The language of the Mandan-Hidatsa natives, who lived and thrived on the Dakota prairies before the settlement and conquest by the emerging American government, is one of pictures. The phrase "Mako Sika" renders images of a grandfather, something which is long-lasting and worthy of great respect. Using a more direct translation, Mako Sika can also mean, quite simply, "bad land."

The vast expanse of cliffs and canyons, which opens up the prairie like a giant zipper, have been a place of bad travel for every generation of humans whom have ever lived or traveled within its borders. The Spanish and the French explorers had their own names for it, as did the many nations of first peoples.

I came up with a few names of my own back in 2006, when I found myself unprepared to meet its steep canyons and semi-arid climate. Hiking out in the dark with no moon, bushwhacking a trail with two strained quads and using the stars to guide the way, I had a moment where I thought to myself, "So this is how people die out here."

Before I had learned the meaning of the place through the picture language of the Mandan, I found myself heading home with a great sense of respect for the place which had beaten me.

Out there, it is quite clear that the endless land belongs to the sky, and that we as a human people belong to the land. And although it seems that we are prisoners, out there, I have never felt so free.

While it appears slow and meandering, the current is strong, and in the spring, it leaves its mark on the landscape as it roars through the canyons at several thousand cubic feet per second.

Like every other river in the Dakotas, spring is the time for flooding. The spring of 2009 was no exception.

My city of Grand Forks was all but cut off by floodwaters of the Red River of the North, and 79 miles by Interstate to the south, Fargo was nearly overrun. High water throughout the eastern Dakotas wreaked havoc on travel and industry, but it also allowed us to run rapids on the Pembina River near Walhalla, and fish the strong currents of waterways running into Devil's Lake.

It also gave us an opportunity to make a trip that has been four years in the making. The Little Missouri has been taunting me from its rugged valley since 2005, and this spring, the late high water was beckoning us to dip our paddles into its silty-brown waters.

Final exams for my last full semester at UND, and a fishing trip to the Sawtooth Mountains of northeastern Minnesota put our launch date past peak flow by just over a week, but based on the information we had available, every light for launch was lit up a steady green.

So on Thursday the 21st, a coworker and I loaded up the Aurora and headed west on Interstate 94, meeting up with two of my friends from high school along the way. At long last, the Little Missouri River was set to introduce itself.

Flow conditions were slowly becoming borderline, we had three people in one canoe due to a last-minute backout, and the last thing any of us wanted to do was get stuck out there because of an overconfident approach. The Badlands don't take kindly to being underestimated.

So after ferrying Adam's trailer-equipped Neon up to Elkhorn Camp, we returned to Medora and set out on our great adenture.

We were immediately enrolled in a crash course in reading current, and after a few scrapes and drags on gravel bars, we were well on our way. We passed a group of fellow Minnesotans within the Park, as their backpacking trail crossed our river. We also passed a few bison, and once we left the park, we passed cattle ranches, antelope, mule deer, coyotes, and a hundred species of birds.

The number of ranches was actually quite surprising, as my other experiences in the Badlands have been off in the hills, where there is quite literally nothing for miles and miles. After pushing roughly 20 miles on the first day, we lost the sun and were forced to set up camp along the river on private property.

We were a long ways off from the nearest structure, and we never once built a fire, but I still felt uneasy about our tresspass. I think all of us had dreams about gun-toting landowners, and the below-freezing temperature that night only added to the lack of sleep.

Despite the infrequent ranches, the Little Missouri is a spectacular river. I was surprised at the number of boulder field rapids and the strength of the current, even at our low flow conditions. With a gage height in Medora of 4.o feet or more, the trek to the north unit of the Park would be a swift one indeed.

But before I really get to rambling, I will let the photographs take the story from here. We made it to Elkhorn Camp in about two half-days, and spent the rest of the weekend hiking before heay rains forced us (and our little Neon) to head back to the safety of paved roads and civilization. The Badlands are truly a special place, and in the spring, they carry a rugged beauty which is unmatched anywhere else in the world.

Thanks for stopping by, and remember to Leave No Trace.