‘It’s like the lyrics say, ‘When the sun and moon don’t shine no more/and horizon’s lost its way/down I go to Deep Dakota/down I go to stay.’
As far as I can tell, no song exists with those lyrics but the Guide bases the majority of its several-page entry for ‘Deep Dakota’ on the overall down-note of this imaginary ditty. It spares a few sentences at the end to mention overall cheaper gas prices, looser liquor laws, and the snow-white skins and furs of animals that spend their lives underground (and are, apparently, forbidden to hunt). There is also a note on how to reach ‘Deep Dakota.’ No ritual or secret pass, here, just an exit on the highway, notable for offering no hint as to where it leads or what a traveler might expect pulling off there.
Given the dark brush with which the Guide paints ‘Deep Dakota’ I’m surprised to see that a few cars merge into the exit with me and that, despite the eerie tone of the lyrics above, other vehicles are in fact returning to the surface in the opposite direction. A semi hauling a tank of milk emerges and sets me at ease. ‘Deep Dakota’ can’t be so alien if they drink milk like the rest of us.
The exit leads to a long downward spiral, wide enough that I hardly feel my body pulled toward the left of the cab. Fifteen minutes later, I finally spot the place where the road dips into the ground. I slow and turn my headlights on, briefly seeing what appears to be the reflective eyes of a herd of animals. My attention is drawn away by the sudden pull-off of a car behind me. The driver stumbles out to the curb and vomits onto the shoulder. When I look back at the animals, they’re gone. Then, darkness pulls up around the camper like a heavy blanket.
The border sign for ‘Deep Dakota’ makes the common grammatical mistake of using quotation marks as a sort of emphasis on ‘welcome,’ as in: “Welcome” to Deep Dakota. It reads sarcastic to me and goes hand in hand with the disrepair of the sign and a striking number of white vultures huddled nearby, eating from the corpse of something that does not share their albinism.
‘Deep Dakota’ has developed identically to its surface neighbors, combining the area of North and South Dakotas to create a massive 51st shadow state. It’s towns and cities are identically named but with the titular caveat: ‘Deep Fargo.’ A poorly conceived mockery of Mt. Rushmore is said to be constructed just under the real-deal, but I’ve chosen to spend my time descending into ‘Black Elk Depth,’ which is the lowest point in ‘Deep Dakota’ and the height of what passes for nature.
In order to reach ‘Black Elk Depth,’ I have to drive through the ‘Night Prairie,’ an acreage of waist-high stalagmites that is said to be home to aggressive swarms of white mice. Not a place I plan to stop for any reason, really, because it’s said the mice have learned to chew through the tires of halted cars, forcing potential prey to walk beside the interstate. Upturned oil rigs shift in the dark above me, vying for control of the oil deposits that have been sandwiched between ‘Deep Dakota’ and its surface cousin.’
A white dot streaks out onto the road ahead of me and I nearly swerve, remembering, at the last moment, to just strike the thing. The mice use little suicide mice to send vehicles careening into the ‘Dark Prairie.’ Even as I recall this the skeleton of an abandoned car, held aloft on the broken teeth of the ‘Prairie,’ whizzes by in the darkness. I don’t like to kill.
But sometimes I do anyway.
-traveler
