An Emerald Lake in the Rough

There was a noticeable gap between going to the Bighorn Mountains and the next time we would hit the open road (not until Thanksgiving), so I was going to write about the normal, day-to-day nonsense that goes on when we're not roadtrippin' because we do have home-lives, jobs, responsibilities, and, like, no money. But the thought of writing about that brought me very little joy so if you want to know about the more mundane, and if you're not a creep, go be my friend on Facebook, or follow me on Instagram. (You're welcome to follow me on Twitter, but I use that mainly to talk shit to Trump.)

By the time Thanksgiving 2017 rolled around, whenever one of us scored some time off, driving into the mountains was our default response. So that's exactly what we did on Thanksgiving Day. But with only one day free, and a shortened one since the sun was setting sooner, we chose to go to what had become our default location, this being the fourth time that we would visit Emerald Lake and the surrounding areas.

The first was also on a holiday, the Fourth of July, where we had a picnic in the empty campground next to the raging river (this holiday also landed smack in the middle of the week). The second visit was our second attempt at camping with the full intention of hiking to Mystic Lake the next morning but ended up being sidelined by some serious hangovers and just drove home instead. The third was - FINALLY! - the hike to Mystic Lake, so our Thanksgiving visit would be the fourth, and the first time seeing the area in another season besides summer. We were too late to see the leaves change colors, but winter has its own sort of rustic beauty, I suppose.

 Oh, you wanted to see what's behind me?

The swans and I, we know what's up. It was just us and two other cars, none of their passengers venturing outdoors, either.

There are only pictures of me because I am the only one who got out of the car, ironically, in order to take pictures. Jacob took this from the driver's seat.

Obviously, cooking some extravagant meal was not one of our priorities on this particular holiday, but we made up for it the next day.

I've been making roasted chicken for Thanksgiving since our little family first started (though this was the first year that I wrapped it in bacon). I've made a couple of turkeys over the years because you're, like, supposed to, but I've made several revelations as I continue to get older and one of them is that I do not like leftover turkey. I love the Main Event; the plentiful plate party on the actual day, and I have been known to choke down a turkey sandwich or two the day after, but what can I say? I like the cock, not the gobble. And my family - those who live at the mercy of my fridge - don't seem to really care about turkey the day after Thanksgiving, either.

Unable to stay away from what has become our quick getaway go-to, we went back to this same area about three weeks later - mid-December - and things looked decidedly different.

 This:

Is this. (Taken Fall 2018)

 With snow on the road reaching about halfway up the tires, we powered through to the trailhead parking lot. It fell heavy and silent, like dusted powdered sugar, and it was, of course, freezing. But everyone was in good spirits, and driving me to the trailhead to Mystic Lake and telling me I can't go on it is just cruel and unusual punishment. So - knowing we wouldn't get very far - we decided to see exactly how far we could go.

The way the mountains are shrouded by the clouds is so eerily awesome.

 The snow was pretty deep, but there were other, some-what fresh, footprints so we followed them and stopped when they stopped. They must have run into the same thing we did in that the snow got very deep, very fast, a good indication that we were heading...up.

 So the only real hiking we did was to the top of the butt-slides.

 Butt-bomb of the butt-slide!

We got our fill of the snow before - a week later - we road-tripped even further and had a very non-white Christmas.

Marking Mount Rushmore

Going to Mount Rushmore wasn't something that was on our long-term itinerary. Then again, neither was anything else we had done so far. But as the summer progressed and we saw more and more sights, we realized that it really didn't take that much to do a little traveling, and that some of the greatest world wonders weren't really that far away. So the weekend we went to Devil's Tower, Jacob also suggested we wander on over to Mount Rushmore, and at this point, why the heck not?!

Even though Mount Rushmore is in an entirely different state, it really didn't take too long to get there; just long enough for me to completely fall in love with South Dakota. And it's not like I even know too much about the state, or saw that much of it, but I deemed every town we went through to be greater than the last and insisted we move there immediately. That most likely won't happen as now I also have dreams of living in Fishtail, Montana and running a donut shop/hiking tours.

We were one of the last to leave our campsite at Devil's Tower, Holden repeatedly discussing the "molcano; the dead molcano." I told him, "We're going to see some heads on a mountain," to which he replied, "And knees and toes?" He slept most of the car ride to Mount Rushmore and when he woke up asked, "Where's the molcano?" And with every new sight we see, if it even remotely resembles Devil's Tower, he'll say, "There's a molcano!" It's easy to take for granted children's reactions - or lack thereof - to the places you take them, but it's nice to know when something really leaves a positive impression. He did talk about the "molcano" throughout the rest of the day but that doesn't mean he didn't appreciate the "heads," as well.

 Montana - gotta represent.

At the ages of six and three, they already know more than our sitting President.

 Learning about the construction of the "heads," which Zoey found incredibly interesting. She even asked to stay and watch the video, which I didn't find the least bit surprising; she has a very engineer-oriented brain; like her father, completely unlike her mother.

 As had become my habit, I saw something labeled "trail" and had to check it out. Like it was meant for me, the trail was called The Presidential Trail. I mean, why didn't they just hang a neon billboard that read, "BREANNE, HIKE HERE!"?

 Taking a break "hiking" the Presidential Trail. It is a trail, even with a warning that it's strenuous, but not because you're traipsing the hills but because the majority of the trail is stairs. There are two places to start the trail but both have their strenuous parts, and lots of benches to make up for it.

 Jacob and the kids at his favorite spot, Theodore Roosevelt, the Father of our National Parks.

 There is a stop along the trail, the Sculptor's Studio, where the scales and tools to make the monument are on display. As inspiring as the monument is, you can't deny how cool it would have been if the full-body idea had actually panned out.

 

Zoey said that Lincoln was her favorite.

 Like visiting the Grand Canyon (which is on our list), it's fun that Mount Rushmore is a place nestled deep within the Black Hills of South Dakota yet attracts people from all over the globe; the first person I asked to take this family photo didn't understand English. And Holden is looking like that because he loathes looking at strangers (the pictures of him smiling at the camera are either because me or Jacob is behind it, or we set up the camera timer).

The Black Hills, which I fell in love with and insisted on camping in for my birthday (which didn't actually happen), and tragically suffered a fire during this last fall. But no doubt we'll find ourselves in South Dakota again come summer.