Chase Lake and Frontier Village

Chase Lake National Wildlife Refuge: An Unexpected Detour ⚠️

Important note: The main access road to Chase Lake National Wildlife Refuge is currently closed until further notice due to unsafe conditions.

I learned this the hard way. I’d read that you could slip into the quiet of prairie potholes—grasslands, cattail edges, and glinting wetlands alive with birds. The place is famous for white pelicans and waterfowl, with gravel approach roads, wide-open vistas, and no buildings on-site—just you and the birds. But what I hadn’t done was check the Fish and Wildlife Service website, which clearly posts the road closure notice.

As I turned off I-83, the pavement gave way to gravel. I pulled over to soften the shocks and, just as I did, a pickup that had already dusted past me once came flying by again. It was Sunday, and I wondered what could have him in such a hurry. Once the dust cleared, I adjusted the suspension and headed off in search of birds. Bird photography is technically tough—it pushes your patience, your tracking skills, and every limit of your gear (clearly not my forte). To even have a chance, I set my Nikon for the standard bird-shooting playbook: shutter speed around 1/2000s, continuous autofocus with tracking, wide-open aperture to blur backgrounds, ISO floating with the light, and high-speed burst mode. With birds, like jet planes, the decisive moment is over in a tenth of a second.

After an hour on dirt roads, I came within a few hundred yards of my destination—only to find the road sinking straight into water. On the far side I could see what looked like a pamphlet box and plaques, but from where I stood there was no way to know if the water was a foot deep or ten. Birds were chattering in the reeds, pelicans barking at their young, ducks overhead dropping into the marsh. I could see my destination just on the other side of the water. An overlook just over there.

Flooded Road Access

Tempting as it was, I wasn’t going to risk the van. I backed up more than a quarter mile on the narrow track until I found a field access to turn around. On the way back, I stopped often—hawks perched on hay bales that bolted the second I lifted my camera, clouds parting just long enough to paint the prairie in brilliant light. By the time I reached the interstate, I’d given up on Chase Lake and aimed for Jamestown, home to Frontier Village and the World’s Largest Buffalo.

Jamestown and Frontier Village

Jamestown isn’t exactly a destination town—it’s a stopover off I-94. I rolled in from the north and parked at the National Buffalo Museum, which sits beside Frontier Village. The word “National” belies its size—it’s about the size of a postage stamp—but right next door, Frontier Village spreads out as a cluster of old prairie buildings. It’s part tourist attraction, part history lesson, with a boardwalk, shops, and even a stagecoach ride (though the town isn’t big enough to go far). The Harvest Host sign on the museum door turned out to be a dead end—the woman in the office curtly told me they were “booked,” even though the large lot held only two vehicles. Sometimes you just move on.

Frontier Village is stitched together from original buildings brought in from around North Dakota: a one-room schoolhouse, a church with a coal furnace, a dentist’s office, a saloon, even a surveyor’s shack. Donation boxes sit outside most of them, a reminder these places survive on community support. It wasn’t crowded—maybe everyone was getting ready for the school year—so I wandered through at my own pace. The schoolhouse struck me most, with its list of former students that included Peggy Lee and its absurdly strict “rules for teachers.” The Louis L’Amour cabin recreated his writing room with typewriters and an interview looping on a small screen. Other buildings filled out the story of prairie life, from a general store selling trinkets to a sleepy art gallery with the proprietor slouched over inside.

The World’s Largest Buffalo

A few hundred feet away loomed the “World’s Largest Buffalo,” a 26-foot, 60-ton concrete beast built in 1959 by sculptor Elmer Petersen. Local leaders had wanted something to pull travelers off the new interstate, and honoring the mighty buffalo made sense. Funded by community contributions and local businesses, it was built from steel beams, mesh, and hand-applied concrete. Sixty years later, it’s still Jamestown’s mascot. As I walked up, I met a couple from Connecticut who’d been to 48 states. They asked me to take their photo and lit up when I mentioned I’d lived in Simsbury for 20 years. They’d been chipping away at their goal for eight years, six states a year, steady and unrushed. Somehow it felt right—this giant buffalo was built the same way: one step at a time, persistence turning into something lasting.

Back in the parking lot—still just two vehicles—I thought about where to stay. Jamestown’s Walmart had “No Overnight Parking” signs posted, but AllStays showed otherwise. I went in, asked at customer service, and the manager said with a smile, “Oh, you’re good to stay.” I stocked up, found a choice spot, and settled in for the night.