like the walls could've been caves or potentially carved into homes like the Ancestral Pueblan cliff dwellings that were built to last throughout the Southwest. My imagination kept searching for traces of a lost civilization, but my eyes had no such luck. Nevertheless, the view was positively otherworldly from every perspective along that short, easy trail.

Toadstool Geologic Park is one of those unheard-of gems along a road so seldom traveled. If you're into that sort of thing, or if you're in the Nebraska Panhandle and wondering what to see, please contact me for more details!