I sat on a parking block in front of Darla at at a rest stop at the border of Nebraska, eating a gas station turkey sub and watching 18-wheelers whiz past, with absolutely nothing on my mind. My eyes followed gusts of wind rolling over the grass fields around me, watching them barrel toward me until they pushed at my side. I sat and listened to the highway and thought of nothing at all until I realized my mind was empty, which surprised me. I thought of my first night in Mammoth Cave, crying and panicked; of the trouble I’d had falling asleep in Illinois. For the first time during the trip my anxiety was nowhere to be found.

*Watching cars and trucks come and go at a rest stop near the border of Nebraska*

I drove for miles and hours that blended together to feel like simultaneously one or one million, or any number in between. When I approached Reliance, South Dakota, a passing billboard read, “Next stop anyone’s guess. Gas now or gas can later.” I laughed to myself at the name Reliance for a town that was one of few with just the thing travelers required, and looked down at my fuel gauge - still 3/4 of a tank left, but I was convinced to stop anyway. With one right turn the highway turned to gravel road, which led to the only building in sight. As I pumped gas the world stood very still around me. There was no music or gas pump video ads playing, or chimes from people walking through the convenience store doorway. Only the smell of gasoline and the wind brushing against my skin.

When I arrived at Badlands National Park, my first stop was to the Visitor Center to talk to a park ranger, as I had questions that needed immediate answering. Mainly, was there anything I could do to keep rodents from destroying my vehicle? Clearly, anxieties from Mammoth Cave were still high.

As I asked about pack rats, the older gentleman across the counter from me gave me a look that read as both humor and pity. “Ma’am, you should be more worried about falling off of a cliff, or hitting a cow in the road,” he drawled, smiling with one side of his mouth. I felt embarrassed and tried to explain further, as if saying more would make him understand my anxieties were warranted. It had the opposite effect. “It's just that I’m at the beginning of a road trip and can’t really afford to have issues with my car,” I said. He chuckled and replied, “Well, last summer I got halfway home to Minnesota when my AC stopped working thanks to some mice. I rolled the windows down the rest of the way and enjoyed the breeze. Other night I hit a deer on my way out of the park. Still trying to get the hood of my car to close.”

His response was less of an answer to my question and more of a commentary about life: “It happens. Deal with it when it does.”

*Small wildflowers decorate the plains surrounding the badlands*

When I pulled up at my campsite and stepped out of my car, the first thing I saw was a hole in the ground, about the size of my palm, right next to my tire. My chest fluttered with worry and I quickly and half-heartedly kicked some rocks into it. A bit of regret swelled up, propelled by guilt and shame about potentially burying an animal alive. Yet still I hoped it worked.

I got to work setting up my campsite, moving haphazardly between Darla, the cargo box on top of Darla, and the grassy area in front of Darla where I was setting up camp. I struggled with my tarp against the wind, spinning around it in hopes the wind would work in my favor to help lay things out. Instead it seemed to tease me, switching directions each time I moved positions. Once I got the tarp and tent flat on the ground and turned to grab the tent poles, the two rolled up together and began to drift away. I chased after them and laid them out again, this time placing a rock at each corner as I went.

After struggling with the rain fly just as I had with the other pieces, I finally got it all in working order - or so I thought, a bit too soon. I took out my tent stakes and went to secure the erected tent to its spot, but the first stake at the front right corner wouldn’t budge more than an inch past the surface of the earth. Maybe just a tough spot? I moved on to the back right corner, only to encounter the same problem but worse. I hoped the third try at the back left corner would produce any amount of hope, but no luck. My face felt flush as I became keenly aware of a father and daughter at the campsite next door eating their dinner, watching me struggle. I took out my hatchet and attempted to use the blunt side as a hammer, only to bend the tent stake and chip the hatchet. I hid on the far side of my tent where the father-daughter duo couldn’t see me and poured water over the ground, hoping to soften it, but all the water did was run over the surface of the rocky soil along the side of the tent.

I put a gallon of water in each corner of the tent to keep it from blowing away, got into my car, whisper-screamed into my hands, and then took a deep breath.

There were 10 minutes until the camp store closed. Maybe they would have something.

The camping section of the store was sparse. “Because other campers come prepared,” I thought, chastising myself. A cooler, a picnic blanket, a few headlamps, a bug net, and a rubber mallet. I grabbed the bug net and the rubber mallet, hoping the obvious one would solve my problem. If not, I’d be sleeping in Darla with the bug net over the windows.

The sun was beginning to hang low in the sky as I pulled back up to the campsite. I returned to the corner of the tent, threaded the end of the tent stake through the metal ring, took a deep breath, and swung the rubber mallet. A few good hits and the stake was in its place. Relief set in, and I felt brave enough to look to see if my camp neighbors were still watching. The expressions on their faces eased upon witnessing my success. They wouldn’t have to come to my rescue.

*A man walks a ridgeline of a sandstone butte during golden hour*

With the final hours of daylight encroaching, I hopped into Darla and drove Highway 240 through the park to find a place to watch the sunlight crawl down the sides of the beige and red ridges. I settled on White River Valley Overlook, where I could walk across the top of the sandstone buttes and peek down into the shadows below.

As the light softened and people headed back toward their homes or tents or lodges to settle in for the evening, I worked up the courage to take out my tripod for a self portrait. Almost no one was left to witness my vanity. No one but Tommy.

“Oh my god, amazing picture. Are you one of those Instagram girls? Do you do like, an Instagram thing?” he said as he approached, smoke floating coolly from the cigarette perched between his fingers. “Um, no, not really…” I stumbled through my response, unsure of how to answer. I recoiled at the thought of being “one of those Instagram girls,” but knew that of course that’s why I was taking the picture. I was worse - I was just a girl on Instagram, putting down “those Instagram girls” while doing the exact same thing but less successfully. A fraud of the highest form.

“Oh, well that’s what I do, write and post about my travels. That’s what my dissertation was on,” replied Tommy, revealing that the only one who had been judging me was myself. “It’s so beautiful here. I love the West. I just wish the West loved me. It can be hard to travel to these states, especially if I’m with my boyfriend. I’m traveling through right now to meet him in Cincinnati and introduce him to my parents. He’s way younger than me, so we will see how that goes. Are you loving it here?”

I wondered why Tommy was so comfortable sharing about his personal life with me, or if he was this open with everyone. I was intimidated by his candor and was glad that although he asked me questions, he didn’t seem to expect me to fill the space with words the way he did. “Yes, it’s beautiful. It’s one of my first stops on a month-long trip. After this I’m headed to Yellowstone,” I said with false confidence, again feeling like a fraud. I didn’t share that I’d spent the better portion of the last week crying in my car.

“Oh my god, Yellowstone is my favorite place,” Tommy said enthusiastically. “Hold on, let me show you.” He went back to his car and grabbed a Yellowstone brochure, unfolded it, and hovered his cigarette above each of the locations on the map that he said were a must-see. He told me of the many times he’d driven across the country and through the parks, sleeping in his car at pull-offs and parking lots along the way, driving for as long as he felt like driving and stopping when the desire hit. I felt embarrassed at the thought of my multi-page document outlining drive times and stopping points and detailed lodging reservation information. I longed to be as carefree as Tommy. “Here, you can take this one - I have a million of these,” he said, handing me the map. “Seriously. You’re going to love it.”

By the time Tommy parted ways the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. I snapped a quick photo, folded up the tripod and stood at the edge of the sandstone, taking a moment to admire the view. Over the barren landscape, the light lingered, and for a moment it was just me and the universe.

*Taking in the final moments of sunlight before returning to my campsite*

By the time I made it back to my campsite, the rocks that I had kicked over the hole had been dug through, forming a small rim around the now-exposed burrow. I breathed a sigh of relief that my earlier hasty decision hadn’t killed whatever was residing in there. If it was between Darla and the life of the creature, I’d decided I wanted the creature to survive. I just hoped Darla would survive too.

In the middle of the night I woke up just a little cold. As I reached over to grab another blanket, I realized I was shaking heavily. “I must be freezing to death,” I thought. It was hypothermia, I was sure. I grabbed my blankets and bear spray and moved into the driver’s seat of Darla, running the heat for a few moments and turning on the seat warmer. Once my shaking turned to a gentle shiver I turned off the car and drifted back off.

Not more than an hour later I awoke again, trembling more vigorously this time. I was warm now, so it couldn’t be hypothermia. I was dying though - that I felt for sure. Now I was convinced I was suffocating in the confines of my car. Half asleep and fully in the midst of a panic attack, I fumbled through the back seat to find my first-aid kit. I dumped out the contents to find the pulse oximeter and placed it on my finger to confirm I was breathing. The oxygen reading bounced between 99 and 100. Still, I couldn’t breathe. I swung the door open and gasped for air. Now fully awake, another feeling hit me suddenly: my stomach rumbled and turned. I wrapped myself in my coat and walked as quickly as I could toward the restroom, shaking and stumbling the whole way. Adrenaline had taken hold of my brain, my limbs and my digestive system.

Once I felt confident that I had nothing left to expel, I mustered the energy to return to Darla, body still trembling and thoughts spinning. My brain continued to try to apply logic to the panic. If it wasn’t the cold and it wasn’t suffocation, it must be dehydration or lack of nutrients. Anxiety had been suppressing my appetite so I had been forcing myself to eat, but not much. I downed a granola bar, washed it down with 32 ounces of water and took an Ativan. Then I leaned the seat back as far as it would go, attempted a breathing meditation and accepted the fact that I had gotten all the sleep I would for that night.

*A baby mountain goat stands above the prairie*

As the calm from the Ativan kicked in, the world awoke around me. Three children in the campsite across from me expended their morning energy by running in circles around their dad while he cooked eggs and sausage over a camp stove. “You’re under arrest!” the children declared, pulling their father’s arms behind his back. “What did I do?!” he played in return. “You haven’t taught us how to fish!” they rebuked. “Off to jail!”

As I watched them play I fixed myself my own breakfast of apple cinnamon oats and a handful of peanut butter granola. I mulled over my plans for the day to drive to Wind Cave National Park and take a tour of the cave. I wondered whether my bear spray would be safe in the heat of my car during the tour, and figured leaving it behind in the heat of my tent wouldn’t be much better. Besides, I was afraid to leave it out of my sight and within reach of the children who had been playing nearby. I decided to call the rangers at Wind Cave and ask whether they had any storage. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. We don’t really do that,” said the ranger on the other end of the phone. “If you’re not comfortable leaving it in your car then I’m not sure what to tell you.” He sounded both surprised and annoyed at the question. Apparently no one else overthought this as much as I did.

Before heading toward Wind Cave I headed back to the camp store and bought the small cooler I’d seen the evening before to put the bear spray in, hoping it’d be safe in a dark, slightly cooler space. Then I plugged “Wind Cave” into my GPS and drove.

*A car drives the main highway through Badlands National Park*

And drove, and drove some more. I drove through desolate landscapes, the only road signs visible telling me I was leaving Badlands National Park, then entering again, then leaving again, only to enter once again. I passed a single mailbox attached to no apparent driveway, and then a single bison laying alone under the edge of a short green plateau. I had been driving for an hour when I approached a lineup of four or five cars and a woman in a high-visibility vest holding a stop sign as men dug on the side of the road. Somehow, construction traffic in the middle of nowhere.

I got through the traffic and drove some more, passing nothing but empty plains. I had two hours until my reservation for a tour of Wind Cave. My GPS said I would be there 40 minutes early. I looked closer at the map and saw a symbol I had never seen before. I tapped it. "Unpaved road for 26 miles,” warned the GPS. Then I suddenly remembered something I’d read on the Wind Cave National Park website months ago during all my planning: “Do not use GPS to find it - YOU WILL GET LOST.”

I started to feel pins and needles in my hands and my feet - a sign I was hyperventilating. I took a deep breath and told myself I'd drive until I reached the unpaved road, and then I’d make a decision.

Just as I was approaching the symbol on the map, I came upon the White River Visitor Center. Sitting outside the trailer was a woman selling Native American jewelry at a folding table. Inside, a ranger who looked almost identical to my ex-husband stood next to the front desk. I paused. He turned to speak to a fellow ranger, and his voice and tone sounded so eerily similar to my ex that I almost turned around and walked out of the building for fear of it actually being my ex, somehow now a park ranger in South Dakota.

I did a loop around the display in the center of the room, pretending to be interested in the map while I worked up the courage to ask for directions.

When I did finally ask about the unpaved section of road, the ranger confirmed my suspicion. “Oh no, ma'am. You don't want to go that way. It's a slow, rough road, and when it rains it turns into muck.” He gave me a smile that felt so familiar it made my stomach turn.

I pulled out of the parking lot and got back on the main road with a new route plugged into my GPS. I’d be at Wind Cave with 10 minutes to spare.

The bison had other plans. As I wound down the road toward Wind Cave I began to see tail lights, driving toward them until I was one of many sets of tail lights in a lineup. I stuck my head out the window to see why we were at a dead stop. Bison, laying in the middle of the road, right in front of the Wind Cave National Park sign.

I watched the time on the GPS go up and the minutes on the clock tick ahead, sitting only a moments drive from my destination, until the time on my tour reservation passed. I hadn’t made it.

When the bison finally decided to stand up and meander off, I finished my drive anyway, knowing I wasn’t going to make it into the cave. It was no matter to me. I was elated to have spent my time next to the bison, watching them graze, allowing them to move through the land as they were meant to, not a care about where the people needed to be. They weren’t in our way - we were in theirs.

Upon making it to the Wind Cave Visitor Center I parked my car, entered the building, bought a patch to add to my patch quilt and headed to the information desk to ask the ranger for the fastest and safest way back to the Badlands.

*Grasses blow in the breeze in front of the sandstone buttes that make up Badlands National Park*

Back at camp I fixed myself dinner: rice and a packet of chicken on a tortilla, with a side of apple. As I ate a man approached me, asking what was for dinner. At first I was happy to have a bit of company, but the conversation quickly devolved into him mostly speaking to himself, starting thoughts that trailed off into nothing while picking at his face and looking off into the distance. “I biked over to town today, my daughter bikes, she doesn’t like to bike with me much though, into town, I’ve been to a museum in town, not this town, a war museum, seen the shells, got things, I have my bag of things, over there, by my bike, just my bike, those are my things. Are you alone? I’m alone, my wife doesn’t bike with me, or my daughter, just my things,” he said, on and on, eyes darting back and forth as he spoke. Very quickly I felt trapped. As he talked to himself I mentally practiced what I’d say to get him to leave, trying to force the words from my mouth, but it pained me to be rude. I reassured myself that I didn’t owe this man anything, and that if I was uncomfortable I had to speak up. “I’M GOING TO FIN…ish my dinner now. Thanks for stopping by,” I interrupted, starting the sentence a bit too loudly and ending it a bit clunkily. It worked nonetheless. The man got the message and headed back toward his bike and bag of things across the campground.

For the rest of the evening I watched the man from the corner of my eye, feeling uneasy. As I climbed into my tent, intrusive thoughts began popping into my mind. Terrible images of the man unzipping my tent, his face hovering over mine. Him plunging a knife into my eyes, or my throat. Him touching his finger tips to my lips while I was unable to scream, putting his hands everywhere I didn’t want them. Him with a gun. Him taking a lighter to my tent. Him on top of me.

Tears welled as the images kept coming. I had to do something. I set up an alarm of pots and pans outside my tent door so that I’d awake in time to grab my bear spray if he approached. But then, what if he just cut through the back of the tent? I padded the back wall with my gear. I knew my solutions were useless but I was desperate to feel a little less helpless. I could sleep in my car, but then I’d be giving in to the delusions. Funny the paradox of feeling you’re doomed and knowing you’re not, and acting on both.

Finally the images slowed enough for me to fall asleep, just before the thunder storms rolled in. I awoke at midnight to the wind whipping at the walls of my tent and the static sounds of thunder crackling across the sky. Rain drizzled, then fell at a steady pace, then poured. Lightning illuminated the fabric of the tent. I rolled up my blanket, shoved it under my sweatshirt, grabbed my backpack and ran to Darla. I was rocked back to sleep by the motion of her swaying back and forth in the wind, the sound of fat water droplets pelting the cargo box above.

My last day in the Badlands was the first day of my trip that I had nothing at all on my schedule. The whole day was mine to do anything or nothing as I pleased.

I spent the morning watching the storm clouds roll past and the sun rise over the mountains. I drove Badlands Loop again, this time taking my time, stopping at each overlook to explore its unique treasures. I saw mountain goats making their way down the sides of the sandstone, looking for places to rest with their babies. I heard prairie dogs chirping to one another as they scurried and pounced across the vast plains. As I drove, a mule deer jumped out of the prairie to my right, leapt across the road only feet in front of my car, and bounced down the canyon on the left side of the road.

I explored until the sun’s warmth covered me like a blanket and my eyes felt heavy. Then I parked, rolled down the windows, closed my eyes, and felt the breeze across my face until I drifted off.

I woke up when the breeze turned cold and gusty. I looked out over a deep gray sky behind me but clear skies ahead. I had a 360 degree view of the weather for miles.

I put Darla in drive and headed back to my favorite overlook, where I had met Tommy that first day, the storm following closely behind me. It was a very different view than the sunset I'd had two days prior. To the left, dark clouds churned, giving way to bright white skies on the right. I thought of my tent and that I should go check on it. But I was feeling good from my nap, and I considered that I shouldn’t let anxiety creep up and take the rest of the day away from me. Certainly my tent would be fine. I continued my tour of the park through the sun and the rain and the wind.

*Storms brew and rain falls on the left while sun shines on the right*

As the sun began to set I headed back toward the campground, already feeling tired again. My lack of sleep was catching up to me. I was ready climb straight into my tent.

My tent. It was leaning heavily to the left, collapsed on one side. I unzipped the front door to inspect the issue; the tent pole had broken. Not just snapped, but frayed and shattered into a million pieces.

I climbed back out of the tent and looked around. The father and daughter next door were cleaning up from their dinner, watching me again, making note of my increasing number of tent failures, I assumed.

I hurried to clean up the mess and make a bed in Darla. Another night I was saved by her shelter.

I laid in the back of the car and listened to the rain and thunder until I drifted off. Not much longer until I wouldn’t be alone.

Badlands and Wind Cave, South Dakota

Gateway Arch, Missouri