With Teddy in the Badlands

Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock–more than a maple–a universe.

Annie Dillard

When I lived in Wyoming I often got a head start on hiking season by traveling to North Dakota in May, where I camped at Theodore Roosevelt National Park and explored the varied landscape. It was an interesting place for me, like nothing I had ever before experienced: riparian habitat along the Little Missouri River, prairie, badlands, petrified wood, prairie dog towns, wild horses that meandered through the campground, even history.

The visitors’ centers were filled with books and memorabilia about the nation’s twenty-sixth president. He retreated to the North Dakota badlands after the death of his wife and his mother just a few hours apart. It is possible to visit the site of the ranch house, though nothing remains but the prairie, which has swept away the man with his grief. Even if you are not a history buff, you may nevertheless find his many biographies entertaining, as he was the only president to have a pet badger in the White House. Visiting dignitaries were sometimes forced to share the elevator with the children’s horse, who had to go up and down between floors as efficiently as possible.

Over several years I enjoyed many adventures in that park. There was always some new discovery that captured my attention. On one hike I sat beside a large pile of bison dung and watched a beetle push a perfectly shaped ball of the stuff with its back four legs, keeping its front two legs on the ground while pushing the ball backwards. It was one of those moments of awe in which I disappeared into a new and fascinating world, entranced by this small but mighty creature. The ancient Egyptians held it to be sacred and believed the sun was pushed across the sky each day in this manner. I looked up at the sky, expecting to see a large beetle there next to the sun.

On the same hike I became enchanted by an opalized log of petrified wood, glittering in the sunlight. It was about the size of a bear, the largest I had ever seen. I walked slowly around it, trying to capture every angle of the light and watching the way it changed, until I heard a snort coming from the shaded side. I was only a few feet away from a bison with its sharp and ominous horns, the ones that toss careless tourists into the air when they feel like it. Fortunately for me, that one did not feel like it, and I backed away carefully.

I wonder about Teddy as I write this, how he spent his time, alone there for months. We know that he wrote a short biography of his wife while he was there, one seemingly devoid of feeling. Perhaps the grief was too much. He tried his hand at ranching, planning to ship the cattle across the country by train, but the expense was too great, and he nearly lost the family fortune.

I wondered if he spent his time as I do when I am alone in a beautiful place, pondering dung beetles and petrified wood, getting lost in the wonder, chasing away the sadness. Nature does not make the grief go away, but it makes it bearable, at least for me. There is a reason to get up the next day. Something dazzling and bright awaits my discovery, perhaps a beetle in the sky.