An Ode to I-90
In praise of the spine of South Dakota.
South Dakota is a dichotomous state. Its citizens see the Missouri River as a divider, a median slicing the state geographically and culturally in two. Though the two precincts share the same zip code, a ceaseless dispute of superiority between East and West River ensues. Sioux Falls vs. Rapid City. Farmland vs. Forest. Shopping malls vs. Scenery. This feud fueled by hometown pride arouses the state’s denizens, and from the outside may appear silly and insignificant, except to Iowans, whose problems usually center around cornfields and crack.
I am not here to pick a side. I grew up on the west side, and am being educated in the east. I will not advocate for the geological miracle that reminds us God exists and is with us, better known as the “Black Hills” and the “Badlands”, nor will I shun the 40,000 sq. mi manure farm east of the Missouri. I am not here to separate. I am here to link. Actually, I’m here to celebrate the single link that conjoins East and West River: SD Interstate 90.
I have traveled I-90 all my life. From the bends of Wasta to the mulchy scent of Mitchell, I know every mile of the 400 that stretch horizontally from border to border. Whether it be family holidays, fishing trips, or fall semesters, the asphalt of I-90 assured that my travel through South Dakota was safe and quick. As a child, its vibratos hummed through my parent’s minivan and lulled me to slumber. As an adult, its landscapes do the same. However, this only reminds me I am the unreliable one, not it.
There is one thing those of East and West river do share: we bitch about I-90. A lot. We bitch about construction. We bitch about crosswinds. We bitch about animal carcasses. We bitch about anything we can find, just to pass time on the drive.
Instead, we should be thankful for I-90. We should be thankful for the men in orange that patch our interstate through South Dakota’s fickle weather patterns, and more thankful we’re not them. We should be thankful that, no matter how far you drive on I-90, you will never end up in North Dakota ― something SD I-29 can’t claim. We should be thankful to witness the oddities that I-90 brings us, such as a town called Mount Vernon with an elevation of 1,400 feet, or a billboard advertising a sex shop placed within a mile of another advertising a place of worship outside of Sturgis. Or the massive scrap metal bullhead guarded by his human-bodied, ram-headed skeletons east of Sioux Falls. Or the Corn Palace, a popular tourist destination among the bored and demented.
In his essay “A Secret Race of Giants”, Harrison Scott Key says “public schools are about the last places in our country, aside from the Doritos aisle at Walmart, where a perfectly reasonable and healthy human being can come into close contact with people who are actually insane.”
Though correct, Key forgot these people can also be found in the gas stations of towns like Kadoka and Kimball, and that they’re usually armed. Traveling I-90 is an adventure, and we should be thankful for the thrill.
On my return from Winter break in Rapid City last Sunday, I had time to reflect on my memories trapped within the asphalt of this Interstate. Some were fuzzier, buried in the depths of my childhood recollections, like the time in 3rd grade my family stopped in that strange 1880’s town 20 miles east of Murdo to avoid becoming victims of a Christmas Eve blizzard. I don’t know how he did, but my father valiantly travailed through hours of whiteout as I read in the backseat, oblivious to the danger we were in. As I passed the antiquated village, I thought of that afternoon, and wondered why the f*** that place is still there.
Passing through Mitchell, I recalled the time we stopped to fuel up despite an infestation of large, black beetles in the vicinity, frightening my sisters to the point of tears. As I saw the same gas station to my left, I thought of that day, and wondered why Mitchell is still there.
Other, smaller memories filled the pastures as I continued on I-90’s pavement, such as the first time I listened to Kanye’s “Late Registration” from Mitchell to Highway 81 when I was fourteen (the most important hour of my life), or the time I punched Ryan Richards in the head for stealing my shoes during a baseball trip (in nearly the same location).
The most prevalent memory of I-90, though, is one all South Dakotans can remember: the day in April 2015 our state government bumped I-90’s speed limit to 80 mph. Many in South Dakota say the five mile per hour increase was the greatest thing to happen to the state since Citibank moved its credit card operations to Sioux Falls in 1981. Others say Adam Vinatieri kicking the game-winning field goal in Super Bowl XXXVII was better. The rest, non-residents, however, are surprised we even have a transportation system, believing children walked through rattlesnake-abundant lands to get to school and adults rode horseback to reach their posts in the oil fields.
Nevertheless, I-90 exists, and persists. Day by day, the road brings loved ones home, sends others onto new ventures, and ensures the gentle flow of South Dakota never halts. The blood of South Dakota pumps through it, and the capillaries leading to the small farm towns that drive our agricultural industry would dry up if it faltered. It guides tourists to the quiet treasures of our state, and thanks them for coming on the way out. It is not dreamy, but it is dependable, and will outlive many generations following mine. The citizens of East and West River may often argue in protection of their homeland, but we must acknowledge the tenacious road that bridges our territories. For without I-90, South Dakota would be a divided land, and South Dakotans would be a divorced people.
