Deadwood

I left my spot at the trailhead and drove toward Deadwood, SD. The road wound through pine forest and soon turned to dirt. I lost cell coverage and handled Google Maps like it was made of glass — one wrong tap and I’d be lost. I had 25 miles of this. At first the roads were rough, then they smoothed out. I passed cabins falling apart and brand-new homes tucked into the hills. At one intersection a grader was working, with three more parked nearby. Clearly keeping these roads in shape is a full-time job.

Deadwood, SD

I rolled through the edge of town and pulled into the Welcome Center. It was supposed to open at 8, but the doors didn’t unlock until closer to 9. While waiting, I met Darryl and George and their wives. We got to talking about vans, and I ended up giving them a quick tour of mine before grabbing some information and heading into town. Deadwood’s historic district grabs you right away. I started by photographing the facades along Main Street, then climbed the steep stairs into the old neighborhood above town. The whole place feels like a monument to Wild Bill and the frontier days — photos show how the town once looked, and plaques explain what happened on nearly every corner.

The Characters of Deadwood

The story of this town is wrapped around a handful of people. Deadwood is as much about its characters as it is about gold dust and canyon walls. Their names are on saloons, plaques, museums, and gravestones.

Wild Bill Hickok (1837–1876) was famous before he ever got here — Civil War scout, lawman, gambler, and gunfighter. In August 1876, just weeks after arriving, he was shot in the back of the head by Jack McCall while playing poker in Saloon No. 10. He was holding a pair of aces and eights — forever the “Dead Man’s Hand.”

Calamity Jane (1852–1903) or her real name Martha Jane Canary, lived as hard as she talked. Scout, nurse during smallpox outbreaks, heavy drinker, and teller of tall tales, she insisted she was close to Wild Bill. Whether or not that’s true, she’s buried right next to him in Mount Moriah Cemetery.

Jack McCall (1852–1877) a drifter who became famous for one act: killing Wild Bill. He claimed it was revenge for a brother supposedly killed by Hickok — a brother no one could prove existed. Acquitted by a miners’ court, he was later retried under U.S. law in Yankton, convicted, and hanged in 1877 — the first legal execution in Dakota Territory.

Seth Bullock (1849–1919) Deadwood’s first sheriff. Tough, no-nonsense, and respected. He later became a U.S. Marshal and a close friend of Theodore Roosevelt. The Bullock Hotel still carries his name.

Potato Creek Johnny (1849–1929) real name John Perrett, he was a tiny man with a big find — a gold nugget over seven ounces, the largest ever pulled from the Black Hills. It made him a local celebrity. He’s buried alongside Wild Bill and Calamity Jane.

W.E. Adams (1854–1934) not a gunslinger, but Deadwood’s great storyteller. Adams was a successful businessman and mayor who founded the Adams Museum in 1930. Without him, much of Deadwood’s past might have been forgotten.

These characters endure because each adds a piece to the Deadwood story: lawlessness, grit, fortune, and the stubborn will to turn a gold camp into a town. I realized this walking Main Street today and heard their names over and over.

Historic Downtown and the Great Fire

Deadwood’s architecture has a Victorian, turn-of-the-century feel, but that look only came after disaster. In September 1879, a fire swept through the heart of town, destroying more than 300 buildings in just a few hours. Wooden storefronts, saloons, and boarding houses went up like kindling, leaving much of Main Street in ashes. The town didn’t quit, though. Almost immediately, businesses rebuilt with sturdier materials — brick, stone, and iron — determined that Deadwood wouldn’t disappear like so many other mining camps. By 1900, those efforts gave the town a new look, one that felt permanent, solid, and ready to last.

Memorabilia and Old Stories

The Celebrity Hotel Museum was packed with costumes and guitars. The woman at the desk explained the owners were collectors, not innkeepers. Still, plenty of famous people passed through Deadwood.

I wandered up another steep set of stairs where a plaque explained that businesses filled the lower streets, while homes were built on the hill above. A writer once said you could hear Calamity Jane singing in the saloons below.

Adams Museum

The Adams Museum is a treasure chest. It opened in 1930, a gift from W.E. Adams to preserve Deadwood’s story. A short film told the tale: the gold rush, the fire, and the rebuild. One quirky display was the Poe nudist carvings. In the 1930s, Robert Poe carved miniature nudists — playing volleyball, dancing, even shooting arrows. Whimsical, odd, and unforgettable. Downstairs, natural history exhibits covered twisted pines warped by insects, local geology, and fossils. The highlight was John Sogge’s carvings — stagecoaches and wagons pulled by six horses, every detail perfect. He carved nine of them for the museum, and they feel alive, as if the wheels might turn. Walking out, I felt like I’d stepped through Deadwood’s past: gold nuggets, Thoen Stone, frontier legends, and curious stories, all under one roof.

Mount Moriah Cemetery

I climbed up to Mount Moriah, passing people struggling with the steep hill. Wild Bill, Calamity Jane, and Potato Creek Johnny are all buried there. Admission was $2, but I didn’t have cash. The woman at the gate waved me in anyway and told me to “pass it on.”

It wasn’t until I reached the top that I realized I had left my phone behind. I hustled back, picking up speed as I went. A hundred feet out, I spotted it still on the wall where I’d left it. Relief.

Hickok’s Tavern

Hungry, I followed the signs to Hickok’s Tavern at the Rocksino by Hard Rock. A host offered me the bar or patio. The patio was empty, so I sat inside.

I ordered a small Caesar salad — $5.31 — and chatted with a couple next to me. He was a project manager for a national retail chain. His wife laughed that he was on call even on vacation.

Before I left, Fred, a retired oil and gas worker, came over. At 67 he’d retired after a stroke. He told me he was also a musician — something he’d briefly forgotten after his illness. He rediscovered it later. He’d found Deadwood while passing through nearby Sturgis during the bike rally. We traded motorcycle stories, most of them about crashes and friends lost.

Reenactments in the Street

In the afternoon I watched two street shows — one of Hickok’s killing, the other a card game gone wrong. The acting was rough, more comedy than drama, but the crowd ate it up.

Saloon No. 10

I ended my loop at Saloon No. 10, where Wild Bill was shot. Inside the walls are covered with old photos and memorabilia. One corner features portraits of Hickok’s relatives. It felt more like a museum than a bar — a reminder of how one man’s death became central to Deadwood’s story.

I continued walking around town for another hour, just reading signs, watching people, and relaxing with an ice cream and double esspresso.

Spearfish Canyon Scenic Byway

By late afternoon I was ready for a drive. The Spearfish Canyon Scenic Byway (US-14A) drops quickly into towering limestone walls. Light cut through the canyon, glowing orange on the ridges. I stopped often for photos: waterfalls, ponds, even a fisherman pulling in a trout.

At one pull-off, a crowd was gathered. Cameras pointed at a mother bighorn sheep and her young one picking their way through the trees. They never came out for a good photo. A woman nearby showed me a photo she had just taken — a big male bighorn perched on a cliff above in the last light of day. I had missed it all by 10 minutes.

Evening in Spearfish

I reached Spearfish after 7 and looked for dinner. REDwater Kitchen had a few people waiting, but the bar had open seats. When I asked if I could sit there, the hostess said, “We can’t serve you now.” That made no sense, so I continued to ask about sitting at the bar. I finally understood that she meant the kitchen was backed up and they were running slow. She finally said I could sit at the bar. I was a very strange interaction.

There was a couple sitting at the bar and they greeted me like an old friend. He was a retired health-care CEO riding cross-country with a Trek riding group. They had dipped their bike tires in the Pacific and planned to finish by dipping them in the Atlantic near portland Maine. They had six kids, ages 15 to 24, and looked far younger than they must have been.

My glazed salmon came out sizzling on a piece of cedar wood, served with potatoes and carrots cooked over the same fire. It was excellent, especially with a local dark ale.

After dinner I drove the half-hour back to my trailhead hideaway. It was close to 10 p.m. when I pulled in. I didn’t waste any time getting ready for bed. It had been a very busy day.