Pierre Capitol Tour and Prairie Homestead

I left Walmart around 7:30 and drove down the hill to the Capitol grounds. Parking was wide open, so I grabbed a spot farthest from the entrance. It was quiet for a capitol lot—an occasional car, no noise. I made breakfast, relaxed, and did some writing while I waited for the building to open at 10.

South Dakota Capitol

I walked to the north entrance (the back of the building) and went through security—a setup put in place by a previous governor. Every capitol handles this differently. Some have no weekend security; others do bag checks and scans. Here they were friendly and welcoming. They handed me a 36-page self-guided tour book—the most complete guide I’ve seen—covering earlier buildings, restorations, rooms, and the grounds.

I was quickly corrected on the pronunciation: it’s Pier, like a dock, not Pea-air. I read the first few pages. There was a number to call for a guided tour, but the booklet looked thorough enough, so I continued on my own.

The building was modeled after the Montana State Capitol in Helena. Construction ran from 1905 to 1910, and agencies started moving in that summer. In the late 1970s, a restoration commission got to work, with everything wrapped up for the 1989 Centennial.

Reading those dates, I thought about the land rush era and homesteaders living in sod houses or tiny wood shacks on the prairie. What did they think seeing this grand building rise in the middle of the state? And why didn’t Sioux Falls win out? Questions for another day.

I started on the ground floor near the souvenir shop. Across from it was the Inaugural Doll Display—miniature gowns replicating what each First Lady wore to the inauguration, made from the same fabrics. The ceiling holds inlaid glass prism tiles meant to let natural light filter down. A white marble staircase climbs to the second floor. One hall displays governors of South Dakota; the opposite side includes more governors and several Supreme Court justices.

I took the marble stairs up and stepped into the rotunda. The dome is 96 feet overhead, and the floor below holds 6,384 glass prisms. The dome lights were off, so the space felt dim and subdued. I grabbed shots of the rotunda and halls, then noticed a small tour—just three people. I asked to join. Oddly, the guide asked the group if they minded. They didn’t, and off we went. Most of the info tracked the booklet, but he added enough small stories to keep it interesting. Nice change from the usual “biggest, tallest, most expensive” routine at most capitols.

The rotunda murals pair with seals of the governments that have claimed South Dakota: France, Spain, the United States, and finally the state itself. Nearby are four bronze sculptures by Dale Lamphere—Wisdom, Vision, Courage, and Integrity.

Inside the South Dakota State Capitol, one of the most fascinating details isn’t obvious at first glance. On the right side of the grand marble staircase, the third baluster from the top was intentionally installed upside down. This wasn’t a mistake—it was placed there as a symbol that government, like the people who run it, is imperfect and must always be approached with humility. The message is clear: only God is perfect, and in recognizing our flaws, leaders are reminded to govern with humility, responsibility, and respect for those they serve.

Some rooms were off-limits. The Supreme Court chamber was closed—even with no session underway—due to post-9/11 security. Same for the Governor’s office. I get it if the governor is inside, but it still felt like a loss. If citizens can’t freely visit the institutions that serve them, that’s a small win for the people who wanted to limit access in the first place.

In the House chamber, our guide talked about the 750-pound chandeliers, the restoration, and the voting process. Members vote electronically but also verbally, one at a time. In theory, a person could say “yea” and cast “nay.” We saw rooms for lobbyists and a meeting space for legislators, lined with oak and cherry lockers. Three old phone booths remain; the phones don’t work, but the booths still serve as private nooks.

The Senate chamber felt lighter—cool green tones and Vermont White Cloud marble. The leaded stained-glass ceiling was once open to the sky. Weather damage forced it to be enclosed and artificially lit. During our visit, the lights seemed off or very dim. Outside the chamber, we had a view of the rotunda area which seemed more lit than when we were standing there.

We were also told some of stories of the mosaic floors. During the 1980s restoration, workers placed heart-shaped tiles as their signature, and two workers drop in their initials GT and TT. The bigger mystery, though, comes from the bright blue tiles hidden in the terrazzo floors during the Capitol’s original construction. Legend says 66 Italian artisans each placed one as a personal mark, but only 55 have been found, leaving visitors with the fun challenge of spotting them. A girl scout troop found and mapped out the 55 file tiles.

We finished in the fourth-floor galleries, where a single globe slowly turns. It looks simple until you learn it’s a Termesphere by South Dakota artist Dick Termes, painted to mark the 100th legislative session. In his six-point perspective style, it wraps the entire Capitol—chambers, lawmakers, architecture—into one continuous scene. As it spins, the panorama unfolds. Clever way to show how the place works.

The tour was short, engaging, and didn’t drag. The pamphlet also lists outdoor statues and monuments, a few of which I skipped and saved for another time.

I had a two-hour drive to Philip, battling strong winds that slowed me down and had me stopping often for breaks. Along the way, I passed roadside artwork, countless Wall Drug signs, and markers for historic sites. One in particular caught my imagination—a spot where three major trails once came together. Here, travelers found precious water, a telegraph station, and a stagecoach stop. I’d also noticed many signs pointing out the path of the Deadwood Trail.

Once I arrived in Philip, I realized most of the things on my list weren’t actually in town. I drove around Philip, stepped out and walked the two blocks of downtown and realized there wasn’t much happening in Philip. I headed to the Minuteman Missile National Historic Site—about 30 minutes away and down a long dirt road. I’ve learned that unless I stick to the interstate or one of the main east-west highways, dirt roads are pretty common here.

Minuteman Missile National Historic Site

Just outside Philip sits one of the more sobering stops on this trip. Under these prairies once sat hundreds of nuclear warheads aimed at the Soviet Union.

I spent about two hours in the Visitor Center, including a 30-minute film. It covers the story from the Manhattan Project and the bombs dropped on Japan, through the Cold War build-up—Sputnik, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and 1,000 Minuteman missiles buried across the Great Plains. Treaties like SALT and START tried to slow things down, protests grew in the 1980s, the Berlin Wall fell, and the Minuteman II sites here were deactivated. Minuteman III missiles are still in service, a reminder the nuclear age didn’t end.

How the system worked: Each squadron of missiles was controlled by an underground Launch Control Center—hardened, sealed off, and staffed by two officers 24/7. Each missile sat alone in a silo, connected by hardened communication lines. If incoming missiles were detected, orders flowed from the President to the Pentagon, down through Strategic Air Command, and finally to the missileers. Both officers had to turn keys at the same time. No one could launch alone.

That’s Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) in plain terms. If they launched at us, we’d launch back, and both sides would be destroyed. The point wasn’t to win, but to prevent a war. As crazy as it sounds, it worked.

The false alarms: Both sides had their scares. The one that hit me hardest was from 1983 on the Soviet side, when their early-warning system showed what looked like U.S. missiles inbound. Stanislav Petrov, a lieutenant colonel, was supposed to report it as a real attack, which likely would have triggered a counterstrike. He hesitated. The numbers didn’t add up—a handful of missiles instead of hundreds. He called it a malfunction. He was right. Sunlight on clouds fooled the system. He probably saved the world and paid for it with his career. Reading that inside the Visitor Center gave me chills.

Three sites, one story: The historic site includes the Visitor Center, Delta-01 (a preserved Launch Control Facility), and Delta-09 (a deactivated missile silo). My timing was off—Delta-09 was closed by the time I finished at the Visitor Center, and Delta-01 tours book months out. The next opening isn’t until November. If you plan a visit, reserve ahead. Even with just the Visitor Center, the experience lands. Out here, where everything feels quiet and simple, knowing world-ending weapons once sat armed under the fields is a lot to take in. Sidenote, the minuteman III system is functional.

Prairie Homestead

I almost skipped it after a long day, but the Prairie Homestead was just down the road—home to Ed and Mrs. Brown, who claimed their 160 acres in 1909. For six bucks and 30 minutes before closing, I went in.

The Brown house is one of the few original sod homes still standing on the Plains. Cottonwood beams, buffalo-grass sod walls, roots and all. Much of the sod is still original; the few patches were replaced from the same field the Browns first plowed. Cool in summer, warm in winter, and rough by any standard—but it did the job.

Most homesteads from that era are gone, but here the cave, chicken house, barn, and dugout remain. I walked the grounds and grabbed photos of the rough-hewn add-ons, the outhouse on the hill, and the barn with light streaming through the slats. Nothing polished—just survival.

The site was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1974. Standing there in the wind, looking at sod walls that’ve held for more than a century, felt like stepping straight back into 1909.

A mile down the road, I found the Buffalo National Grassland’s Saddle Pass Horse Trailhead and made it my campsite. Quiet and empty. I had water and full batteries. I cooked dinner, did some writing, and stepped out to the moon and stars. The wind had picked up again, but nothing like the 50-mph gusts from the day before.