Spring Green, WI is home to two interesting, and polar opposite, attractions: Taliesin, the home built by Frank Lloyd Wright, and the House on the Rock, the home built by Alex Jordan Jr. One is exquisite, even with its signs of deterioration; the other is just plain weird.

Wright, a flamboyant, womanizing architect who had already made his reputation, built Taliesin between 1909 and 1911 on land in southwestern Wisconsin where he had spent many a summer in his youth. He longed to create a home there for his mistress, Mamah Borthwick Cheney, and himself out of the public eye of Chicago’s critics. Wright, after all, had left his wife of twenty years with whom he had six children for Mamah, the wife of one of his clients. It was scandalous behavior in those days, but then Wright could always be counted on for scandal of one kind or another.

Taliesin is named for a Welsh poet from post-Roman days. Wright’s family was Welsh, so the name is well-fitted. There is little left of the bard’s work, and perhaps this was prophetic of what’s happened to the architect’s legacy as well. There are relatively few Wright homes intact anymore.

To say Taliesin is among them is problematic. It still stands in its original location and houses much of Wright’s original furniture and other possessions. At the same time, the current home is the third incarnation of the residential portion of the estate. The first Taliesin burned in 1914, killing Mamah, her two children, and four others. After burying the woman he loved, Wright rebuilt the home only to have it ravaged by an electrical fire in 1925. Once again he rebuilt it, and this is the version Earl and I saw today.

Wright was an experimenter and saw Taliesin as a place to test his theories. He was also more interested in drama than permanence, which could account for the fact that he didn’t establish a solid foundation for the home. Currently, work is being done to shore the home so it doesn’t fall off the mountain to which it clings.

Yet, even with these problems the house is magnificent, especially if one adheres to the Prairie School of Architecture. Taliesin is a great airy example. We have seen the Dana House in Springfield, Illinois; while it is touted as being one of the most authentic Wright home is existence today, in my mind it doesn’t compare to the lightness of Taliesin, regardless of the dark deeds done there.

After finishing our tour of Wright’s home, we drove six miles down the road to The House on the Rock built by Alex Jordan Jr. This edifice is said to be Wisconsin’s most popular tourist attraction, and judging from this one day in early September I’d say there were 400 percent more cars in the parking lot than at Taliesin. Earl wasn’t particularly interested in another tour, so he decided to listen to the ball game (White Sox vs. Twins) on the car radio while I ventured forth alone. (Shades of Reptile Gardens, see September 1 blog.)

I chose the least expensive tour, which included only Jordan’s gate house, his main house, his gardens, and a museum that worked hard to make Jordan special. I did the museum first to learn about this man who spent almost fifty years creating his monument. He wasn’t well known in any other field; he didn’t do well in school; I’m not sure he ever married; and I never found out how he acquired the money to build this monument to himself. I say “monument” because there were two other tours for purchase that allowed visitors to see his massive collections of musical instruments, calliopes, planes, a whimsical whale, and other eccentricities. Given that I’ve already seen a lifetime of collections in the past three weeks, I saved the money.

What I did see was merely strange. Jordan seemed to carve his house from the very rock itself, so that many walls in many rooms were the actual stone. The house itself felt like a cave with few windows and narrow hallways. Perhaps there is architectural cohesion, but I failed to see it. One of the final rooms Jordan built is the Infinity Room, a long narrow corridor with over 3,000 small windows that juts 218 feet out over the main building to reveal incredible views of the valley 156 feet below. The last 140 feet of the room are suspended, unsupported in midair. It is not for the faint hearted. I qualified, but I did go into the room as far as my fears allowed.

Jordan seems to be as much of a recluse as Wright was a public figure. It’s interesting that today Jordan’s work is more popular. Yet, Wright’s home with its connection to the land and its connection to the architect himself cannot be dismissed. Is it merely better marketing that makes Jordan’s home more popular? Or is it that Wright died in 1959 while Jordan died in 1989? Or what? You have to visit both the House on the Rock and Taliesin to decide for yourself.

In the last forty-eight hours we’ve crossed South Dakota, Minnesota, and part of Wisconsin. In that time, the scenery from our car windows has changed dramatically.

Rapid City on the western side of South Dakota was described by someone (I can’t recall who) who said the rainfall was about three inches short of a desert. Meaning that if Rapid City doesn’t get its usual amount of rain, its climate is that of the deserts to the west of it. We could see this in the lack of vegetation and the parched coloration of the hills themselves.

Moving eastward, we saw cows in fields; then we saw great rounded bales of hay presumable to feed the cows. When we got to Minnesota, what we noted was the myriad of windmill farms. We’ve seen windmill farms in other states, most notably Iowa and New York; but we have never seen the number of them that dot the lands of southern Minnesota.

About midway through Minnesota, we began to see the kinds of trees we’re used to seeing at home in Michigan. Various firs, birch, pine. At first they appeared in clumps of three or four; but by the time we crossed into Wisconsin we saw firsthand why this state and its neighbor were known for their forests. By the time we slipped into the Mississippi Valley at LaCrosse, WI we were back in familiar territory in terms of the view from our windows.

We are stopped for the night at the Wisconsin Dells. It was one of several places we considered. But I hadn’t been to the Dells in forty years, so I thought we should at least give it a try. I know, I know. It was tacky back then and it still is. For anyone else who visited years ago, just know that Tommy Bartlett is still around.

The saving grace of this rest stop is that we are within reasonable distance to Taliesin, one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterpieces and the one fraught with the most personal tragedywhen a disgruntled hired hand set fire to it, killing Wright’s companion and her two children. We plan to visit tomorrow. And I don’t think there will be anything tacky about it.

Traveling across southern South Dakota yesterday, we finally stopped in Murdo, SD, for the evening. It was intentional, since we’d seen billboards for the Pioneer Auto Museum in Murdo; and Earl loves antique autos.

We stayed at a Best Western motel; and while it looked like a motel from the fifties it was really most comfortable. The clerk at the desk suggested we would find libations and delicious food at the Buffalo Restaurant and Bar. I will say the clerk got the libation part right, but the fried chicken was inedible. We brought no doggie bags home.

This morning we rose, dressed, and went in search of the Pioneer Auto Museum. It was just a couple miles up the road. We turned into the parking lot and looked at each other. The attraction looked as if it had had its better day and we were going to pay an admission fee to verify it. We paid it anyway, and spent an hour visiting twenty-two buildings of someone else’s idea of automotive treasures.

We’ve decided one thing. If the attraction has the word “Pioneer” in first place, then we will pass from now on. The Pioneer Auto Museum was just a collection of cars and motorcycles and farm implements and other collections that were in their natural state of decomposition. We’ve been there before when we visited the Pioneer Village in Minden, NE. And, even though the attraction didn’t start with the word “Pioneer,” the Old Trail Town in Cody, WY, had the same vibe.

Old . . . pioneer . . . historic. These are all code for junk.

Murdo doesn’t have a lock on what Earl is beginning to call the “tacky” part of our trip. We’ve spent almost three weeks looking at nature’s exhibits, and I loved every minute (except for the parts where we seemed to be hanging off a cliff on a narrow two lane road filled with hairpin curves).

But we probably won’t come this way again for a long time, if ever; so I want to make sure we see everything that’s ever made a guidebook. Which brings us to Mitchell, SD, and the Corn Palace, a couple hours east of Murdo.

The Corn Palace hadn’t intrigued me the way Mount Rushmore had, but it was on our route; so there was no reason not to stop. We followed the signs off the Interstate into Mitchell, turning this way and that until we felt the city fathers deliberately made us visit the historic district on the way to their prime claim to fame.

At last we turned the final corner, and there it was. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. It was, indeed, tacky; hilariously so. It is also billed as the “World’s Only Corn Palace” and has been since its inception in 1892. Back then Mitchell had only a few thousand inhabitants, and I suspect its leaders were seeking ways to generate interest in their community.

The Corn Palace is the central meeting place in town. The outside of it is decorated with thousands of ears of corn, which are cut in half and nailed to the building in various elaborate designs. You’d be amazed (or is that a-maized?) with what one can do with a lot of corn and even greater ingenuity. The inside is a multi-purpose gymnasium and auditorium; and the lady at the entrance told me any event worth having is held here. During our visit, for instance, the toy-tractor pull was going on.

The designs on the exterior are changed every year, with a couple exceptions, at the cost of $130,000. This year, for instance, Mitchell decided to forgo replacing last year’s corn because of the severe drought. The only other times were during World War II.

I couldn’t help but wonder three things: 1. Admission to the Corn Palace is free, so how does the town pay for the redesign every year? 2. With a half million people coming to view it, wouldn’t this be a good source of revenue, even at a dollar a person? 3. Who comes up with all the puns, such as “Aw shucks, you just passed the Corn Palace”?

Of these three questions, the answer to #3 is most curious.

We left Rapid City, SD after finding the first Starbucks® in memory and enjoying every single pricey drop of beverage. It reminded us of home. And we’re headed in that direction.

Via Rapid City near the western part of the state to Sioux Falls on the eastern part of the state, one moves out of the Black Hills and Badlands foothills and into standard Midwest geography. We leave Indians and Western settlements behind and would be doing seventy miles an hour for the entire day were it not for a couple man-made attractions that I want to see. They are Wall Drug in Wall, SD; the antique auto museum in Murdo, SD; and the Corn Palace in Mitchell, SD.

We saw Wall Drug today and are bunking down in Murdo to see the auto museum in the morning before we depart eastward for the Corn Palace.

I loved Wall Drug. It is as tacky as the Reptile Gardens. At the same time, it takes a vision of the Old West to new heights. I found a poster of Chief Joseph, which I have been looking for in many places both west and east. We also found a poster of a Remington piece of art and a great pillow to place on our couch.

I suspect our home will soon become overladen with Western art. We now have three pieces to frame, a pillow, and a couple antlers to display. In addition, we bought a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle that shows the final battle of Little Bighorn. We assume it will be an educational aid as we try to remember this most wonderful trip.

I love snakes, alligators, crocodiles, and tarantulas . . . as long as there is plate glass between them and me. So, after leaving Mount Rushmore, what better place to spend the afternoon than Reptile Gardens?

Yeah, Earl didn’t think so either. He chose to watch the Chicago White Sox play the Detroit Lions while I went by myself to stare at slithery, creepy, venomous creatures and have a wonderful time.

I knew Reptile Gardens would be a hit, because there was a gazillion cars in the parking lot as I approached. Besides, what child doesn’t like slithery things in a safe environment? Which means most of those cars held families celebrating the Labor Day weekend.

I paid my admission fee and wandered to the main building to make the acquaintance of various reptiles, lizards, snakes, and pythons. Although he didn’t acknowledge it, I saluted Maniac, America’s largest crocodile in captivity. He is one big monster. I also saw an albino snake, which I would meet again later in the snake show.

I roamed the various sections of the gardens, meeting prairie dogs and giant turtles. Seeing children and parents ooh and ah at the residents of Reptile Gardens. But what I found most interesting was the alligator/crocodile demonstration that Matt provided toward the end of the afternoon.

He showed how to mount a crocodile and tape its mouth shut. Not that Reptile Gardens advocates this, but at times it’s necessary to determine the health of one of their residents.

At the end of the show, Matt brought out a two-year old alligator for visitors to touch. He taped its mouth, even though the animal was rather small in comparison to the others, and let children and parents alike see what the animal felt like.

I didn’t hang around for the touchy-feely moment. Earl had called me on my cell phone and wondered if I’d been eaten by some snake. Which led me to believe I should head for our motel and that the baseball game was over. For the record, Chicago lost.

Today we went from the ridiculous to the sublime. Only in reverse order. We started the morning by driving to the Crazy Horse Monument and learning all about the largest sculpture in the world. That is, when it is completed. And nobody knows when that will be. Regardless, what has been done since 1949 is impressive.

Crazy Horse is a deserved hero of Indian history. He is known for his participation in the Battle of Little Bighorn, but his respect among his people is not built on that feat alone. Which is why he was chosen to represent Indian peoples when they contacted Korczak Ziolkowski in the late 1940s to create a memorial to their leaders. They wanted “white people” to know that Indians had their own heroes.

Korczak, as he is called, accepted the contract and moved to the Black Hills in 1947. At first he worked alone, assessing the mountain that would contain his sculpture, building crude scaffolding in the shape of steps from bottom to top, handling his own dynamite charges. When he sought hired hands, they all declined when they saw the scope of the work. However, one woman, Ruth Ross, continued to show up summer after summer until the two were married in 1950. Over the ensuing fourteen years, they had ten children; and Korczak had his work force.

We haven’t seen Mt. Rushmore yet, so we can’t really speak about scale firsthand. Still, we heard more than once that the revered national monument would fit in Crazy Horse’s head when the latter is finished.

After touring everything there was to see – and finding rare postcards of Chief Joseph, a personal project of mine – we drove to Custer State Park in search of wildlife. On the advice of the proprietress of the cabin where we’re staying we brought a bag of peeled carrots with us. Our goal was the Wildlife Road where various animals were in residence. We actually saw pronghorn and bison up close, but we’ve been almost anesthetized to these animals in the past couple weeks, since they’ve been such plentiful models for our camera.

However, about half way through the winding wildlife road we came upon burros. And this is what we brought the carrots for. We stopped, rolled down the windows, and – sure enough – the burros came almost on whispered command. They pushed their faces into the front windows of the car while we fed them carrots. It was hilarious. Before we’d emptied the bag of peeled carrots, we were surrounded by a burro herd believing that we held manna from Heaven.

For the record, burros have very soft mouths and don’t nip at your fingers like some animals do when you offer food. At the same time they bare their teeth, which are dirty and yellowed and probably would make a dentist cringe. This was definitely the ridiculous part of the day . . . and we loved every minute.

We loved the sublime tour of Crazy Horse Monument just as well.

On the advice of the proprietress of our cabin home, we headed to Jewel Cave this morning. It is purported to be the second largest underground cave in the world; and it was only thirteen miles away.

I’d been to an underground cave only once before, in seventh grade in St. Louis when my class visited Meramec Caverns in Stanton, MO. What I remember is that the caves were easily accessed and that the stalactites and stalagmites were amazing. I thought Jewel Cave, with its reputation, would be even more amazing.

It was not quite so. Jewel Cave is interesting in its own right, descending to much greater depth than Meramec Caverns and including many walkways through caves and tunnels. But as far as sheer beauty, it doesn’t compete with Meramec at all, at least as far as my seventh grade memories recall.

In addition, there were 723 steps involved both up and down the various caves with slippery causeways in-between. Earl and I weren’t as impressed as we were with Yellowstone or Little Bighorn, and we’ve decided that a career as spelunkers (those who love searching about in cave) is not for us.

Still, we’re glad we visited Jewel Cave, and we crossed future cave visits off our bucket list.