Upon picking up our last passenger from the Rapid City airport, our baker’s dozen of adventurers is now complete.
Our crew of thirteen in matching T-shirts made for an inconspicuous entrance into Mount Rushmore, which was our destination for the day. But we’re not really going for subtlety when we ask strangers to take our picture, so it was all good. Until Deadwood.
What can I say about Deadwood?
The signs that things were just a bit off were evident when we pulled into the campground and Sean immediately purchased the neighboring sites around us so we wouldn’t hit the RV next to us when we opened a window. The amenities weren’t exactly what were advertised on the website, but we got a bonus visit from a mountain lion in the middle of the night so I suppose we’re square there.
After a rather sleepless night dodging local wildlife, we thought a day in the old western town would be fun.
It was not.
Deadwood is weird. It’s not Gatlinburg-esque in its corny, touristy and fun way. It’s not completely authentic even in its strange street reenactments of murders of old cowboys. It’s seedy. And not friendly. And a bit NC-17. And everyone seems to be drunk. Including the public trolley car driver who regards the schedule, designated stops and traffic laws as mere suggestions. And not even fun drunk on Louise’s white wine but an angry drunk on stale beer and whiskey from label-less bottles. You kind of fear for your life at all times and really hope you don’t die there so they don’t reenact your demise one day in the front of a Hampton Inn. You feel like everyone in town wants to stab you but not in the surly old cowboy way that can reach a resolution of mutual respect over a good poker hand and a shot; but more like the being on several FBI watch lists kind of stabbing in broad daylight over an imagined slight on Facebook or offense taken over a tacky T-shirt.
And the only gambling we did was which communicable disease we’d contract from the public restrooms.
We promised the kids that if we didn’t die by food poisoning from the inordinate number of All You Can Eat Crab places or the poison candy offered by the toothless woman at the bus stop, we would pull up stakes and head west a day early.
It was the fastest camp break down to date.
Good night from Gillette, Wyoming.