source of the radio signal. We level off at a low altitude. The needle points to the northwest and our flight soon takes us over the Black Hills. The forested hills, with their deep valleys and ravines, pass under our wings. With Robert flying, keeping the needle and the aircraft pointing in the same direction, I keep track of our progress on a map partially unfolded on my lap.
There are a few small, winding roads and remote houses tucked in the folds of the hills. Passing a large, open mine which has been cut into several ridges leaving a brown scar in the midst of the green, a valley widens. A large reservoir ahead seems to aim directly at a small settlement farther to the northwest. The ADF needle points at the same town like an arrow. As we cross over the center of the city, the needle wavers and then slips to the side.
“Looks like the station is located in that town,” I tell Robert and Greg, who is poised over my shoulder looking out of the side window. Looking closer at the map, I add, “It’s named Lead. Robert, circle us around and let’s see what’s up.”
As Robert begins the turn, the radio signal ends. Just like that. One moment it’s playing music loud and clear and the next, the speakers are silent.
“Circle but keep on the borders of the town. There has to be someone down there,” I say.
“Okay, Dad,” Robert replies, maneuvering the 130 so that I can look down into the heart of the small township.
Another deep, open pit mine borders the town. Several white-roofed buildings and churches line the main road which skirts the northwestern edge of the city with the mine on the other side of the street. Green trees dot the area but the lawns and open areas are much like what we’ve seen lately — brown. Although it appears a little sand is on the roads, they look clearer than those around the base and Sturgis.
As we circle over the city, I don’t see anything moving. There is one building with a large antenna beside it but nothing around it indicates that someone is there. The fact that the signal stopped and hasn’t resumed since we passed over is a little ominous. If there were survivors, I think they’d come outside and try to get our attention. Of course, it could be that they are as wary of us as we are of them. Perhaps they’ve run into bandits and are just lying low. It’s really hard to tell in a world like the one we’re living in now.
“What do you think?” I ask Greg.
“I don’t know. It seems a little odd that the signal cut out right as we were passing over. It’s like they don’t want us to know they’re there. We haven’t been shot at so I guess that’s a good sign,” he answers.
“And you?” I ask Robert.
“Honestly. I think it’s a trap or bad news at the very least. I can’t think of a good reason someone would shut it off just as we arrive. And it didn’t turn itself off. There’s someone down there,” he replies.
I search for blockades or fortifications that would indicate someone wants to be left alone. We circle a few times but, for intents and purposes, it just looks like another abandoned town. I can’t push aside the facts though. There was a signal located in this town and it stopped when we passed over. Whoever is down there is hiding.
“Well, we’re not going to get any more answers turning circles in the sky. Let’s head back and talk about what we want to do,” I say.
I have Robert follow the main road out and down the interstate so we can observe the route we’ll have to travel. I want to get a good look at it in case we decide to come back in the Stryker and investigate further.
Our journey back to the airfield is uneventful. Like in the town, I specifically look for obstruction, road blocks, and any fortifications that would indicate signs of trouble if we decide to investigate. I don’t have the greatest of feelings about this one but my experiences in the past few months have jaded my opinion. There’s nothing other than the signal going down at the very moment we flew over to indicate something is amiss. If there are any survivors in or around the town, we almost have an obligation as a member of surviving humanity to check it out. It seems there is a fine line between being open to incorporating remaining survivors and protecting those we already have. To be perfectly honest, I’m on the fence with this one as I can see both sides.
A breeze has picked up and, as we settle toward the runway, I see sand being driven across the runway in waves. Closer to the buildings, sand is blown from the tops of the larger drifts, much like surf being blown off the crests of waves in a strong wind. The landing is a bumpy one but we manage and taxi in. Shutting down, we gather outside with our pants flapping against our legs as each gust of wind blows through. I brief everyone on our observations gathered during our flyby.
“Alright, folks, here’s the deal. There really isn’t a doubt that someone is there. The way I see it, they are either scared of us or not wanting our company. The bottom line is that they don’t appear to be overly eager to be found. I didn’t see any fortifications that would indicate trouble, but the whole thing seems a little odd to me. If anyone has changed their mind about going in to take a look, I want to hear about it,” I state. The soldiers turn and look at one another but there isn’t an utterance from any of them. “Okay then, let’s unload and get ready.”
The teams rise and begin the tedious process of unloading the Stryker once again. I wish there were a quicker way of doing this — meaning searching for families — as I’m ready to be home. However, we have a few stops left before we can think about doing that. We’re already out and there isn’t much time left before we can’t make these trips anymore. I ask Carl if he and his group wouldn’t mind staying with the aircraft again, letting him know that we’ll be back before dark and leaving a radio with him.
“Not a worry at all. We’d be happy to,” he replies.
We unload and head out, taking the same route to Sturgis as before. The road to the town of Lead begins at one of the Sturgis exits. Although more roundabout, it will be a quicker route overall as we won’t have to stop at the towns along the interstate to scout them out before driving through.
The drive through Sturgis is much the same as it was yesterday although our tracks have been mostly covered by the wind. We cross over the interstate with the Black Hills looming before us. It’s not long before we start a long climb and travel along a winding road cut into the side of a ridge line. It’s not a very comfortable feeling traveling along a narrow road with an incline on one side and a drop off on the other in countryside that I’m not all familiar with. It would be the perfect place to set up an ambush. If we meet any type of resistance, I am backing us out provided it’s possible.
We make it through without any problems and halt where we can see the road drop into a wide valley. At the beginning of the vale lies a golf course. With a set of binoculars, I glass over the basin. The sign leading into the course reads “Boulder Canyon Country Club” and it’s obviously been some time since it’s been cared for. The once pristinely cut fairways are now filled with tall, brown grass that bends in waves as each breath of wind blows over them. It makes the breeze almost visible.
Adjacent to the course is a small open pit with murky green water filling the bottom of it. From the looks of the houses, I can imagine that this was once an area covered in green, but without irrigation or the use of sprinkler systems, it’s become the brown that I’ve become accustomed to. Several streets branch off to either side of the highway leading to a few more scattered houses. There isn’t a sign of any survivors.
Lowering the binoculars, we continue on and drop into the valley. In the midst of our trek, I open up my mind to any night runners and am surprised to sense a small pack at the extreme northern end of the valley. I noticed several small ponds, so there is at least a water supply, but I have no idea what they are doing for food unless they are preying on game. After being in two places without a night runner presence, it’s a shock to find them out here. This only emphasizes that I can’t assume anything about them. They can be anywhere.
We cross the valley and enter a lower set of hills. Short trees line the hills and draws on both sides. We drive slowly along, stopping often to scout the road ahead but we don’t encounter anything. The road then begins a gradual descent into another valley that widens out the farther we proceed. A driveway branches off and leads to a long aluminum-sided building with a smaller, attached office-like structure. The sign out front reads “Schade Winery” and I think about halting for a little wine tour. Lynn would certainly question what I was up to if all I managed to bring back were a couple of people and several cases of wine. I could just shrug and tell her, “Well, we tried,” all the while searching for a corkscrew.
We roll through the start of another small settlement. Several casinos line the highway and one of the hotel signs indicates we are passing through Deadwood. I really hope the town doesn’t live up to its name. The abandonment of the place, the name, and surrounding brown fields really makes it seem like we are passing through a Wild West ghost town — that is except for the casinos and modern hotels.
The names of the places we pass bring to mind the gold rush days that dominated this area long ago.
