Sturgis to Mt. Rushmore on 9-11
I woke up at a quiet trailhead in Vanocker Canyon, part of the Sturgis Trail System. When I slid the side door open, the air carried that crisp autumn pine smell. The temperature hovered in the low 60s—cool enough for a hoodie, warm enough to linger outside while I made breakfast and thought through the day. It was peaceful, rustic, and still, the kind of place where the morning feels like it belongs only to you.
After packing up, I drove the short three miles into Sturgis for a latte and some writing time. I’d been to the coffee shop twice before and was surprised they already remembered my order. No pastries this morning—I’d already had breakfast. Inside, Five Finger Death Punch was blasting, which I’d also seen advertised for a concert up the street. Not exactly my idea of relaxing coffeehouse music, so I grabbed my earpods from the van and changed the soundtrack on the spot. Nothing against FFDP—every band has its moment—but this one called for something different. The shop itself was impressive: a privately owned roaster that doubles as a souvenir store, surprisingly large for a town of around 7,000 people. They closed at noon, so I finished my writing and online work outside before heading on with the day.
Sturgis itself was founded in 1878 as a supply town for nearby Fort Meade, which had been built to protect settlers and keep order in the Black Hills after gold was discovered. The town was named after Major Samuel D. Sturgis of the 7th Cavalry, though he never lived here himself. From the start, Sturgis served soldiers, ranchers, and miners, and its location on key roads kept it alive long after the fort’s heyday ended. Today it’s a small city, but one that has made a name for itself far beyond its size.
The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, first held in 1938, transformed the town into a global destination. What began as a handful of riders now brings in hundreds of thousands every August, fueling the local economy and shaping the town’s identity. The vibe is bigger than life: Main Street turned into a sea of people, like the giant group photo I saw of tens of thousands crowding shoulder to shoulder in the heart of town. The shops and bars lean into the spectacle—massive venues buzzing with live music, souvenir stands stacked with biker tees, and playful deals like a sign reading “Stuff a Small Bag for $100.” The rally is loud, chaotic, and unforgettable, and it explains why Sturgis, a town built for soldiers and settlers, continues to thrive today as the capital of motorcycle culture.
It’s hard to explain the vibe of Sturgis. Part small town, part global stage, it carries the dual personality of quiet everyday life and larger-than-life spectacle. On one hand, locals remember your coffee order and close shop at midday; on the other, hundreds of thousands descend every August, filling the streets with noise, energy, and chrome. Somehow, both worlds fit together here.
Mount Rushmore
It was about an hour drive to Mount Rushmore National Memorial south of Sturgis. I drove to Rapid City on I-90 and then the road became less crowded and more rustic. I was surprised by all the attractions along the way after Rapid City. The ones I noted were Reptile Gardens, Dinosaur Park, Bear Country USA, Cosmos Mystery Area, Fort Hays Old West Town, Rushmore Candy Company. These are the ones People had told me to stop at a REptile Gardens and the Dinosaur Park. I thought, I could spend another week in the area and not see all the attractions.
I arrived at Mount Rushmore a little after 2:00, figuring I’d spend two hours and be on my way. I didn’t roll out until 10:45. The place looks nothing like it did in the 80s when I first came here. The core carving is the same, of course, but the amphitheater, Avenue of Flags, and terraces were all rebuilt in the mid-90s. Driving in, you can see the faces from a distance, and of course cars pull over mid-road to gawk, creating congestion as you approach.
There was plenty of parking today, but I can only imagine the summer chaos. They directed me to the RV section (under 26 feet) and I grabbed a photo before heading in. I walked the Avenue of Flags, snapped a few shots along with hundreds of others, and then ducked into the information center. I had the same questions everyone else had, and the woman at the desk answered them with all the warmth of a tax auditor. To be fair, she’d probably given the same spiel 200 times already that day. Honestly, this would be the perfect job for Elon’s Bot Gen III: always friendly, never tired, capable of giving endless detail, and able to gracefully redirect a conversation about breast cancer without offending the person who really just wanted someone to talk to. Instead, I got pointed across the way to a colleague who was kinder, handed me a map, and told me if I hustled I could catch the 3:00 program in the Sculptor’s Studio.
Getting there became a comedy of missteps. I asked two different staffers who worked for outside contractors—neither had a clue where the Studio was. Eventually, I found myself on the Nature Trail staring at a sign with no arrow, beside a path that plunged down the hill. A quarter of the way down, I asked a ranger if I was headed the right way. He grinned and said, “Nope, you passed it—up the hill, through the gate.” It was a steep climb back, and he admitted he wasn’t about to join me, “You’re in better shape than me anyway.” I stumbled into the 20-minute presentation five minutes late and collapsed onto a four-person bench already occupied by two space-hoggers who made it clear they weren’t thrilled about sharing “their” bench.
Mount Rushmore was conceived in the 1920s by South Dakota historian Doane Robinson, who was desperate to bring tourists into the state. His original idea was to carve figures of Western heroes—Buffalo Bill, Lewis and Clark, Red Cloud—into the granite spires of the Black Hills. When he brought sculptor Gutzon Borglum onto the project, the vision shifted. Borglum insisted that the work needed to be national in scope if it was going to attract visitors, and he settled on the faces of U.S. presidents as the subject.
The rock itself was chosen after Borglum scouted several locations. He liked Mount Rushmore for its broad, solid granite face and for the way it caught the light throughout the day. It was named after Charles E. Rushmore, a New York lawyer who had surveyed the area decades earlier. The actual carving began in 1927, employing hundreds of men—many of them miners who were repurposed into drillers, carvers, and laborers. They dangled from ropes with jackhammers and dynamite, removing more than 400,000 tons of stone over the course of 14 years.
The choice of presidents was deliberate. Washington represented the birth of the nation; Jefferson, its expansion westward; Lincoln, the preservation of the Union; and Theodore Roosevelt, the country’s growth, industrial power, and conservation ethic. Roosevelt’s inclusion was also personal—he had been a friend and supporter of Borglum, and the sculptor wanted to honor him.
The project cost just under $1 million, mostly federal funds combined with private donations. It was never finished as Borglum intended—he envisioned full torsos, not just heads—but when funding ran out and Borglum died in 1941, the monument was declared complete as it stood.
For the Lakota Sioux and other Native peoples, the carving was a desecration. The Black Hills were guaranteed to them in the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, a promise the U.S. government broke once gold was discovered. To carve the faces of American presidents—symbols of the very government that had seized their sacred land—into the granite of the Black Hills was viewed as a profound insult. That controversy remains today, and it is part of the ongoing conversation about what Mount Rushmore represents.
The rest of the afternoon I walked the Presidential Trail and met an interesting family from Connecticut by way of Brazil. We ended up talking for half an hour about everything from travel to languages. The trail looped past the Sculptor’s Studio again and the old power building where the compressors once fed air to the drills—still looking well kept. Under the Grand View Terrace is another complex with the visitor center and a 30-minute film. I took a seat for the movie, then browsed the gift shop. A few books caught my eye, but I decided I’d better finish the Roosevelt biography already gathering dust in my van.
Later in the afternoon, I went back to the van to grab my National Parks Passport book, which I always manage to forget. As I rummaged for it, a camper van from France pulled up. The couple told me they’d shipped their van to Halifax in the spring, had been touring the U.S. ever since, and were headed for the West Coast before circling back south and east to ship it home for the winter. That’s dedication.
I captured the stamp in my Passport book and then spent the rest of the day wandering, taking photos, grabbing an ice cream. Back at the sitting with the side door open, planning out tomorrow. I was munching on an avocado, cheese, and lettuce sandwich when a pickup pulled in beside me. The driver stopped by and said, “That’s interesting—you can work on your computer right here?” His wife joined him, and I explained Starlink. I gave them a quick tour, and she was impressed by the number of cabinets. I laughed and said, “The more cabinets you have, the more useless stuff you haul around. I should be getting rid of things, not adding.” She grinned and said they had both a Scamp and a big fifth-wheel, each with its pros and cons, but she missed storage when they traveled light. They were sticking around for the evening light show.
I made my way towards the amphitheater at 7:00, stopping to read Plaques, watch people and grab photos. Sitting in the amphitheater, I thought what a beautiful setting and the perfect concert venue. Apparently, no concerts are allowed—too hard to separate monument viewers from ticket holders. The place was less than a third full, with most folks stubbornly sitting up top rather than climbing down the steps. Around 7:30 a ranger came out to read, as she put it, “the things management insists I read twice tonight.” She was funny and self-aware, which made the spiel tolerable.
The ceremony began at 8:00, coinciding with the 24th anniversary of 9/11. The ranger shared a post reflecting on the lives lost and the ordinariness of the day before the attacks, the victims not knowing what tomorrow would hold. The message was clear to live in the present, be grateful and live life fully. She read quotes from the four presidents on the mountain about liberty and freedom, weaving them into her own story: four grandparents who immigrated from Italy and Britain, her grandfathers who fought in World War I, and her grandmother who refused to teach her kids Italian because, as she said, “I’m American, not Italian.”
Lightning flashed in the distance as she spoke, the thunder growing closer. Then, all at once, the spotlights snapped on, illuminating the four giant faces in the darkness. The crowd gasped. Rain streaked through the beams of light. “The Storm’s ten minutes out,” a woman in front of me announced to her party. Her group of six made a beeline for the exit. A loud crack hit nearby, less than a mile away, and most of the audience stood to leave. The ranger quickly announced the program was cut short and the Gold Star family recognition would be canceled.
As we walked back through the Avenue of Flags, lightning ripped overhead. Some ducked, one guy muttered “that was close,” and a teenager threw his hands up and shouted, “Wow, that was cool!”—a full spectrum of reactions to the same storm.
Under cover of the parking garage, I found my keys and unlocked the van. The van itself was parked in the open about twenty feet away. I made a quick dash to the driver’s side and popped in just as small hail began to fall, with wind and rain picking up. Driving in that weather didn’t seem like a good idea, so I pulled out the bed and took a nap.
Around 10:45 there was a knock on my door. A ranger told me, “You can’t park here. We close at 11:00. If you’re still here, you will be ticketed.” Then he turned and walked away. I left with one minute to spare, letting Google Maps lead me toward an overnight spot 17 miles away.
As I drove north with the Memorial on my right, the pitch-black outline of the Black Hills framed the strikingly lit bust of George Washington. It felt surreal—just me, the mountain, and this glowing stone face staring out into the night. I pulled over and snapped a shot, thinking how few people ever get to see Washington like this, lit up and alone. And then, almost as if he’d been waiting for me, the lights cut out at exactly 11:01. Darkness swallowed the hillside, leaving only my headlights and the echo of that brief, strange audience with history.
My overnight spot turned out to be a parking lot at the foot of the Crazy Horse Monument. Six other vehicles were already there, but after the night I’d just had, it felt like the quietest place on earth.