Mammoth Dig, Hot Springs SD
I didn’t set an alarm and woke around 9 a.m. The temperature in the van was in the low 60s and the air was fresh and crisp. I just relaxed and enjoyed the clean air. As I left I took a few more photos of this beautiful spot in the Black Hill National Forest. I had to open the barbed wire gate to get out. As I pulled through, there were beautiful Yellow Rabbitbrush plant on the side. They were active with many types of bees and butterflies as well as a couple insects I didn’t know.
I pulled into the Mammoth Site in Hot Springs, South Dakota, around 11:30 a.m. When I entered the building, no one was at the front desk, just a sign pointing visitors to the gift shop for tickets. Inside, there weren’t many brochures or maps, but the woman at the counter suggested starting with the 20-minute movie that runs continuously. It turned out to be a good call. The film walked me through the Ice Age history of the site, the chance discovery in the 1970s, and why this sinkhole is now considered one of the most important paleontological digs in the world. It set the stage for what I was about to see.
After the film, I stepped into the dig enclosure itself. The first impression is sheer scale: a giant sinkhole covered by a climate-controlled building to preserve what’s inside. Elevated walkways wind above the excavation floor, and scattered around the railings are QR codes that link to an online self-guided tour. Standing there, I could make out femurs bigger than fence posts, ribs frozen mid-curve in the sediment, and tusks still arcing gracefully out of the earth. It’s one thing to see a fossil in a glass case—it’s another to see it right where it’s been lying for 26,000 years, part of the geology itself.
That geology is part of the story. Thousands of years ago, warm artesian water dissolved the limestone bedrock and created a cavern. Eventually the cavern roof collapsed, leaving behind a steep-sided pit with a pond in the bottom. It looked inviting to mammoths and other Ice Age animals who came for water and vegetation. But the steep, slippery Spearfish shale walls made it a one-way trip. Once an animal slid in, it couldn’t climb back out. Over generations, mammoths and other creatures died here, their bones stacking up in layers, preserved in the silty mud of the pond until a bulldozer cut into them in 1974.
That discovery is a story in itself. A local heavy-equipment operator, George Hanson, was grading the land for a housing development when his blade struck something unusual. The tusk it hit split lengthwise—you can still see the scar where the shovel struck. George showed the bone to his son, Dan Hanson, who had taken geology and archaeology classes. Dan realized this was no ordinary bison bone, and that something far more significant had been uncovered. He contacted his former professor, Dr. Larry Agenbroad of Chadron State College in Nebraska. At the time, Agenbroad was working in Arizona, but Dan kept a 24-hour vigil over the site until his professor could arrive. When Agenbroad finally made it to Hot Springs, he determined that at least four to six mammoths had already been exposed by the bulldozer.
Because Agenbroad was still tied up with other projects, he brought in Dr. Jim Mead and his excavation crew from Arizona. They spent ten days salvaging the most vulnerable tusks, teeth, and skull fragments before the site could deteriorate. By the summer of 1975, a more organized team—including students and volunteers—returned to dig systematically. That season they uncovered a complete mammoth skull with tusks intact, a dramatic find that proved beyond doubt this was no ordinary fossil bed. At that point, the landowner, Phil Anderson, recognized the scientific value of the property. Instead of following through with his housing development, he sold the land at cost so that a nonprofit could be formed to protect and continue the work. That organization became The Mammoth Site of Hot Springs, South Dakota, Inc., and in 1980 the site was designated a U.S. National Natural Landmark.
Today, more than 60 mammoths have been identified here—both the larger Colombian mammoths and the smaller woolly species—along with camels, llamas, giant short-faced bears, and other Ice Age animals that shared this landscape. The bones aren’t fully fossilized; many still retain their original structure, which makes them fragile and in need of careful stabilization. Looking through the glass windows into the onsite lab, I could see small bone fragments laid out for study and shelves stacked with plaster jackets, tools, and measuring equipment. It’s a reminder that this isn’t just a display for visitors—it’s a working research center where paleontologists continue to piece together the lives of creatures that roamed here tens of thousands of years ago.
The self-guided tour ends back in the gift shop, which loops you right back to where the day began. But the Mammoth Site isn’t the kind of place that leaves you with a glossy museum experience. It’s raw and authentic, still in progress, more like stepping into a scientist’s open notebook. Between the film, the dig floor, the QR-guided tour, and the glimpse into the lab, I left with a real sense that the story of the mammoths isn’t finished—it’s still being written here, one bone at a time, in the South Dakota clay.
After leaving, I made lunch, did some online work, and caught up on a few phone calls. Later I drove over to Evans Plunge, just five minutes away. From the outside it looked like a big swimming pool packed with kids. They told me there was also a jacuzzi and a steam room, but it wasn’t the spa experience I was looking for. A hotel spa nearby looked closed, so instead I walked around town for a while. The Freedom Trail runs right through the center of Hot Springs along Fall River, a short two-mile path that makes for an easy stroll.
It seems that Fall River, which winds quietly through downtown Hot Springs like a small stream, has a very different personality when the weather turns. I read that heavy rains or spring runoff can swell the flow into a raging torrent, which explains the wide, stone-lined channel cutting through the middle of town. Most days it’s calm and inviting, fed by the warm springs that give the town its name, but the channel is a reminder of the power the river still holds.
I couldn’t resist stopping at Two Cows Creamery & Bistro, first lured in by the farm-to-table signs out front and, of course, the promise of ice cream. Their flavors were anything but ordinary. I tried sesame, which had a striking dark grey color and tasted exactly like toasted seeds—not exactly my thing. I actually went with a scoop of Chocolate Orange and a scoop of Caramel Swirl, and the surprise was how perfectly the citrus complemented the richness of the chocolate. Later that evening, I wandered back for dinner and had a ¼-pound beef burger stacked with lettuce, tomato, and onion on a lightly toasted brioche bun. It came with a side of crisp, lightly salted fries and homemade dill pickle slices—grown and prepared by the chef herself. Everything about the meal carried that fresh, thoughtful touch you hope for in a farm-to-table spot, and it didn’t disappoint.
As I said goodbye to South Dakota and headed south toward Nebraska, a storm was brewing in the distance. I had a little over an hour’s drive to my stop near Fort Robinson. Fifteen minutes outside of Hot Springs, lightning was dropping to the east and south, with long bolts stretching miles across the clouds. It wasn’t dark yet, but tumbleweeds were shooting across the road. Ten minutes later the wind was so strong I had to slow down to 25 mph, and even then the van was being pushed across the lane. At the bottom of a hill I pulled onto a bridge surrounded by trees and waited almost 20 minutes until the gusts died down. Rain fell all around me, but oddly enough the spot I was in stayed dry. I got out to check the shocks and realized they weren’t set on the heavier setting, so I switched them over. The van handled much better afterward.
As I got rolling again, the sky lit up with an intense sunset. I pulled over for a few photos and a breather. A local stopped to check if everything was alright. He understood what the wind was like in this area and assured me the worst was past, pointing west to where the skies were already clearing. We were both headed to the same town, Crawford, and as he pulled away, he told me, “You don’t have much further, have a good evening.”
I thought the drive would be easy from there, but with the last bit of daylight fading, a deer suddenly darted across the road. Two more were waiting on the far side, and just as I reached them, the first deer wheeled back and ran straight toward the van. I swerved left and barely missed it as it crossed behind me. From then on, I slowed to 35 mph. A few miles later, in the dark, a huge buck with at least ten points appeared on the shoulder. He didn’t budge as I swerved again to the left. It reminded me of driving in Nova Scotia, where there are signs everywhere warning to slow down at night because of moose.
I don’t know what time I finally pulled in, but I was worn out and grateful that both me and the van made it through the day in one piece.