De Smet, South Dakota

When we arrived at 9pm, it was pitch black. The wind was strong and whirling like it does only on the prairie. The key to our lodgings was taped to the door of the visitor center in a small brown paper bag. James left the headlights on as I ran into the black, looking for a wagon our key would match. Inside, it was plain. 

Back in the car I asked James, "Did you bring sleeping bags or blankets?"

"No, why?"

"Because the wagon is bare."

We googled to see what was available in the town of De Smet, where there are 1,100 people living mostly as dairy farmers or working the Little House tourism. Racing to the imminently closing Dollar General, we bough a comforter, Fruit of the Loom sweat suits, socks for me, and a set of dominos, which we played while we drank wine and giggled at our situation. 

The holes in the canvas overhead let little bit of moonlight in, and it felt like sleeping under the stars. In the morning, it was my 30th birthday. I got up early to walk the prairie on my own. I thought of Laura, who had inspired me as a woman, as a writer, and as a pioneer throughout each of my years. I felt goosebumps.