Smoke on the Water: Pipestone Nat'l Monument 5/24/14

When you’ve gone over a year since your last NPS indulgence, and that last brush with the familiar, comforting arrowhead logo was the almost comically uninteresting Chickasaw National Recreation Area, you’re begging for anything to once again ignite the fires of travel. By this point, you’re almost prepared to revisit a nearby site, damn the mediocrity, if only to keep the demons at bay. So, when the opportunity to spend four days and three nights on the road opened before you like a nubile young lady, you took it, regardless of the overall quality of the destination. At first, there was Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument near Silver City, New Mexico, but some smartass decided to start a fire in the Gila National Forest, so circumstances forced a more northerly route. That left but one practical option (unless, of course, you wanted to drive through Kansas yet again for a few non-NPS museums), and while but a single passport stamp, it was still an official punch of the old inkpad. It would have to do. Somehow, it was more than enough. We are nothing without the highways and bi-ways of this great land, and sitting at home over the Memorial Day weekend might have left us with yet another unexplained murder-suicide for the authorities. No, we would see Minnesota. Barely, truth be told, but we’d cross the border nonetheless. We would visit Pipestone National Monument.

Conveniently located in the town of Pipestone, Minnesota, Pipestone National Monument is, above all, a humble, yet powerfully important slice of the American past. And, because we wanted to see it on this fine day, it was (naturally) on fire. Well, not right at this moment, but the site had seen a prescribed burn within 24 hours of our visit, and that left much of the tallgrass prairie decidedly crisp. The burns have been going on for decades, and while restorative and necessary, they can put on a damper on a visit that is expected to be, well, free of ash and the smell of smoke. I mean, really? Our last big trip to Idaho back in 2012 was a hot mess of burning lungs and Beijing-style skies, and here we were again, two years later, and we can’t seem to find a spot in all of North America not consumed by flames. As we arrived at the main entrance, we didn’t quite know what to think, and we’re not simply talking about the conflagration. We’ll admit it: we expected remote, tucked, and off the grid, and here we were, achingly close to roads and homes and gas stations. Yes, the precious pipestone quarries are where they have been for millions of years – and it is our civilization that has built up around them – but once again, our expectations took a little hit. From now on, we’re going to expect every single NPS site – including the National Parks – to be crushed into oblivion by billboards, pollution, and deafening noise, if only to make us pleasantly surprised in a good way when they go against the grain.

 

Preserved as a National Monument since 1937, Pipestone protects sacred Native American land, both as an apology for past sins, as well as a gift for future generations. You see, Pipestone is where many of the Great Plains Indians – from Sioux to Crow, Blackfoot to Pawnee – acquired the precious material to make the instruments later called “peace pipes” by the white man. The site’s unigrid puts it most succinctly: “Carvers prized this durable yet relatively soft stone that ranged in color from mottled pink to brick red….This location came to be the preferred source of pipestone among Plains tribes.” Such pipes became central to “ceremonial smoking,” which might involve anything from preparation for war to ritual healing and dancing. And while the pipes could take on many shapes (effigies ran the gamut of human and animal forms), the most “popular” (or at least well-known) are the t-shaped calumets. Naturally, the historical record quickly turns to the perspective of the first non-Indian to set foot in the area, George Catlin. Being the egomaniac that was his lot as a condescending paleface, he renamed the pipestone Catlinite,  which has an expectedly silly ring. The subsequent eye-rolling was no doubt universal. The site doesn’t tell us what eventually happened to old George, but here’s hoping someone carved something a little more profane into his headstone. What’s Cheyenne for “asshole”? 

The site’s visitor center, alas, is a relic from another time, and it’s quite possible it dates back to the Monument’s original declaration. The displays range from glorified diorama to “let’s use a font out of style since the Truman years,” though they are redeemed somewhat by the presence of Native artists, who spend their time crafting truly remarkable pieces. As expected, only federally recognized tribal members are authorized to pull pipestone from the area, and the waiting list for digging permits currently runs about five years. That it remains an active site adds to its charm, and for once, the presence of workers in a National Monument doesn’t bring forth visions of dreaded energy exploration. This is their land, and it’s best that they continue to draw inspiration from it. And if they make a little money from their wares, so much the better. The way I figure it, we’ll have paid them back in another 435 years or so. It is the site’s film, however, where things really come together. Titled Pipestone: An Unbroken Legacy, the brief, yet informative documentary explores the meaning of the area (and the pipestone) by using the voices of those who matter, not the dry, academic opinions of outsiders. Populated by living, breathing members of various tribes, we come to see that this is not simply history, but an insight into a current (and complex) culture. As one person puts it: “As the cross and Bible are to you, the pipe is to us.” Well said, my good woman.

 

Out back, a ¾ mile Circle Trail leads visitors through the tallgrass (or at least what remained of it), pipestone quarries, and assorted rock formations. It’s important to remember that the pipestone is not easily captured, lying as it does beneath layers of tough quartzite. As such, the prize awaits only those willing to spend weeks, if not months, pounding away at the rock with sledge hammers and wedges. Despite the instruments, it is delicate work, as too furious a blow might damage the soft pipestone underneath. As the trail snakes through the rock, the sound of rushing water is heard. Soon, one is face to face with Winnewissa Falls. No, we’re not talking about Niagara here, but it is undeniably peaceful, and a pleasant contrast to the charred prairie that came before. Even better, the Falls mask the screams of the unsuspecting, as there are angry snapping turtles about, most of which dine exclusively on young flesh. At least that’s how I acted when I encountered one of the little buggers. Thankfully, several eagle-eyed visitors warned me as I was ambling up the stone steps, and I was able to run in the opposite direction with my tail between my legs. Otherwise, I might not be here to tell the tale. Fortunately, despite the site’s proximity to a town, the center of the Monument is devoid of distraction, and the walk remains a good-natured one, despite the smell of Uncle Joe’s campfire.

Pipestone National Monument isn’t really worth 1,400+ miles of driving all by itself, of course, but until you’re obsessed with passport stamps, you won’t really understand our plight. At the very least, we saw a new state (fine, only a few hundred yards of it) and here was a rare bird, indeed: a Native American site that did not involve a cliff dwelling or ruins. For that alone, we were happy to have a new perspective. There’s a great film, an easy walk, and nasty reptiles for all. And yes, above all, beautiful art; on display and in the mind’s eye. Indeed, NPS, we are glad to be back.

FINAL RATING

6/10

Side Dish: The Corn Palace 5/25/14

London. Paris. Rome. Mitchell. South Dakota, as if you had (or cared) to ask. The proud as a peacock home of a Prehistoric Indian Village that may or may not be as authentic as a ride at Disneyland. A prairie oasis of fat, fatter, and begging for a series on TLC. A windswept diversion off the interstate that inexplicably features a "George McGovern Legacy Museum" for the man who, to this day, remains the biggest loser in the history of presidential politics. Given these testaments to the forgotten and the damned, it stands to reason that, at the center of town, bursting at its corn-cobbed seams, is the real reason any red-blooded American crosses that city boundary: The World's Only Corn Palace. If its description reeks of self-importance, never you mind. It has earned it the hard way: daring to consume its city block much like the dutiful, gorging masses who've kept it a centerpiece of Roadside America since 1892. Fine, its lofty status wasn't even possible until the Eisenhower Interstate System, but you get the idea. If you're going to be more than a dying hamlet in flyover country, you'd better have a gimmick. A hook. A reason to stop the damn car other than dynamite beef jerky. For the Corn Palace, that reason is - wait for it - corn. Millions of ears over the years, fashioned into delightfully gawdy murals, messages, and patriotic banter. So what if it looks like it belongs in Moscow's Red Square.

Let's be clear: if you're a mover, a shaker, a doer, or anyone even remotely forward-thinking, the Corn Palace is bound to offend. There's an inherent silliness, of course, to its mere existence, but more than that, its continued survival challenges our very concept of progress. If it lives (and it does, if the teeming masses on this day are any indication), it is solely through attrition. That, and our capacity to preserve the very thing that is killing us softly on any given day. We've moved on, from iPhones to Twitter, yet the old-fashioned, garishly idiotic continues to challenge that sense of advancement. When we can communicate instantly with a loved one across the globe, why on earth would anyone be awed by 275,000 ears of corn, per the brochure, "sawed in half lengthwise and nailed to the building following patterns created by local artists"? Because, despite the blips and burps of technology, we remain a cartoonish people. And for that, I thank the very stars that mock us with their indifference. For if, one day in the not-too-distant future, we suddenly upped and burned our Corn Palaces to the ground, I'd leap upon the conflagration without a moment's hesitation or regret. Because, let's face it, the loss of the Corn Palace would not represent us moving on, only its pretense. And if the great monument at 604 N. Main Street symbolizes anything, it's the truth. Not partial, end-around truth, but the whole damn thing. I've said it before: there's more Americana in a singular roadside atrocity than a thousand well-scrubbed museums. And we're at our best when we come clean about it.

 

And what is that truth, you might ask? That if anything defines us, it's the need to be distracted at all costs. For a minute, for an hour; increasingly, for a lifetime. At one point, a place like the Corn Palace did the trick, but now that it's long passed the authenticity stage, pausing briefly at irony, only to double back to a post-ironic authenticity that approaches farce, it will take much more to keep us interested. Or will it? Why, after all, do so many come? Because the atlas tells us to? Because we want to feel superior to such blatant kitsch? Because this is the one and only time dad gets to make a decision while on vacation? All of the above, and more, though I suspect 9 in 10 couldn't provide a coherent answer. But one by one, as if on cue, we arrive, we stare, we snap photos, and without fail, buy cheap crap we couldn't possibly want or need when not seduced by the romance of the road. Take the t-shirt: who but a madman would wear such an admission of failure when not among the strangers of a distant locale? And what's really behind the drive to consume a corn-shaped sucker, massive popcorn ball, or a strip of venison jerky that could double as a meter stick? Perhaps, at the end of the day, we're paying the ultimate respect to high-fructose corn syrup, the very thing most responsible for our sagging frames and clogged arteries. Like tributes before a god.

So is that it, then? Staring at "corn art" and the waddling maniacs who spent a small fortune to share the stage? Perhaps, but the Corn Palace is more than mere eye candy. As a fully functional piece - a concert hall on one hand, a gymnasium on the other - it's Mitchell's social center, in addition to being the siren song for the big, blobby blur of roadside rubbish. Still not a believer? What if I told you that William Jennings Bryan gave a speech here during his 1900 presidential campaign? Or that Lawrence Welk brought his bubbles - not once, not twice, but thrice? And then there's Louie Anderson. And Kenny Rogers. Willie Nelson, Eddie Rabbit, Charlie Daniels, Weird Al Yankovic, and in August of this year, Pat Benatar. It's where the stars came (and come) to shine. For the locals, a place to graduate, play a ball game, or chat about hog futures. No mere relic gathering dust in the corner, the Corn Palace lives and breathes with the people themselves; a South Dakota marvel that happens to bring the country together like little else in the region. On this relatively quiet May afternoon, one can't help but summon the sights and sounds of one of these bigger Mitchell nights; a time when the trappings of farmer and grease monkey alike yield to the more unifying, clarion call of cheesy goodness. As it should be.