Badlands National Park
I began the day at the Minuteman National Historic Site, hoping to get on a tour of Delta-01. The woman at the front desk told me the next available spot was nearly three months out. She explained that Delta-09 didn’t require reservations and suggested I make a loop — drive through Badlands National Park, stop in Wall and check out Wall Drug Store, then circle back to Delta-09 before it closed at 3 p.m. That was the perfect plan for the day.
Badlands National Park - Part 1
I entered Badlands National Park from the northeast and pulled over at the Big Badlands Overlook. The light was harsh, but I spent time taking plenty of photos, hoping I could bring out more of the colors in editing. The view to the east was spectacular, even under the midday sun.
From there I drove to the Visitor Center. It was packed, and I had trouble finding a parking spot. I stamped my National Parks passport, wandered briefly through the souvenir shop, and had a short but friendly conversation with a ranger who was full of good trail advice.
By then it was after lunch, and the sun was only getting brighter, so I decided to continue on the Badlands Loop Road. I stopped here and there for more photos, then headed toward Wall and the famous Wall Drug Store.
Just before exiting the park, there were many cars pulled over to the side of the road. There were Buffalo grazing right near the road. I waited about five minutes in the car cleared out and I was able to pull forward probably within 75 feet of the buffalo and captured some really nice headshot.
A Stop in Wall, South Dakota
The closer you get to Wall, the more signs you see for Wall Drug Store. They’re everywhere along the highway, and by the time I pulled into town, I felt like I’d been teased for miles. A roadside sign announced the population: 687. My first thought was that most of those people must work either at the shops that fill the town or at the national parks nearby.
Driving in, there were signs directing cars and RVs to different lots. Since my van is over 18 feet, I ended up in a back lot packed with big rigs, trailers, and Class A, B, and C motorhomes. I thought I might grab a table, get out my computer, and do some writing. That didn’t happen. Wall is pure sensory overload.
I wandered Main Street, camera in hand, snapping photos of the packed sidewalks and storefronts. Wall Drug dominates one side of the street, so I ducked inside. It’s essentially one enormous store broken into sections — souvenirs, knickknacks, gold jewelry, candy, T-shirts — and eventually, the famous restaurant.
The line stretched about forty people deep. I didn’t have a menu at first, but I already knew what I wanted after talking with my brother: a buffalo burger and a slice of cherry pie. Eventually I spotted the paper menus, grabbed one, and got back in line. The food was exactly what you’d expect in the middle of America — burgers, fries, mashed potatoes, and plenty of gravy. Nothing fancy. I found a seat in the back, settled in, and just people-watched. I heard multiple languages around me and couldn’t help but wonder why people from all over the world make their way to this little town. Maybe Wall Drug has simply become the attraction to see, hyped so much it can’t be missed.
After about 40 minutes of eating and watching the crowd, I went back outside for another walk with my camera. On the way, I noticed Wall Drug has an ice cream counter. I asked where they got their ice cream and was told, “We make it here.” I ordered an Oreo cone. Let’s just say it was underwhelming. It wasn’t creamy at all — more like ice milk with crystals than actual ice cream. They charge premium prices for it, but judging by the smiles around me, I seemed to be the only one who didn’t like it. In fact, I overheard one man tell the woman at the counter, “This is really delicious.”
Wall Drug is one of those places you kind of have to experience once. It’s chaotic, kitschy, and touristy, but it’s also an American icon on the prairie — a strange mix of hype and history that keeps people coming back.
A Visit to the Delta-09 Missile Silo
I knew the Delta-09 missile silo closed at 3 p.m., so I hustled down the road and pulled in just seven minutes before closing. I practically jogged to the silo, where a park ranger was finishing up his talk. I slipped in with the small group of seven and listened as he explained the setup.
Standing there, looking down into the silo, it was hard not to be struck by the scale of it all. The silo drops 50 feet underground, with a massive steel-and-concrete hatch that could slide open in seconds. Beneath it sat the Minuteman missile, designed to launch almost instantly, its speed increasing with altitude until it could cross the globe. The ranger explained that if launched from here, it would take about 30 minutes to reach its target in the Soviet Union. Just thirty minutes from prairie grass to nuclear fire — that reality landed heavy.
The ranger fielded questions for nearly twenty minutes past closing, answering everything from control systems to how the missile was maintained. When the crowd finally dispersed, he walked with me back toward the entrance, and that’s when he shared a story that stuck with me more than anything else.
He told me about Stanislav Petrov, a Soviet officer who found himself at the center of one of the Cold War’s scariest moments. In 1983, Soviet radar detected what looked like U.S. missiles inbound. Protocol demanded that Petrov report the launches immediately, almost guaranteeing a counterstrike — and nuclear war. But he hesitated. Something didn’t add up. Instead of passing it up the chain, he called it a false alarm. He was right. The “attack” was nothing more than a glitch, but his decision may have saved the world.
The ranger pointed out that Petrov had actually visited this very site years later. I had noticed his photo in the Visitor Center earlier, but I hadn’t realized it was taken right here, at this silo. That connection made the story even more powerful — the man who defied the system and prevented mutual annihilation once stood on the same ground where I was standing.
This is the essence of Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) — the insane idea that the threat of total, immediate retaliation was what kept the peace. Walking away from Delta-09, I couldn’t shake the thought: history often balances on the choices of a few people in a moment of crisis.
Badlands National Park – Part II
I drove back into Badlands National Park for golden hour, eager to catch the light at its best. At the entrance gate I handed the ranger my pass and asked if she had a favorite sunset spot. She smiled, dug into a drawer, and handed me a brochure dedicated to exactly that — a guide to the best overlooks, trails, and parking areas for sunrise and sunset photography. Perfect timing.
I wasn’t done yet. After a quick nap at one of the overlooks, I headed out again, hiking the Castle Trail and Medicine Root Trail, about four miles round trip. I started at six and finished around eight as the last light drained from the sky. I’d brought a bright lamp just in case, but the fading daylight was enough.
At first, the sun was still harsh, washing everything out. But as it dropped lower, the shadows stretched and the colors deepened. The grasses glowed red and brown, the buttes shifted shades by the minute, and the sky rolled from deep blues to bright, fiery oranges. It felt like the whole landscape was alive and constantly changing.
Signs along the trail warned about snakes, which kept me alert. Every crooked stick in the path made me hesitate, just for a second, until I reminded myself to keep moving so I wouldn’t be caught in the dark.
When the moon came up, the landscape changed again, pinks on blue, vivid oranges and subdued sky.
Later, on the trail, the light faded fast. The horizon still glowed orange when I heard a rustling in the grasses beside me. Four deer suddenly appeared, startled to see me, and bolted up the hill. At the crest they paused, perfectly silhouetted against the fire-orange sky. I managed to raise my camera in time to capture a few shots of what felt like a gift of a moment.
The Badlands were unforgettable that night — one of those places you don’t want to leave, where every turn reveals something new, and where the light itself becomes part of the show.
Back at the van, I returned to the same quiet site I’d used the night before. As I pulled in, two teenagers were sitting in a car — my headlights must have surprised them because they drove off shortly after I parked.