The shortest way to get to Pierre, South Dakota’s capital, from my hometown of Sioux Falls is Interstate 90 to US 83. But since I’ve been old enough to drive, I’ve favored taking 90 to Mitchell, then going north to catch State Highway 34. The biggest town you’ll find on 34 headed west from there is Wessington Springs, population south of 1,000. You’ll go right through the Crow Creek Reservation, an expanse of about 400 square miles with not more than about twice Wessington Springs’ population. The reservation takes up most of Buffalo County, the poorest county in the United States with an average annual income of $5,213.
A lot of people avoid Highway 34 despite the fact that you can shave a few minutes off your trip since it’s almost a certainty you won’t be stopped for speeding. It unnerves folks to drive for an hour or more at a time without seeing another vehicle. It worries them that if something should happen to them or their vehicle, it could be hours before someone came by to help… and hours more before they could get medical or automotive care.
But to me, the risks are worth it. Why, you ask? Because it’s a place of transcendence.
I was back in my home state over the summer, and drove Highway 34 for the first time in close to thirty years. It felt exactly the same as it did when I was in my twenties and took it frequently. The rolling Missouri River bluffs still were green and endless. Other than powerlines, nothing broke up the view for miles.
As I took the big turn right at Fort Thompson, and then the big turn left seventeen miles later at Stephan, I thought about the buffalo, jackrabbits and other animals that have traversed the same area for hundreds of years. I thought of the tribes who were removed to the area 150 years ago and who struggle as they walk and drive the road. I thought about the people who are like I was in my twenties, willing to roll the dice to save fifteen minutes. And I thought about how little–and yet, how much–each of us matters in the scheme of the world and God’s plan, whether our time on what’s now Highway 34 was or is a few hours, decades or centuries ago or in the future.
You won’t find tchotchkes or t-shirts to take home or even much of a place to get gas once you’re west of Wessington Springs until you head down that final set of bluffs into Pierre. What you will find is a thin place and holy ground.
