-Photo by Jerry Nelson

To paraphrase Bob Ross, God was having a good day when He made the Black Hills.

My wife and I have toured the Black Hills several times over the years. Our first sojourn was during our honeymoon, more than four decades ago. We revisited the Hills again recently and discovered that they remained as timeless and as new as the first morning of creation.

We took our two sons on a ramble in the Black Hills when they were grade schoolers. Being a farmer, I would peer up at the stone slopes and ask, “How do they plant corn on that ground? How can they even plow it?”

“Da-ad!” the boys chorused in exasperation, “You can’t farm that land!”

“You’re probably right,” I replied, “Besides, all those trees would make it hard to plant straight rows.” Their eyes almost rolled right out of their little heads.

For us flatlanders, the Black Hills are a breathtaking novelty compared to the monotonous levelness of the prairie. We drove slowly on the curvaceous mountain roads that wind through the Black Hills, not so much for safety but mainly so that we could absorb as much of the bodacious scenery as possible. We peered upward out our car’s windows so much that our neck muscles began to ache.

God was having a really good day when He made Spearfish Canyon.

The fall colors were just starting to pop when we drove down the highway that snakes its way through the canyon. Splashes of gold festooned the canyon walls, punctuating the emerald of the evergreen forest. The banks of Spearfish Creek were a river of saffron.

There was a heart-stopping vista around every curve of the Spearfish Canyon Scenic Byway, and there are a lot of curves. The byway certainly lives up to the “scenic” part of its name.

We frequently pulled over to take pictures and ooh and aah over the scenery. Limestone cliffs soared straight up to the sky. We saw caves here and there on the cliffs and wondered if any creatures lived there. And if not, if we could purchase one of the caves and obtain permanent access to the outstanding vista.

A coursing brook is a balm for the soul. Spearfish Creek could be heard gurgling merrily along as we navigated the canyon. We espied some guys flyfishing for rainbow trout, so I stopped to snap photos of the relaxing, bucolic scene. At least it looked relaxing; maybe it was actually a high-stress situation. All I know about flyfishing is that it involves a stick and some string and possibly a fly.

I think that the fisherman should have been required to use spears. After all it’s called Spearfish Creek.

We found a roadside restaurant, which was reason enough to stop for a late breakfast. I ordered the trout-and-eggs special. Time passed and I remarked to my wife that it was taking quite a while for our grub to arrive.

“I didn’t want to tell you this,” she said, “but after you ordered your food, I saw a guy with a fishing rod trotting out toward the creek.”

Oh, well. At least my fish was fresh.

No visit to the Black Hills is complete without a stop at Mount Rushmore National Monument. The granite faces still stare out from the mountain with their unchanging stone-faced expressions.

The visitor’s center at Mount Rushmore has changed substantially over the past four decades. An avenue of state flags frames the faces as you approach the viewing platform. Plaques below the flags contain the dates when each state was admitted to the union. Not that it’s a competition, but South Dakota (40th state) joined the union six days before Montana. Take that, The Treasure State!

We found an ice cream shop, which was reason enough to enjoy some ice cream. We chose the Thomas Jefferson Vintage Vanilla, made by Pride Dairy of Bottineau, North Dakota (39th state, admitted Nov. 2, 1889). We raised our spoons to Jefferson, silently toasting his excellent frozen treat.

As we sat on a bench noshing and enjoying the sunshine, a 6-year-old boy spotted us. “Mom!” he exclaimed, tugging on his mother’s sleeve and pointing at the nearby ice cream shop, “They have ice cream here! Can we have some?”

“Ice cream?” replied the mom as she pretended not to notice the ice cream shop located just a few paces away. “I don’t see any ice cream.”

The boy’s eyes almost rolled right out of his little head.

A balmy afternoon, a cool treat in the presence of presidents, and a mom upholding the parental tradition of teasing her offspring. It was a Bob Ross day.