Johnny Marr kicks off in Denver

I have grown to enjoy the Paramount Theatre in downtown Denver. Colorado Springs lacks an old-school theater venue (the Pikes Peak Center is new construction, and the Memorial Auditorium won’t find a champion before it crumbles to dust). For the right band, the Paramount is a perfect rock show space. 

On this night it hosted British band James and Smiths guitarist and all-around likable guy Johnny Marr. Earlier that day, Marr was in the news due to cantankerous old bandmate Morrissey, who blamed Marr for not responding to a nine-figure reunion offer and registering the Smiths trademark in his name. 

In his reply, Marr coolly responded that he could not get a reply from Morrissey’s management so he registered the trademark to avoid any unscrupulous outside from nabbing the Smiths moniker, and that he did respond to the reunion offer, only to turn it down. 

Later that day Morrissey fired his management, and we had the pleasure of seeing Johnny Marr open his tour in Denver. 

First came James, who I only knew through their 1993 single Laid, which was everywhere for about a year three decades ago. Then the band disappeared from the pop culture radar. 

They didn’t dare finish their hour-long set without playing that one, but apparently it stayed on many Denverites’ radars, as every song led to a profuse amount of dancing in the aisles and audience members shouting lyrics. 

In fairness, they had three other singles I missed back in the day – She’s a Star, Sit Down, and Come Home – and all of them made the set. 

They touched on eight albums (Laid was the only one I remembered) but whipped up the crowd and brought some A-level excitement as an opener. 

Johnny Marr has had a peripatetic career since the Smiths, including solo records, a memorable stint in Modest Mouse, a sadly forgotten project from the early 1990s called Electronic, and side man for other musicians. He had been quietly prolific, yet was still celebrated for the Smiths.

For all his jumping around, Marr’s presence always made the work better - his heavily arpeggiated guitar style made We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank a post-fame highlight for Modest Mouse. He found room for several notable Smiths songs, and I was glad, since I might never hear them otherwise. 

All six were classics – the overplayed How Soon is Now?, This Charming Man, Panic, The Headmaster Ritual, There is a Light that Never Goes Out, and Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want. 

The last song is closest to me, although I would never turn down the jaunty Panic or the slinking, deceptively complex This Charming Man, which both reveal the versatility of the never-to-reunite Smiths. 

Marr sprinkled in a pair of Electronic songs and a cover of my favorite Iggy Pop song (The Passenger). The other tracks traversed a series of solo albums I never knew existed. 

Marr served as the glue holding everything together. I might not have been attracted to a tour anchored to a latter-day album, but Marr’s career diversity allowed him to bring his signature sound across numerous projects and decades. 

Marr and the increasingly controversial Morrissey will assuredly never meet onstage again, but I couldn’t be happier that Marr keeps the flame going. 

The roof of Nebraska

Agate Fossil Bed fossils and twin buttes 

Buttes west of Fort Robinson

South of Hot Springs, S.D.

Near the Nebraska border

In the west, the road less traveled might come loaded with construction zones. Mine certainly did. If a pilot car is required, expect a 30-minute delay. It’s a good rule of thumb. Don’t expect sympathy from the locals. 

Two trucks with horse trailers passed me while I waited on a red light at a one-lane bridge. Why be a bad driver in an unfamiliar country? I saw no reason. 

Yet I passed them right back – and legally - when I caught up three miles later. When I turned west at Crawford, Nebraska, they went elsewhere. 

The whole reason for the shortcut was a straighter route to a few stops along the way home. After Scottsbluff, I could only count on long stretches of emptiness. A few turns would change that in the upper reaches of Nebraska’s Pine Ridge. So let us never speak of the shortcut again. 

But let us talk a lot about Fort Robinson State Park, which protects a significant site in northwest Nebraska. It is most infamous as the place where Crazy Horse was betrayed and killed. The structures and parade grounds instantly transport visitors to another time. 

A series of rimrocks looms over Fort Robinson to the east. The buildings are neat and in good condition. The fort was active from the 1870s through the 1940s, and eventually the U.S. Defense Department transferred control to the state of Nebraska, and the 20,000-acre site became its largest state park. 

 Instead of the park grounds, I went for the Fort Robinson Museum to get better perspective on what occurred here (beyond killing one of the best known Lakota warriors). The history started at the Indian Wars but extended all the way to World War II. 

The fort had its share of unique traits, including bands of Indians who wintered close to Fort Robinson, and the nearby Red Cloud Agency. Between the world wars, Fort Robinson became the nation’s largest site for U.S Army Remount Services, training for horses, mules, and dogs for the military until the post closed in 1947. 

I couldn’t bring myself to visit the marker where Crazy Horse received his fatal bayonet wound. The whole affair was too sad and emblematic of treatment toward Native people in this country. The Lakota warrior arrived with nearly 1,000 followers under a flag of truce. But the Army intended to take Crazy Horse into custody. When he resisted, he was murdered, bleeding out from a bayonet wound. 

Thinking about Crazy Horse, I found it better to look at the combination of plains and craggy buttes that framed the fort than the historic buildings. The landscape was utterly unique, a different blend of exposed rock than anywhere else on the plains. 

This far northwest in Nebraska, only Harrison remains. After a few short blocks, there are just ranches down to Mitchell, which lies just outside Scottsbluff. Shortly I came upon the lone green thatch in this country, a few small stands of trees in the riparian zone of the Niobrara River. There lies the turn east to Agate Fossil Beds National Monument. 

This time the monument had some summer traffic, albeit much less than the Black Hills bucket-list sites. I saw several families mounting up for the hike to the twin mesas where the fossil beds were excavated. Very few trees lie on the 2-mile loop and having done it in September had no desire to try again in July. 

The Niobrara is more of a wide creek at this point in its journey to meet the Missouri. In many places, the foliage on its banks covers most of the river. 

 I spent more time in the visitor center’s Indian artifact exhibit. James A. Cook not only discovered the fossil beds, but he had some relationships with the local Native tribes. 

 A darkened gallery housed numerous garments, a decorative saddle, weapons, and other items that the tribes gifted to Cook over the years. One of the last photos of Red Cloud taken in his life is also on the wall. Reading about the friendship between James A. Cook and the Indians gave me a spark of hope. 

Here in a land taken by force, friendships could form, healing could occur. Wounds might remain further north, where the Black Hills will remain contentious as long as the Lakota lack a stake. But seeing people for the people they are and culture they represent could help us reach common ground.

The sweetness of Spearfish

Young trout in Booth Hatchery raceway

Booth Hatchery trout ponds

Underwater viewpoint, Booth Hatchery trout ponds

Spearfish isn’t an easy name to forget, and the town does its best to stay unforgettable. The last city in South Dakota before the Black Hills extend into Wyoming, Spearfish lies below a series of low mountains on either flank. 

The interstate gives little inkling of the town as it winds through the western Black Hills past Sturgis, its annual motorcycle rally just weeks away. Spearfish essentially becomes part of Sturgis when the Harleys roar, but in mid-July, it feels much more chill than Rapid City. 

 The downtown core has a mix of century-old buildings and modern structures, with boutiques, restaurants, coffeehouses, and breweries boosting the summertime pedestrian traffic. But the real attractions lie down Canyon Street. 

The innocuous street passes a series of light industrial businesses and city buildings before reaching some historic canals and the site of a mill founded around the same time as the city. The comes the fish hatchery that made Spearfish famous. 

Many trout

One of the first government-run fish hatcheries in the west, the D.C. Booth Fish Hatchery helped restock trout in lakes and ponds round the American West in the early 20th century. Pioneers had depleted stocks in many lakes, simply deploying giant nets to capture as many fish as possible. The empty ponds required government intervention at that point, and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service used the hatcheries to forward this aim. 

Named for Dewitt Clinton Booth, the first superintendent of hatchery, it has faced numerous attempts to close it over the years but has endured as the archive of the nation’s fish hatcheries and a major attraction for the city. 

The hatchery still spawns 20,000 to 30,000 rainbow trout every year, and several types of trout – rainbow, brook, brown, and XXXX – occupy the historic ponds. Rainbow trout fill the concrete channels. 

The hatchery abuts the Spearfish City campground where I stayed for the night. My good friend Jess received an artist-in-residence assignment at the Booth, and that seemed like a good time to visit. I reserved a campsite, but I could not refuse an air mattress in my friend’s air-conditioned trailer after the recent heatwave. 

From the Volunteer Village portion of the campground, the ponds and visitor center of the hatchery sat just across the road. On a hill above the hatchery ponds sits the Booth House, where the superintendent and his family lived. Restored with period furnishings, it has some interesting features, such as a second-floor sewing room. Vast gardens surround the house. 

My friend gave me an informal version of the tour. The hatchery also offered a history of hatcheries through vehicles once used to stock fish. First came The Yellowstone, a restored boat once used to harvest trout eggs from Lake Yellowstone in the national park. 

The hatchery also boasts a restored train car to approximate the cars the Fish and Wildlife Service used to transport fish before automobiles. The special car had numerous steel tanks to keep the fish chilled during transport. Restoration continues, as several chandeliers are still works in progress. But the fish transport car retained a spartan elegance, with its own bathroom, kitchen, and sleeping berths. 

Restored train car

Fish restocking train car interior

On the hills around the hatchery, I could hear the poison ivy taunting me, wondering why it hadn’t seen such an easy mark in so many years. So I stayed off the hatchery trails, even if they promised scenic overlooks. 

A Spearfish original

Even in the summer heat, I found it tough to leave the massive fish ponds. Some massive trout lurked in the shallows. Wood and mallard ducks used an island as a rookery, keeping their ducklings safe from predators. 

The activity along Canyon Street didn’t end when the hatchery closed. Wednesday summer nights brough concerts to Spearfish’s city park. The breezy bluegrass band drew several hundred people to the city park, with a line of food trucks and drink vendors. 

The air cooled off quickly, with the band wrapping up around dark. When they ended, the swift rush of Spearfish Creek again became the town soundtrack. 

The heat wore off quickly. The campground quieted. No one stirred but a few ducks protecting their young on the hatchery pond island. In the cool morning, I joined my friend in walking her dog around the campground. 

We repeated the walk in the morning, then we adjourned to The Original Spearfish Breakfast House, because nothing else had a name that demanded we visit. The small spot only has about 15 tables but serves up dynamite breakfast. Our waiter was a retired gentlemen who lived in Spearfish for 35 years and sang the town’s praises. 

I bid my friend Jess goodbye and took a long look at the historic buildings and rushing Spearfish Creek. On a future trip, I'll drive Spearfish Canyon back to Wyoming; it's one of the few scenic paved drives I still need to cover in the Black Hills. 

I had reached the Black Hills just before the crush of motorcycle enthusiasts return for Sturgis. Campsites and hotel rooms become impossible to find, many restaurants slim their menus and raise their rates. In three turns I resumed the frantic pace of the interstate. But the delights of friendly Spearfish would stick with me far longer.

Bridge to the hatchery

Spearfish Creek

Black Hills in summer

I still don't like the way Teddy Roosevelt is looking at me. 

Entering Custer, I got cut off by a leadfoot in a giant motor home towing a Jeep … on a trailer. The one-vehicle caravans get larger all the time, and the drivers act like they are still burning pavement in their sports cars. They aren’t. I got to the key intersection, past a few blocks of clogged boardwalks and tourists wandering clueless. 

The hill out of town had a truck determined to see how slow he could mount the incline. Here I cut around and enjoyed having U.S. 385 to myself until I reached the traffic light at the Crazy Horse Memorial. Stone by stone, more of the Lakota warrior rises from the mountainside. 

 There were no illusions about the Black Hills in summer. I expected summer crowds at every step. I saw people turned away at Jewel Cave. The moments alone on the path between Black Hills sites would not last. So I tried to revel in the silent time. 

I cringed at my next step. Mount Rushmore in summer - I had to push away my memories of my April 2023 visit, when maybe 20 people milled around the entire complex. At the turnoff for Sylvan Lake and the north end of the Needles Highway through Custer State Park, I imagined the conga line of cars head to the scenic drive that winds through the towering pinnacles among the highest spots in the Black Hills. 

Then came state Route 244, one of my favorite scenic drives anywhere. It curves through the high country of the Blacks Hills, the fire tower atop Black Elk Peak visible at times. Mount Rushmore stays hidden until the viewpoint where only Washington is visible between neighboring mountains. Even at its summer peak, the traffic was light and the views never ended. Well, they ended at the bustling hive of Mount Rushmore. 

No one call Guinness, but I think I set a record for shortest Mount Rushmore visits (in the movie Nebraska, they don’t actually go into the complex, they stop outside and the father decides he has seen it and doesn’t need to go in). 

Firehouse saison

I turned into Parking Level 1, paid my fee, strode up several flights of stairs, into the avenue of flags, stamped my passport, and took the same path back. As I wound around the mountain, a stiff breeze entered the car, bringing a chill I had not thought possible days before. The blast of cold enlivened me. 

After the brief slowdown at Keystone, another tourist-heavy town that passes in a few traffic lights, I resumed the winding highway to Rapid City, passing the venerable tourist destinations of Reptile Gardens (the world's largest reptile-focused zoo), Bear Country USA, and the Fort Hays Old West Town, best known as a filming site from Dances with Wolves. Then the Black Hills high country drops right into downtown Rapid City. 

Lunch choices were myriad, but the usual choice seemed best – Firehouse Brewing Company. A pint of saison and a plate of bison lasagna set up nicely. 

 I spotted a few U.S. presidents on the drive through downtown, with John Quincy Adams and Ronald Reagan standing out. It's a nice way to add activity downtown. 

This time I lacked the time to wander and see which chief executives I could encounter. But I knew they would line the streets of Rapid City for a long time to come.

The beauty under Hell Canyon

Cabin houses at the original cave entrance

Hell Canyon vistas.

More Hell Canyon, which is not hellish. 

A friend of mine once said all caves are the same. I never bought into that. 

Three seconds into the elevator descending into Jewel Cave, I caught the distinct smell of underground moisture, not unlike my grandparents’ wine cellar. When the doors opened 200 feet below the surface, a different cave experience awaited. 

From Newcastle, Jewel Cave was closer than I realized. A few blocks from Newcastle, I was enveloped by the Black Hills and quietly crossed into South Dakota. The road gradually rose in elevation, then took a steep, winding course around the edge of Hell Canyon, home to Jewel Cave National Monument. I stopped at the Historic Cabin, where the Historic Lantern Tours depart for the cave’s natural entrance in the canyon. Until 1972 when the elevators opened, this was the only way to experience Jewel Cave. 

 The protected area covers less than 1,300 acres, even with the world’s fifth-largest cave beneath the surface. Even the natural entrance isn’t entirely natural. As a barometric cave, its discoverers found air flowing from a small hole and widened it to enter Jewel Cave. 

Upon spying the calcite formations that formed its walls, the Michaud brothers dubbed it Jewel Cave. Nailhead spar and dogtooth spar are common in the cave, the latter gaining its name from resemblance to canine teeth. Previous knowledge from local Natives is unclear, but Jewel Cave does not have the same cache as Wind Cave does for the Lakota, who consider its natural entrance the place where the bison and their people emerged into this world. 

Even close to the road, the birdsong gets loud in the canyon. When Theodore Roosevelt declared it a national monument in 1908, only a mile of cave had been explored. For decades, that encompassed what visitors could explore. 

When caving couple Herb and Jan Conn moved to the Black Hills in the 1950s, more than 200 miles have been explored since, with spelunkers finding natural ponds where the cave extends below the water table, forcing more recent explorations to extend laterally. More cave becomes uncovered all the time, when scientists take four-day journeys into the dark. 

The Scenic Tour covers what had been a remote portion of the cave until construction of the elevators. Covering a half-mile and 700 stairs underground, it felt like the best choice for a first-timer. 

After a refreshing hike in the canyon, I burnt some time on trails by the visitor center waiting for my tour. People were turned away for lack of reservations; in summertime, walkup tickets are tough. I reserved mine a few weeks earlier, when I decided upon dates. 

Everything in this Black Hills trip revolved around the tour, since it was the only event pinned to a time. The elevator descends to a staging room, where we waited until the whole tour arrived to enter the actual cave. 

Cave colors. 

Boxwork

Did I mention I love boxwork?

Popcorn.

The condensation immediately became present everywhere. The metal railings and stir grates felt damp. As the day on the surface roared into the 80s, Jewel Cave stayed a comfortable 49 degrees. Everyone else on the tour wore either long pants or a long-sleeved shirt, but after a week of record temperatures and high 90s in Colorado, I felt just fine in shorts and a T-shirt. The tour includes 700 steps (up and down) and I actually felt warm after a few of the longer stretches. 

Buttered popcorn. 

 Jewel Cave definitely comes off as more dynamic than Wind Cave, the latter best know for its boxwork formations (Jewel Cave has some boxwork but much variety of cave formations). Most formations are extraordinarily rare and fragile – frostwork looks as delicate as it sounds, and gypsum flowers form from thin ribbons of stone. 

Draperies extend out of the stone like tendrils, reminding me of some formations in Mammoth Cave. So much of what exists in Jewel Cave appears only here. Hydromagnesite balloons, formed off cave popcorn and frostwork, can only be seen on the Wild Cave Tour and nowhere else in the world. Caves like Jewel give us the impression of a living space, where millions of years transpire while rock takes stunning new forms. 

Along the Scenic Tour, a ribbon of flowstone formed by long-moving water known as “cave bacon” runs 20 feet. Soda straws extend down from the ceiling – unlike other formations, the tour guide told me the straws are relatively new, forming in a few thousand years, a blip compared to others in Jewel Cave. 

The guide pointed out the New Moist Room, a cave that had been dry until the Park Service bored the elevator shafts. That action penetrated the shale layer near the room, which had served as a moisture barrier. Now the room has become a test subject for Jewel Cave and other park-owned caves to see if development leads to negative impacts. The smell of wine cellar faded as we ascended to the surface. 

As with the rest of the Black Hills, Jewel Cave beckons one back, with the prospect of a historic lantern tour as a fresh view on a future stop.

Adventures on state borders

Wildfires came within a mile of Ft. Laramie a few weeks later

Outside the Black Hills, many don’t realize the stark beauty of the state borders shared by Wyoming, South Dakota, Nebraska, and Colorado. 

Turn at U.S. 85, and leave the traffic behind. If you have escaped the traffic of Denver, Fort Collins and Cheyenne, the dropoff is stunning. You might pass a truck or a slow-moving tourist following the GPS. Depending on the mood, but it’s either a peaceful drive or a lonely drive. Services will wait for 50 miles, as they often do in this part of the country. Torrington and its handful of traffic lights will feel metropolitan after those 77 miles. 

But it’s a city. Torrington can boast Open Barrel Brewing, a brewery/restaurant with a full menu and some fine sessions brews. To its east, Lingle continued the break from rangeland and crumbling mesas. Some clouds rolled in as I reached Fort Laramie, cutting some of the blazing heat. 

Weeks later Fort Laramie would face possible destruction from a wildfire. Another wildfire would claim the homestead of Wyoming's at-large congresswoman. I agree with very little she says, but I can't imagine the pain of losing a homestead in the family for generations. When the west runs dry, fire fear brings real fear. 

I passed several wide loads carrying massive wind turbine blades, finally passing the last one at an intersection in tiny but lovable Lusk. By this time, I only had eyes for Newcastle, my stop for the night. Another long, city-less stretch ensued. 

I sped by my usual turn for South Dakota, where I first gazed on the pine-covered peaks of the Black Hills. The Black Hills get labeled as a South Dakota range, but they extend into Wyoming, encompassing Newcastle, Sundance and extending to include Devil’s Tower. The mountains have no use for borders here. Newcastle lies on the southwest edge of the Black Hills, the town’s historic district and main cluster of homes built on rolling hills. 

Lobby greeter

I was instantly smitten with the old but stately hotel, which only had a handful of rooms. For one person, it did the trick. The owner showed me around. When I went out for dinner, the owner’s cat sprawled on the carpet that spanned the lobby. The cat chatted at me and readily accepted pets. I hoped the cat might reappear, but our paths crossed just this once. 

I had a dynamite dinner of mole chicken enchiladas as one of Newcastle’s only Mexican restaurants and retired to the room for the MLB All-Star Game. The sun still beat a little too hard for me to explore the historic downtown district that night. 

 Shortly after 5 a.m. first light reached the room and my instinct to explore kicked in. I took my breakfast and coffee on the porch of the hotel, since no one occupied it and there wasn’t a seat in the lobby where the stares of Fish and Wildlife Service employees let me know I wasn't welcome. 

On the porch, I enjoyed the cool temperatures, tasty coffee, and wrapped up a Rick Bass short story before I finished off my breakfast burrito. 

The city of 3,500 had light traffic despite its proximity to the sights of the Black Hills. I picked it as the perfect jump-off spot to visit Jewel Cave, which was just 25 miles east. Custer, S.D. was closer, but rates and tourist populations were much less amenable. 

Newcastle has the stately Weston County courthouse, sitting at the top of the district next to the century-old library. Aside from a groundskeeper, no one was around. A breakfast place drew a few cars, but it was relatively quiet and not the bustling Black Hills gateway I expected. 

I trekked back down to the local theater, which ran Horizon, the new Kevin Costner western. That might not sell in other parts of the country, but in Wyoming it stands to do well. Dogie – Western slang for motherless calf – was also the Newcastle High School mascot. 

 As I was taking pictures, the owner came up to drop off some boxes. We talked for a few minutes - he grew up here, worked at the theater as a teenager, and when it came available, took up ownership. I told him about how similar his story was to my friend Rob, with the State Theater in rural Ohio. 

I needed that exchange; all I got was stares from the FWS staff taking up all the breakfast tables in the hotel lobby. Those few moments of conversation with a local and I forgot them.

The distance between Newcastle and places where I grew up never felt so small.