Matthew Parker Harney Peaklookout Tower Troy, James and David on horseback Roland Schmidt


Growing up as a child in the Black Hills, my siblings, my cousins and I soon learned that there was much fun to be had in the wild country. Tall pine forests inhabited by deer, squirrels, snakes and hawks beckoned to our sneaker-shod feet. Trails blazed by Maj Carlson in the thirties awaited the hoofprints of our horses. Cool clear mountain streams rippled unaware of our crude bobbers and lures.

As I get older, the rocks and glens still call. Come summer, I shoulder a pack and head for the tops of the trees, to wander among the granite spires and catch the wind in my hair. It's easy to see why the Indians regard the Hills as sacred. Standing on top of Elkhorn, or sitting next to a waterfall in the quiet of the afternoon, the Hills are yours alone... alone except for the far-off whistle of the 1880 train making its way into Keystone, and the occasional helicopter buzzing angrily overhead.





Horseback Riding


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