Fort Robinson & Toadstool Geologic Park

I spent the night at a pull-off in the Black Hills National Forest. It was near a road but quiet enough. A few things in the van had been bothering me—the vent fans and screens were dirty, the freezer had ice build-up, the floor had track marks. I spent about three hours cleaning, knowing I’d live better in the space once it was done.

Fort Robinson State Historical Society Museum

My first stop was the Historical Society Museum at Fort Robinson in Crawford, Nebraska, just down the road from where I stayed. Before stepping inside, I had a general sense of the fort’s role in western history, but the exhibits, film, and walking the grounds filled in the details.

The 15-minute film is worth watching. It compresses more than a century into a clear timeline—starting with the frontier fort days, through the Indian Wars, to its later life as a horse remount depot, a K-9 training center in WWII, and finally its transition to a state park.

The fort was established in 1874 as a temporary camp along the Red Cloud Agency to help manage relations with the Lakota. It was later named Fort Robinson in honor of Lt. Levi H. Robinson, killed that year while on a wood-gathering detail. From the start, the fort was tied to conflicts between the U.S. military and the Plains tribes.

One of the most tragic events here was the death of Crazy Horse. In 1877, after his surrender, he was brought to the fort under disputed circumstances. Accounts differ, but during a struggle outside the guardhouse he was bayoneted and died that night. The museum film covers this in a straightforward way, and standing near the site later, it’s hard not to feel how that moment symbolized the collapse of relations between the Lakota and the U.S. government.

The fort’s story continued beyond the Indian Wars. At one point, it was home to an African American regiment known as the Buffalo Soldiers, who served on the western frontier in the late 1800s. Their role was part of the long cycle of enforcing federal policy on the Plains.

Relations with Native Americans were always complicated. The fort’s original purpose was to maintain peace near the agencies, but broken promises, forced relocations, and cultural clashes turned that into distrust and conflict. By the time Crazy Horse was killed, relations had collapsed completely. The museum doesn’t shy away from showing how government policy left Native people with impossible choices.

The Ghost Dance emerged in the late 1880s, led by a Paiute prophet named Wovoka, who had a vision during an eclipse. He taught that if Native people lived in harmony, rejected alcohol, and performed a ritual circle dance, the world would be restored: buffalo herds would return, their ancestors would rise again, and settlers would disappear. The movement spread quickly, offering hope to tribes devastated by broken treaties and disease. The Lakota, especially, embraced it for spiritual strength. U.S. officials, however, misread the Ghost Dance as a call to resistance. Their fear escalated tensions, leading to the 1890 Wounded Knee Massacre, where soldiers killed hundreds of Lakota men, women, and children. The massacre crushed the movement but left a lasting legacy of both Native resistance and U.S. policy’s tragedy.

By the early 1900s, the fort had shifted to a remount station for the cavalry. At its peak, more than 12,000 horses were bred, trained, and shipped out from here. The post gained a reputation as one of the finest cavalry stations, nicknamed the “country club of the army.” Comfortable officer quarters, polo fields, and a self-contained community reinforced that image.

During World War II, Fort Robinson became a POW camp housing about 3,000 German soldiers captured in North Africa and Europe. Operated under the Geneva Conventions, the camp provided adequate food, medical care, and recreation. Prisoners worked on Nebraska farms, filling jobs left open by men serving overseas. They lived in barracks, organized soccer matches, music groups, and plays, and their work details sometimes created connections with the local community. Today, remnants of that era remain—original barracks and support buildings still stand, some repurposed, and interpretive signs highlight the POW years. The museum ties this chapter to the fort’s larger legacy, showing how a post once tied to frontier wars later became part of a global conflict.

Walking the grounds after the museum gave me a feel for daily life here. The old officer quarters still stand in neat rows, giving the area a residential feel. What struck me most were the streetlights—poles with exposed wires running to glass insulators and bulbs. They looked original, though I noticed some new insulators, so maybe they’re still in use. That detail tied the past and present together in a simple way.

Today Fort Robinson is no longer military but a state park that preserves its layers of history. Between the film, the exhibits, and walking the grounds, it’s clear why this site remains a landmark in the story of the West.

Toadstool Geologic Park

My next stop was Toadstool Geologic Park & Campground, about 25 miles north of the fort on some of the worst dirt roads I’ve driven. After last night’s rain, the roads were either muddy or washboard. So much for cleaning the van yesterday. A few miles in, I realized I wasn’t going to find pavement. I pulled over, reset the suspension to the softest setting, and when I stepped out, I brushed against briars. They stuck all over my pants, socks, and shoes, and it took 15 minutes to pick them out.

The afternoon was beautiful, with a light breeze and clouds drifting across the sun. The campground has 12 first-come sites; five were already occupied by tents and small campers. My van was the largest rig there, and I doubt a big RV would survive that road. I relaxed after the rough drive.

Later, I set out to hike the Bison Trail, a 3.1-mile loop. I was here to see the toadstool formations. The trail started across open prairie and narrowed into rutted tracks where rain had left mud and slick clay (bentonite). Some sections wound through mounds of exposed rock, their layers clearly visible. In spots, harder stone jutted from softer soil, resisting erosion while the rest wore away. Some bands that were once horizontal had been pushed upright over time, standing vertical. Crossing one of these areas, I found fragments scattered on the ground—hard rock among crumbly soil.

A few stones looked different: black and glassy, others pinkish sandstone, still others tough, silica-rich pieces that might have been silicified volcanic ash. Dense, sharp-edged, and much harder than the surrounding layers, they made the landscape feel like a geologic puzzle.

The trail lived up to its name with signs of grazing, though not from bison. Black cattle wandered the area. One mother cow wasn’t happy I’d walked between her calf and the herd. She stiffened up, and for a moment I wasn’t sure which way it would go. I gave her space, and the group bolted back together. It was a reminder that even a casual hike can hold surprises.

After about two miles, I turned back, knowing I’d be walking in the dark if I continued. By the time I reached the van, the sun had dropped behind the bluffs and light was fading fast. I made it just in time; a few minutes later and I’d have needed a headlamp.

Back at camp, the silence was striking. A few lights glowed in tents and campers, but not a sound carried through the air. I left the side door open, had dinner at my desk, and did a little work online in the stillness of Toadstool.