I’m Out!

We were three couples who arrived for the late September 2026 Crazy Horse Volksmarch. I never knew a thing about it until a few weeks before our one-week trip to South Dakota, that The Crazy Horse Monument is the world’s largest sculpture, the head itself scaling 87 feet, 6 inches, to be exact. It had been in progress for 78 years by then, and its carving into the granite of Thunderhead Mountain in the Black Hills of South Dakota was ongoing.

The trails that are normally traveled by workers are only open to the public twice per year, once in June and again in late September. Only then can the hikers get close.

Journeying the trail, I wasn’t prepared for the perpetual incline or the destabilizing loose rocks that rolled underfoot even on flatter stretches. While I thought of turning back more than once, I was sure we could reach the base of the mountain, take several “We did it!” photos and be on our way. But then I saw the little black spots on the peak of the mountain, near the Indian’s head and they were moving. They were people. It was then that I learned it was our destination rather than a friendly photoshoot at the base of the mountain. I recoiled in disbelief. That was the trail. I said it out loud: I was out.

Two women trotted up from behind, just as breathless. “You can do this,” one said. The other, huffing, weighed in, too. “You’ll be glad you did.” I concluded at that moment I would continue until I could go no further, that was it.  That was the level of commitment I made.

The Crazy Horse trail provided endless unhelpful commentary, like when my sister-in-law, Donna, gasped: “I can’t breathe!” and a man quickly interjected.

“It’s not you, it’s the altitude.”

If I had any breath left, I would have laughed. While this observation was not comforting, it was an explanation, like being told the wheel came off the car because it wasn’t bolted on.

It seemed whenever we’d reached another panting pinnacle, somebody in the pack would add a new reflection of despair, “Guys, this is nothing. We’re not even at the halfway point.”

Odd thing about physical struggle, one can start comparing who is faring better, or worse. And none of these thoughts serve a purpose. It's a pointless observation, like being on a plane that’s losing altitude and noticing the woman next to you is wearing green mascara. Who cares? And whether it’s a spectacular view, a meadow full of flowers or a double rainbow, gratitude and wonder roll up like a spring-loaded shade. And if I’m honest, the goal itself goes with it.

This is survival now.

It was said the journey would take two to four hours. It didn’t sound impressive for a trek that required so much from the inexperienced hiker. But it could have been worse, those who arrived early that morning had the disappointment of fog obscuring the sculpture.

After what felt like several hours of huffing, I stopped walking and mustered a deep breath for the final thrust that would end at the peak of terrifying heights, so we could stand beside the enormous face and touch its chin. 

Donna, whose trail boots were more cute than comfortable, stopped to catch her breath as we neared the final hill. “It’s no longer just the breathing,” she said. “It’s EVERYTHING!” For sure. Yet we did it, we reached the top, all six of us!

“Someday people won’t be able to do this,” a man said, walking alongside his son. “The sculpture will be finished. This is the chance of our lifetime.” It was cool, the more I thought of that, the less I thought of now being one of the ants somebody was watching from safe ground.

Touching the Chin of Crazy Horse

This is it, guys! Woohoo! Snap the photos. It was all manageable from there.

Wrong.

Turned out we weren’t going back down the way we came up as I had thought. Instead, getting down meant stepping onto narrow, grated steps along the outer edge of the - I'll just say it - cliff. Surveying all that was involved, a collision of stimuli washed over me. The only distraction from seeing through the grated stairway was eyeballing past the relatively thin pole railing to the gripping depth of airspace between me and the ant-sized people below.

I heard somebody say that Donna was finding another way down, but it was too late for me to turn around and join her. And almost on cue the lugs on the soles of my hiking shoes began catching on the grating like greased suction cups, causing a feeling of clumsiness. I froze, but not for long. There was no way I would stand there in the midst of it all overthinking it if I was ever to get off.

I wish I had taken a photo of the view through the grating, but there was no way I would look down long enough to capture it. Instead, I prayed a prayer of desperation. Ever conscious of every muscle movement, I placed one foot in front of the other, stepping down until I reached the next “surprise”. Now we had to cross an extensive platform of pure grating that was somehow attached to the side of the mountain and led through a short, yet overwhelming tunnel. Once again, I froze. Would it ever end? Where was my husband, my family, my friends? God help us.

I was tapping a foot on the grated platform when a young man appeared. “Are you okay?” he asked. I was long past playing macho. “No, not really,” I said.

The man, young enough to be my son, smiled. “I built this platform,” he said. “I’d drive my truck over it. It’s that solid.” He was already standing on it as he extended a hand. That would make two people at once. God help me to get this done, I prayed, reaching for a pole that was on the right side of me. When I grabbed it, it swayed. That was it! Now I took his hand. I had to get off it. I carefully stepped across this, the final bridge where Donna stood past the tunnel, smiling. We were finally on the solid road that would lead off the mountain.

After the initial shock wore off, I felt darned good. It was Miller time! All six of us rejoined outside the tunnel, now invited to pick up a rock that remained on the ground from the blasts. We then began the trek off the mountain with our souvenirs. As we talked about the adventure, a thick fog rolled in and Crazy Horse disappeared, as though the curtain had closed for 2026.

The Crazy Horse Volksmarch: Curtain Close