South Dakota

No state is thoroughly perfect, (sit down Hawaii, no one cares). My state, South Dakota, is no exception. Perhaps most people feel the same conflict of where they call home as I do. The parts I love, that make me curious or inspired at odds with entrenched dogmas, political theater and winter.

In July I had a brief freelance gig filming an interview with a priest in Irene South Dakota. Ironically the interview took place at a silent retreat center. The interview still happened, albeit in quieter tones than normal. The priest was roughly my age and came from the east coast to take an extended sabbatical of silence. I asked about the Yamaha Scrambler 950 in the parking lot and learned it was his. We talked about bikes and our respective dad’s who both introduced us to motorcycles. He shared about his time at the Vatican when he would explore the streets of Rome on a motorbike. The weight of peace was palpable and alluring and a part of me wanted to stay in the silence.

We quite literally only get a handful of days in South Dakota where there is no wind. Dead stillness is hard to come by. In July I woke up before dawn to film footage of a new retreat center between Vermillion and Yankton. A beautiful piece of land that, a very long time ago, was the riverbed of the Missouri River. It’s former banks, now bluffs separated by miles. I followed a series of low maintenance roads through banks of ground fog. I pulled over and set up the camera to a dawn chorus of red winged black birds. Absolute stillness.. The weight of peace was palpable and part of me wanted to stay in the chorus.

We had a wet spring. So much so that the prolonged drought we had been experiencing was wiped out in a matter of weeks. That much water meant clouds of mosquitoes later in July. I took a work trip to Howard South Dakota and used it as an opportunity to photograph the tiny town. It took all of five seconds for the winged bastards to find me. The tiny stinging bites made it hard to focus on composing shots. That’s when I heard the low drone of the mosquito sprayer. A small rusted out S-10 pickup, weighted down with an industrial sprayer, belching clouds of mosquito killing organophosphate insecticide was rolling my way. The driver's large hairy arm hung out the open window as the noxious fumes swirled around him. I made for my car and got in just before it leisurely passed by. Even then, in a closed vehicle the pungent fumes weren’t smelled as much as it was tasted. The driver lazily raised his forefinger off the steering wheel signaling a rural hello. The driver’s glazed over eyes made It hard to say if it’s his willful or ignorant belief that he’s impervious to cancer.

There’s a billboard in Mitchell, South Dakota of Donald Trump, eyes closed, embracing an American flag while Jesus rests his hand on Trump's shoulder with a look of exalted satisfaction on his face.

I didn’t take a picture of it.

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