Living in eastern North Dakota isn't easy for me. I'm away from my family and friends, I have no time for myself, and the winters are absolutely brutal. There is nothing to remind me of home; there are few hills, too many wide-open fields, and few good places for me to go and disappear for a while. Fortunately, this place also has a bright side, and it's called Mako Sika, otherwise known as the Badlands.

Western North Dakota is a world apart from the eastern plains where I live, on the flat bottom of ancient Lake Agassiz. The West is the yin to my yang, an enchanted world of canyons and buttes which open the land like a zipper, and allow us to walk down into the depths of the Earth itself. It is a place rich in history; its story is one of great violence, both geological and cultural.

Mako Sika is a name which comes from the Mandan natives, and it means "grandfather" or "long lasting." The name implies that this land is worthy of great respect, and this is surely the truth.

The last time I was in the badlands, I had to hike out in the dark, on a black night with no moon, with badly strained quads in both legs, using the stars to find my way (see the Trip Log from this adventure). There was one moment of this hike in particular, when I stumbled on an old coyote skull while bushwhacking to regain our lost trail, when I thought to myself, "So this is how people die out here."

Really, the situation wasn't desperate, and we made it back to the truck with time to spare. But it opened my eyes some, and left me humbled by the immensity of this vast wilderness. Coming from the deep woods, the lakes country, the iron cliffs of Minnesota, I expected the badlands to be somewhat tame. I was wrong. Way wrong.

Today, the badlands are a vast stretch of arid plains and magnificent canyons, home to everything from rattlesnakes to mountain lions, great herds of bison, wild horses, mule deer, and the occasional saavy human explorer. Broken only by vast ranches and the steady, rhythmic motion of the occasional oil well, the badlands are a place where if nobody knows where you are, you will stay missing for some time.

At certain times of the day, the sun makes the canyons come alive, and paints them with beautiful reds, crimsons, purples and oranges. It is so quiet, I can hear myself think, and it provides many places to sit and ponder this haphazard experiment called life.

Out there in the West, in the empty canyons of the Achenbach Hills, was the first place I found real peace since I left home in 2002.

This is where Jeff (atarisphoto) and I decided to go for a little early-season adventure, in April of 2008. The badlands are always a gamble in the springtime, as the clay and mud which makes up the roads and trails become a nightmare when saturated with water. Our forecast looked good for all but the first day, so we decided to take the chance.

We met in Fargo on a fairly decent Thursday morning, and the weather got colder and wetter with every westward mile we covered. By the time we got to Dickinson, we decided that we would camp at the South Unit of the National Park that night, and avoid the risk of getting stuck, because we had 30 miles of unknown gravel roads to traverse before we reached our first campsite.

That wasn't necessary, however, and despite getting turned around a few times, we reached the USFS-managed Elkhorn Camp just before nigthfall. There was one questionable section of road cut out of the nightmare clay (no gravel), but it was dry enough for us to pass.

There were a lot of things that didn't make the trip with us, however. My good tent, the extra tarp, sleeping pad, eating utensils, camera battery chargers, and raingear were among them. The map seemed outdated, and a few times, we found ourselves twisting through the canyons on roads that didn't officially exist. But we did allright, carving spoons out of green twigs and dealing with the conditions the best we could.

As I told Jeff, "It wouldn't be a Lost Highway trip if everything went according to plan."

The rain picked up again late that night, and the cheap, one-person backpacking tent I had in the pickup leaked like a siv. Neither of us slept well that night, and the rain continued intermittently for the remainer of the following day. With the rain came periods of gale force winds, which chilled us to the bone and sent anything that wasn't tied down tumbling around the campground.

Elkhorn proved to be a nice, quiet little camground though, and with the exception of two groups of turkey hunters, we were all by ourselves out there. The only negative aspect was the barely-audible "whup whup" of an oil pump generator, on a hilltop a few miles away. It made the nights a little less quiet than we wanted, but it was more than overshadowed by the gentle breeze, crackling fire, and the yipping of coyotes as they prowled the adjacent canyons in the dark.

But my, what a magnificent trail it was! It was mile after endless mile of single-track zen, winding up and down the canyons, across the rolling highlands, and through wooded draws choked with wild turkeys, pronghorn antelope, and mule deer.

We made it back to camp and made some dinner, using our hand-carved hobo spoons to eat hot dogs and potato soup, cooked in the can over the fire. Later that evening, it started to calm down a little, and we hiked the southern ridge tops looking for subjects worthy of some candid photgraphy. We managed to catch a decent sunset, and the world was suddenly washed in brilliant color, as often happens out there.

All in all, it was a good day, and the forecast seemed to be coming through with its predictions. The sun came out some, and I put my hammock up in the trees behind the fire to catch a little siesta. It got so nice out for a while, I decided to sleep in the hammock that night, a decision I came to regret when the sun went down and the earth frosted over. I ended up giving up and crawling back into the leaky tent when I got too cold to sleep.

The next day, we checked with the turkey hunters to see where they were going, and decided to head north to the Little Missouri River valley. This was an incredible ride, as the sun had since dried the trails and the weather was almost perfect. Not too hot, not too cold, not too windy... just about right. We wound our way past the river and up some incredibly technical switchbacks before turning around just past noon and heading south to Wanagan Camp.

After making camp in Wanagan and gorging ourselves on pasta and bratwurst, we took another ride to the north. This section was the most incredible section we had encountered yet, starting off with a wicked 700-foot switchback climb before following the steep ridges for another few miles. It was beautiful up there, and the view was enough to change anyone's mind about the saying, "there's nothing to see in North Dakota."

We rode until we lost daylight, and then spent the rest of the evening playing with cameras under the clear, star-filled sky. When the fire died out, we went to bed, and I for one slept like a rock. I passed out as soon as I zipped up my sleeping bag, and I didn't wake up until the sun was hitting my face the next morning.

Soon after we woke, we hit the road, getting turned around a few more times on the maze of twisted gravel roads before getting back on the interstate around 10:00 AM. As I write this, I am sitting shotgun in my pickup while Jeff takes a turn at driving, and I can't wait to get back to Grand Forks and go through the 600-some pictures and choose the 24 best ones for this page. My legs feel like rubber, my whole body is aching, and it feels wonderful!

I hope you enjoy these pictures as much as I enjoyed taking them, and if you're looking for world-class mountain biking, check out the Maah Daah Hey Trail in western North Dakota. I can promise two things: a hell of an adventure and a ride you won't soon forget.

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