Born on the same day, April, Mae, and June were elevated to small town celebrity status when their mother’s decided to name the three little darlings after the months of spring. Upon entering preschool, the girls became fast friends, and remained as such through high school. Even graduation hadn’t separated the trio when they chose to attend the same college.
Deadwood, a historic town nestled in the northern Black Hills, became their first true love. Enamored with the town’s allure, unruly atmosphere, and adventure, the three women attended Wild Bill Days rodeo during their freshman year and were instantly captivated. Determined to spend as much time there as possible, they’d all found seasonal employment during the summer break throughout their college years. After graduation, the three friends had made a pact that no matter where their jobs, family, or life took them, they would always come back to Deadwood for a ‘girl’s’ weekend annually. For the three women, Deadwood held a certain aura of enchantment and mystique. It was a place where they never aged, they always had fun, and could be their true selves. Wild Bill Days had been the traditional get together weekend, until the George Mickelson bike trail opened in 1998. Built on the historic Chicago, Burlington, Quincy Railroad Line from Deadwood to Edgemont, it traversed some of the most beautiful scenery and backcountry in South Dakota. So, when family and obligations became too demanding in early summer, it became their next go-to weekend to enjoy one another’s camaraderie, biking along the abandoned tracks on the annual 105-mile trail trek.
Among the three friends, April had remained faithful to her first love, the Black Hills of South Dakota. Early on, she’d dreamt of opening an antique store in Deadwood. A dream turned reality with financial support from her friends. For many years, she’d enjoyed moderate success during the tourist season as a mercantile owner, up until the winter of the Covid pandemic when most small businesses faltered or failed. When she wasn’t working, her favorite pastime was traipsing up and down the hills and byways of the Black Hills looking for hidden treasures and learning the history of the place she called home. Bursting with abandoned mines, ghost towns, rail lines, and logging trails, the region held a plethora to explore surrounding Deadwood. Many of the towns no longer existed. Towns like Flatiron, Pluma, Kirk, and Glenwood were merely dots on a map, covered in meadows, trees and shrubs. But there was an air of mystery along the old trails that bore deeper than the mines dug into the ground. Along the mountain streams, gulches, and canyons, she often wondered what life had been like for the people brave enough to venture into this rugged hill country. She’d spend many an afternoon hiking, biking, or snowshoeing along every logging trail, abandoned train track and mining road in the region, trying to picture in her mind the triple decked train tracks she’d seen in old photos. She felt transported back in time every time she stepped off the beaten path, into the heart of the Black Hills.
In her rambling, one of her greatest finds had been the bungalow she owned on Kirk Road. Nestled against a mountain of Precambrian granite, pegmatite, and metasedimentary rocks near Whitewood Creek, it was her own piece of paradise. The babbling of the creek, her personal lullaby to sleep. And, located mere feet from the George Mickelson bike path, she rode the trail every chance she got.
It was an early spring day when April dusted off her bike seat, checked the brakes and put air in her tires, marking her first ride of the season. Climbing out of Deadwood gulch up to Lead proved to be more difficult than she expected, especially after a winter of binge-watching streaming channels and indulging in ice cream treats. Once past the trail divide, she felt the down draft coming from Terry peak, and the forecast held a strong prevalence of rain or snow. It was not uncommon. The dark threatening clouds hovering around the mountain tops were a daily occurrence year-round as steam rose out of the forest floors and grassy meadows giving an eerie, mystic façade. Despite its threatening appearance, it didn’t always rain, and once the fog burned off from the gulches, the sun usually found its way through the mist, shaping up to be a lovely day.
Getting to the high line near Englewood was a grueling task and yet, April’s favorite part of the trail. Her legs worked tirelessly ascending the mountain, and she distracted herself with thoughts of yesteryear and what the landscape may have looked like in the days before gold was exploited in the Black Hill’s. It fascinated her how and why civil engineers chose the paths that they did, laying down the railroad bed, or what it took to drag railroad ties, build hundreds of trestles and bridges over gulches and streams. Powered by horse and steam in the early years, it took a well-coordinated team of an engineer, firemen, brake, and doormen, to run a hog, feeding wood or coal into the hungry firebox and producing enough heat and steam to power a steam engine. It was difficult to picture how a single freight engine laden with rock and earth could even make the climb out of Deadwood gulch at all. Several spurs once serviced active mines and lumber camps, as well as depots of boom towns along the rail line all long since abandoned. Steep cuts clung to the edge of shear rocks with a sharp drop into a gulch on the opposite side, while other places bore open tunnels through mountain tops accommodating a narrow-gauge track with barely enough room for a steam engine to pass through on either side.
She took advantage of the numerous stops along the ascent enjoying the scenic overlooks of the gulch’s cities of Lead and Deadwood. Still bare of foliage, the trees were unintrusive to the view as they were in the summer. April made it a point to rest at a circular picnic table made of stone with the best view of the valley floor to hydrate. Tracing her finger along the creek below, she could see the trees that lined Whitewood creek and the alternate bike route. She decided to take the Kirk trail back to Deadwood. It was a bit more rugged, but it was shorter, and there were several bridges which passed over the creek adding to the splendor of the ride.
It was early afternoon by the time she reached Rochford and the Moonshine Gluch Saloon. A small establishment for a small community, it was open year-round weather permitting. April made it a point to stop for lunch. Their sweet potato fries were to die for, and the owner and friend would make a portabella burger, a non-menu item, especially for her, when she called in advance.
With her belly full, April began the easy coasting back to Deadwood, and once again marveled at the landscape of this place she called home. The sun peaked out briefly, luminating the lush meadow lands along the creeks and streams. It was this section of the trail which crossed several private properties. Dismounting her bike to open and close the cattle gaits slowed her momentum. In the shaded areas, water leached out of the ore deposits along the face of the mountain where icicles formed. The air was crisp and fresh with the smell of new grass, cow manure, and aromatic pine. “God, I love this place,” she said aloud, basking in the unseasonal weather. The blissful moment was fleeting however, as a light mist of rain wisped across April’s cheeks and thunder rumbled high in the mountains.
Despite the slowdown, April reached the junction of Englewood and Kirk trail in suitable time and took the rougher trail along the creek. She wasn’t that far to Deadwood, and even less to Kirk Road. If a downpour did occur, she’d simply head for home. It would have been nice just to lollygag along the trail that meandered next to Whitewood Creek. This was her carrot for a workout well done. But the weather had other plans, and the strengthening wind made time of the essence. As if to emphasize the point, an updraft blew a whirl of grit and dust, penetrating under her protective eyewear and she was forced to stop at the Wasp/Bismarck shelter up ahead.
The Wasp number two mine was a moderately successful operation, encompassing both a surface and underground workings area spanning approximately 130 acres and had only one known mineshaft. Built on the east side of the mountain dividing Whitewood and Yellow Creek, it towered above the valley floor at an elevation of around 5,600 feet. Typical of the mines in the Black Hill region, it exhibited characteristics consistent with the interior plains. Primarily a gold, silver, and tungsten mine, the size of production remained small. Over time, the Homestake Mining Company purchased it, until it was played out of anything of value and eventually abandoned. But not before its tailings and hazardous substances became a major causal factor in the degradation of flora, fish, and fauna along the creek. For decades, nothing survived in the grey sludge runoff. It wasn’t until environmental legislation forced mines to cease disposal of toxic waste into the creek and clean up their practices that allowed nature to slowly rebound.
April dismounted her bike inside the familiar shelter and prepared to ride out the strange weather phenomenon. She had been caught in storms before, but there was something different about the one she was witnessing. Shielding her eyes, she looked out across the grassy flat along the creek and noticed a change in the stone marker which stood at the foot of the mountain. It was—glowing. Curious, she left her bike and approached the stone. A closer inspection revealed the commemorative plate embedded in the face of the rock had melted away. That’s weird. She was about to touch it when a fluttering sound caught her attention. Hanging in a tree a few yards away, small pieces of parchment with Chinese symbols dangled from string tied to its branches. She wanted to take a closer look, but a violent wind gust whistled through her helmet as a blinding flash of lightning lit up the afternoon sky. Splinters of fragmented stone flew like dust particles as the shards whirled around her, piercing through her flesh and clothes. April dropped to her knees, protecting her mouth, eyes, and nose with her arm. It was over in a nano second. She uncovered her eyes long enough to see the boulder split wide open, revealing the geode of amethyst inside. Gazing at the colorful array of red, yellow, orange and gold, the gem glowed with intensity, projecting an image of a magnificent dragon onto the dark sky. Mesmerized, April crawled closer and reached to touch the glowing rock, absorbing its warmth. It was comforting, powerful and—beautiful. Another crackle of lightning and the dragon image disappeared, replaced by an image of a dog. The wind howled a mournful sound, boring through skull like a freight train entering a tunnel. Did an early spring tornado find its way into the gulch? Impossible! But, if true, April knew she had to move quickly and seek shelter. As she stood, the trumpeting sound of a train whistle heralded a pending doom, and the roar of a great beast exploded in her brain. April clasped her hands over her ears unable to drown out the sound. Around her, the sound of splintering trees, and the crashing of rock against rock shattered her eardrums. The ground quaked, sending tremors throughout her body. Was there an avalanche? Had there been an explosion? Did she really see a dragon in the sky? April fell to the ground, squeezing her eyes tight and curling into a ball. The last thing she remembered was sending up a prayer that whatever was coming, it would all be over soon.