Drilling Dakota: Theodore Roosevelt Nat'l Park 8/31/14

When Lt. John Dunbar requested a transfer to the vast Western frontier, his reasoning, simply enough, was to “see it before it’s gone.” For him, a man hardened by the brutality of war, the fleeting isolation of prairie life seemed the only reasonable option to an existence teeming with disease, conflict, and the rattling din of the city. What he saw (and what we saw, via Dances With Wolves) was a lonely landscape seemingly untouched, yes, but also a vanishing civilization amidst the inevitability of progress. And so it is again, this time in the inexplicably flourishing land of North Dakota. Too often reduced to a mere punchline, or seen as the least attractive destination for man and beast alike, the “forgotten Dakota” (unimaginably cold winters and no Mount Rushmore will do that to a state) is now leading the charge of unchecked, boom town prosperity; a libertarian paradise of deregulation, ad hoc communities, and the seemingly endless bounty of the Bakken Shale. In the blink of an eye, a frozen wasteland has been transformed into an Eden of full employment, sky-high rents, and cutthroat competition. And don’t get me started on the hookers. The rest of America is left standing agape.

But for every paycheck, there is a price. And while deli workers are witnessing never-before-seen wages ($14 an hour at a Minot Wal-Mart) and restaurants are actually turning away customers instead of begging for their business, the energy explosion is not without its critics. Work is good, yes, and workers spend what they earn. Entrepreneurs enter, set down their wares, and neighborhoods are born. But as with most success stories, this is but a one-sided love affair. Instead of permanence, we are left with an unshakeable insecurity. Most of the workers are rough-and-tumble young men, either unattached and carefree, or temporarily unburdened, saving just enough to ensure a well-received trip home. Crime is up. Trailers are inhabited as fast as they’re fastened to the hard earth. North Dakota, then, is less hearth and home than a way station; more lean-to than rock-solid foundation. As such, the oil boom has fostered a Potemkin village on the windswept grasslands. To many, the hammer and nail of coins in the till. In reality, a mere reprieve from the bust to come; a devastated land of rape, pillage, and broken dreams that will leave its victims in worse shape than before. And while the fire in the night warms the bottom line (the 24/7 burn of natural gas dots the terrain like sinister Tiki torches), there’s a sense that the future speaks more to the unborn Dunbars to come than any of the Horatio Algers of the present. 

Which brings us to Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Once the only reason any red-blooded American set foot on the Western slab of North Dakota (since its establishment in 1947 as a Memorial Park), it is now a gasping, endangered oasis; a last stand of preservation to counter the tidal wave of commerce. If it survives the explosion – and that is very much in doubt, as we’re only a few years in – it will be left hollow and less vibrant, like a decaying zoo for endangered species on the very spot where they once roamed free. Existing as a North and South Unit (with the free-floating, undeveloped Elkhorn Ranch tucked in the middle), the park is the last, best hope to keep the barbarians from the gate, despite our full knowledge that air pollution fails to respect park boundaries. Even the roads to get from top to bottom (Highway 85, in past years a quiet country lane of sorts) have been compromised, as the endless convoy of trucks has necessitated a lane expansion that would have been ridiculed a mere decade ago. So as one enters and exits Watford City – not an easy task, given the congestion – one is now faced with a journey to the North Unit no longer serene and soothed by child-like anticipation. Instead, we endure; a raucous chore in lieu of quietude. We are pensive as we embark, unable to shake the spirit of the park’s namesake. He built for empire, yes, and revered the push forward. But his conscience allowed for pause; a steady hand of balance, lest we tip too far into chaos. 

Despite the shock and awe of watching the world stripped clean, TR National Park earns its distinction as an unpolished jewel of 70,466 magnificently pristine acres. Curiously, the North Unit, while less popular given its distance from a convenient interstate, is the superior experience, as it possesses more dramatic vistas and a greater sense of isolation. The driving tour is less of a haul (14 miles, one-way), but its stops seem more representative of the whole, as if TR himself scripted a highlight reel of what shaped him so many years ago. As one begins, the usual visitor center (closed on this day, and temporarily moved to a Juniper Campground ranger station a few miles up the road) is left behind, as is any reminder of an encroaching world. Always to one’s left (reverse as you leave) is the Little Missouri River, a grand, life-giving waterway that acts as the perfect complement to the dramatic, otherworldliness of the badlands. While not as uniform as South Dakota’s badlands, TR’s version is arguably more striking, given the color and wildlife that defy the canyon’s exposed barrenness. Whereas the former inspires feelings of detachment, the latter retains a lived-in appeal, a more inviting land for exploration and engagement.

Among the stops are: the Slump Block Pullout (“huge sections of bluff that gradually slid intact to the valley floor”), the utterly unique Cannonball Concretions Pullout, Riverbend Overlook, and the grand finale, the Oxbow Overlook. The drive is unhurried and contemplative, and not without its surprises, as when the landscape turns completely over to grassland before swooping back to the main event near the river. Admittedly, as one looks out over the vast, untamed park, it must be said that it would (in theory) be a genuine treat to leave it all behind at set forth on a long hike or camping excursion. I’d never do it, of course, because I hate bugs and dirt and would rather die than inhabit the same sleeping quarters as a snake, but its ultimate appeal is not lost on me. It is here, of course, where my contrast with a man like Theodore Roosevelt is most nakedly obvious, and if his ghost could come back and have a say, it’s quite likely he’d bar my entry into the park altogether. “My park is a refuge for men,” he’d huff, before returning to his wrestling match with the nearest grizzly bear. Sensing a softness inherent to his moneyed class, TR set out to meet any and all physical challenges denied him in the womanly city. And from that first visit in 1883, he emerged more rounded, more unapologetically himself. He never fully left his upper crust New York life behind, of course (he’s perhaps the only man in history who could get away with reading poetry on the same day he shot a buffalo), but if a man must always be in the arena, that arena cannot exist as concrete and glass alone.

Leaving the breathtaking North behind (and driving right by the Elkhorn site, as only the hearty dare such a venture), visitors drive about an hour to the busier South Unit, which has the good sense of being set right next to I-94. Before heading in (and catching a glimpse of the ultra-kitschy town of Medora), the Painted Canyon Visitor Center and Overlook beckons, offering what is perhaps the best view in the entire park. It’s set apart from the Little Missouri, but nowhere else do the colors of the topography pop and shine as they do here. With that, and all the oohs and ahhs out of your system, the full-tilt Southern experience awaits, although we had the unfortunate timing to begin ours as the storm clouds rolled in. No matter, as the visitor center holds a piece of history so supremely awesome that it would have been worth the drive alone just to see it. Park, schmark, people, I’m standing face-to-face with the very undershirt Roosevelt was wearing when he was shot in Milwaukee, WI on October 14, 1912! And yes, that’s the actual bullet hole. While the knives and firearms were thrilling, this was a real-time connection to the one event that defines the man more than any other: when, despite having a bullet lodged in his chest, Teddy Ballgame insisted he finish his entire speech. And if you know TR, that’s the better part of an afternoon. To call him a stud is to reduce the word’s previous usage to tatters. In fact, this might be the toughest man who ever lived. Screw a mere National Park, the whole country should be renamed in his honor. 

Also located at the South Unit is the restored Maltese Cross cabin, which is best viewed with a spirited ranger tour. While much of the interior is reproduction and approximation, there is the actual writing desk, as well as a monogrammed trunk. Sure, the cabin was never actually located here, but it’s an important piece to help flesh out the story of Roosevelt’s time in North Dakota. After all, he wasn’t just some passive observer, vacationing in “the wild” in order to tell stories back home. He lived as he preached, ranching and hunting alongside more seasoned veterans of the prairie. Most importantly, the experience fanned within him the flames of conservation, which were appropriately channeled during his spirited presidency. It is, after all, impossible to imagine the National Park Service without him. Yellowstone predated his time in office, but had President McKinley not been felled by that bullet in Buffalo (if I’m not allowed to cheer Mr. Czolgosz, don’t ask me to damn him), the Antiquities Act would have been all but a dead letter, if it had been passed at all. It took a vigorous, balls-out champion to give the whole thing an unquestioned legitimacy. And it is here, at the South’s visitor center, where one can feel the man most intently. And if you leave here not fully in love, I’m not entirely sure it’s blood that courses through your veins.

The 36-mile scenic loop drive through the South Unit is, needless to say, a wonderful experience, but with dark clouds and evening settling in, it cannot be said that our time was maximized to the fullest. It felt rushed, if we’re being honest, though it remains a fair assessment to say that overall, it lacked the full vitality of the North. There are some dynamic pullouts (Skyline Vista, Beef Corral, Boicourt, Scoria Point), but too much of the drive was spent cursing the vehicle in front of us, as it held a creepy autistic boy who stood ramrod straight through the car’s sunroof while pointing his camera at everything that wasn't picture-worthy. We glanced to our sides when it was appropriate, but what nature hath wrought paled next to the Rain Man-ramblings of our unfortunate guest. We did see some wild horses near the end of the drive, though we’re certain even they were more trainable than the nitwit we just couldn’t shake. Still, life is rarely as serene as an amble through a National Park, even if that park is surrounded by forces that would, if the political winds would have it, subject this hallowed ground to the sting of the energy lobby’s whip. It’s reassuring to know all is currently off-limits, but forever seems so impossibly idealistic, and it’s only a matter of time – hopefully not while I still draw breath – before perceived necessity will bring the whole enterprise to its knees. The future is more than uncertain, it’s downright perilous.

FINAL RATING

9/10