Close Encounters of the Furred Kind

We're thundering though the badlands of South Dakota as the last tendrils of sunlight retreat over the horizon. With just under an hour to go until we reach the Black Hills and Mount Rushmore, it's a good chance to catch up on the highlights of the past four days.

The conclusion of our last entry saw us leaving our new found Ohio friends with several hundred miles left to cover before nightfall. Our plan was to skirt the coast of Lake Michigan in search of a picturesque lakeside retreat and with this in mind, we headed straight for Michigan city, already picturing the waterside lodge, personal jetty, and beach bar that lay in store. With clear roads ahead, we were sure we'd be sipping our first beers of the evening well before the 10pm Autodriveaway curfew (a rule set to minimize road incidents after nightfall) Ignoring earlier warnings of wildlife on the highway, we powered through the dark forested landscape. Inevitably, a deer immediately walked into the road, we swerved hard to avoid it, and wiped out a racoon.

The one that got away

As we approached the Michigan City Limits we were dwarfed by a monolithic chimney which rose from the horizon, shrouding the industrial metropolis in a huge black cloud, it quickly became obvious that this wasn't going to be the idyllic retreat we'd hoped for. Our cast iron plan now laying in tatters, and the curfew weighing heavily on our minds, we headed for the next settlement: Gary. With industrial pipes lining the road towards the ominous glow of another petrochemical complex on the horizon, we reset the sat nav to Chicago and switched course to the interstate. Distracted by the distant Chicago skyline, we had neglected to pay attention to the fuel gauge, which was now frantically flashing a warning light at us. 

Like an early Apollo mission, we hurtled through the outer rings of the city, with only enough fuel to make a botched landing attempt. Heavy gang presence made it impossible to refuel in the city's outer neighbourhoods, we ploughed on towards the ever present Sears Tower. For several minutes we were locked into the inner city road system, mesmerised by the inky beauty of the towering skyskrapers, and when we were released from our orbit, a gas station presented itself like an oasis. As the last drops of gas were vapourised into exhaust fumes, we relied on momentum and pure concentration alone to coast onto the flourescent forecourt. 

Last known footage of football no.1

The Green Machine thirstily drank up a fresh tank of gas, but our sigh of relief was cut short by the realisation that it was past midnight and we still had nowhere to stay. A fluke coincidence of a Bears game and a mystery international conference had left all the accomodation within a 50 mile radius (literally) fully booked. As in all moments of peril, we got the football out, for a quick inner city keepy uppy session. Our only option now was to load up on coffee, put pedal to the metal and head west until we either fell asleep at the wheel and ended up in hospital (better for the budget) or found somewhere to stay (better for our health).

Caffeine fueled night driving

We found a (super-budget) Motel 6 and checked in at 3am. The next morning we woke up panicked, having missed our check-out time. As we sat, head in hands, contemplating the damage to the budget imposed by our mistake, Tom discovered we had crossed into the next time zone, mercifully gifting us an extra hour. We hit the highway. The flat farmland of Wisconsin passed by without event, and soon we hit the Mississippi. After a midge infested photo op, we crossed a dramatic iron bridge into Minnesota. 

Mississippi River

Swirling black storm clouds descended as we began our nightly ritual of looking for a place to stay. We spotted a sign quoting Money Magazine, declaring Rochester as the best place to live in the USA. Confident we'd discovered a hidden gem, we entered the town and began scouting out the hotel options. Rochester was living up to its reputation, its bustling town centre bars packed with young locals. Hotel prices drove us past these scenes however, and once more on the outskirts, we struck a rich seam of cheap motels. In our blind enthusiasm for the cheapest possible rate, we committed ourselves to the Rainbow Motel, a Psycho-esque museum for the distorted memories of its owner, a creepy old lady. The occasional flash of lightning added to our general sense of terror as we inspected the ornamental paintings hanging above our beds.

Creepy motel room

After a rigorous morning of driving through South Dakota, we made it to our eagerly anticipated destination: The Badlands. The vastness of the desolate scenery was breathtakingly beautiful (see photos). We had been excited for some time about the mouthwatering prospect of filming ourselves showing our freestyle football skills in front of America's greatest sights. Armed with all our photography gear, and most importantly our now beloved football, we headed down to a treacherous windswept outcrop, poised hundreds of feet above the valley floor to get an introductory shot for the sequence. As Mike busied himself with the tripod and camera setup, Tom sat in awe of the view, but on seeing great potential in a shot of Mike against the dramatic background, he shifted precariously around to get the right angle. Mike watched in horror as through the viewfinder, he watched an out of focus ball roll helplessly off the edge and plummet hundreds of feet to its demise. It would be several hours before we would speak to each other again).

(That's not us)

Badass Badlands

Spot the ball

• Went to base of Mount Rushmore to take photos at night. 
• Couldn't find monument. 
• Begrudgingly stayed in tourist hell at base of mountain. 
• 'Presidential View' suite had view of car park. 
• Woke up to thick fog. 
• Found monument, couldn't see it through fog. 
• We left. 
• Hit the road. 
• Bought football. 
• Started speaking to eachother again.

Mount Rushmore

Star Spangled Balls

We entered Montana, a state which for us epitomises the dramatic landscape of the northern states. After no more than a few minutes we were re-routed to Wyoming, having seen a sign for Devil's Tower, the rock formation immortalized in the film Close Encounters. Following a long drive on vulture-patrolled roads, we finally spotted the solitary silhouette of the Tower, violating the otherwise flat horizon. We left the car and circled the enormous structure, our path occasionally blocked by house-sized sections of the columns that had broken off the vertical face. Our time with the mountain was brought to a poignant end when we met an old couple taking in the view from the comfort of a bench. They were on a road trip of their own. The old man's philosophy that you should fully enjoy every moment, we realised, was one reinforced by his knowledge that he didn't have many left to enjoy. We pensively returned to the car.

Awaiting the mothership