An autumn night in the Badlands backcountry

I’m sure that I’ve said it before, but I think that Badlands National Park gets a bad rap. I mean, when “bad” is right there at the front of your name, it’s difficult to put your best foot forward. It’s a rough place, no doubt—with no potable water, rattlesnakes a plenty, and the occasional surprise visit from a bison, I’ll admit it’s wise to be on your toes. But I’ve always had a good time on my visits to the park, and doubly so when I’ve explored the Badlands backcountry.

I’m aware that this isn’t true for every visitor. Twice while I’ve been in the park there have been searches for missing hikers. One was found a little beat up—I believe he had fallen into a deep crevasse-like ravine—but otherwise fine. On my first visit though, the missing hiker didn’t make it.

So yes, I am aware that the park is dangerous, especially the Badlands backcountry. There is inherent risk in traveling there, especially off the trail. But like Edward Abbey said, “A man on foot, on horseback or on a bicycle will see more, feel more, enjoy more in one mile than the motorized tourists can in a hundred miles.” And the desert he loved so much, well it wasn’t that much different from the Badlands backcountry. So, is gazing up at the stars from the backcountry worth the trouble and risk of getting out there?

Absolutely. What’s a few spines from a prickly pear cactus stuck in your leg when it comes to living wild for a night?

Headed to Deer Haven

We hadn’t visited the Badlands in a few years, so we decided to spend a night in the park in September 2024—yes, unfortunately, that is how far behind I am writing about my experiences. Anyway, the plan was to drive into the Pinnacles entrance, head over to the Conata Basin Picnic Area, and then hike out to Deer Haven, a juniper-covered area that seems to rise from the formations around it. There are more areas in the Badlands with trees and an abundance of vegetation than you might expect when looking across the landscape from the scenic overlooks. Deer Haven is one of them.

I was first introduced to the spot in October 2020, when I was a Teaching Assistant for a Leave No Trace trip taken by the BHSU Outdoor Education program. It’s been awhile, but I thought Clarissa would enjoy retracing those steps and hanging out in the Badlands backcountry among the junipers overlooking the Conata Basin.

The trail to Deer Haven isn’t an official trail in the park—it’s a social trail that grew out of hikers frequently following game trails and easy terrain. It’s not on the map, but I was confident that I could follow the notes from my earlier trip, match the terrain, the topo map, and the trail map, and get there without a problem. If nothing else, I know that if I couldn’t find it, I would definitely find my way back.

You’re free to explore in Badlands backcountry

If you think that plan sounds a little loosey goosey for a National Park, you’re right: most National Parks in the U.S. don’t want you to stray from the designated trails, and with good reason. Lots of feet means lots of impact, so having everyone wandering willy-nilly in a National Park can be very detrimental. But Badlands is different. They encourage people to stick to the trails for safety’s sake, but it’s an open park, which means that you’re free to hike and camp off-trail, within reason, if you abide by two simple backcountry location rules, which are:

1. Set up camp at least one half mile away from any roads or trails.
2. Stay out of sight—other visitors shouldn’t be able to see you from the trail or the road.

So you’ve got the right to roam in the backcountry at Badlands, but in addition to those rules, I would throw in some other important caveats. Those are:

1. There is no potable water anywhere in the Badlands backcountry. If you happen to come upon standing water, its mineral content is so high that it will likely be harmful to your health to drink it.
2. It’s a hot, desert-like environment in places, but when there is moisture, the ground turns into a thick, sticky, clay-like mud called gumbo. There is absolutely no way to walk through it without a significant amount getting stuck to your feet and weighing you down.
3. Between thorny plants and cacti, rattlesnakes, and other wildlife, it’s important to be aware of what’s around you. Bison are cool, but getting surprised by one isn’t always the best thing.

Keeping those things in mind, exploring off trail in Badlands National Park is worth the effort. You can see plenty of beautiful overlooks and wildlife from the road and parking areas, but to see the heart of the Badlands, to really get to know the place and understand it a little, you’ve got to get out into the heart of it. To quote Abbey again, “You can’t see anything from a car; you’ve got to get out of the goddamned contraption and walk.”

Plans go awry

The week of our trip, I stayed up-to-date on the weather and checked the Badlands National Park website. We were good to go.

Er, not exactly. When we got to Conata Basin, we saw a “Road Closed” sign and barricade. The whole area was under construction, likely improving or expanding the parking and picnic area, though that’s just a guess. But for us, this was less than ideal—there are no other parking areas nearby where we could stash the car and circumvent the construction.

Discouraged, but not defeated, we headed to the Ben Riefel Visitor’s Center to get a little input. Although not our first trip, we’re not Badland’s experts, and since we already had one surprise, we figured we should try to avoid another.

Thirty minutes later, give or take, we found ourselves at the parking lot for the Fossil Exhibit Trail. This also serves as a trailhead for the western terminus of the Castle Trail. After consulting with a friendly ranger at the Visitor Center—who said that it was clear this wasn’t my first rodeo, a compliment that very nearly went to my head—we had sat down with a map and decided on our new course of action.

The new plan was to park the car at the Fossil Exhibit Trail parking lot, cross the road and head out on the Castle Trail, hike a couple of miles and maybe jump on the Medicine Root Trail, then look for an area where we could step off the trail, hike another half mile or so, and tuck in behind a formation or tall grass to set up for the night.

We backtracked, making our way down the road to the trailhead, slung our packs, locked up the car, and started out on the Castle Trail. We saw a lot of people at first, but by the time we reached a quarter mile in, people were few and far between. We saw a couple more hikers as we turned onto the Medicine Root Trail, but for the most part we had the park all to ourselves.

Solitude

What I have discovered about a lot of National Parks is that if you’re willing to walk a mile or two, you’ll find yourself separated from 90% of the other visitors. Yes, it’s likely you’ll still run into a few here or there, but even in Yosemite, Zion, and Grand Canyon National Parks, we’ve experienced solitude from hiking a few miles away from the popular spots or hitting lesser known trails.

This is even more true in Badlands National Park—I reckon that the majority of visitors never leave the scenic overlooks. Out of those that do, most of them don’t go far from easily accessible trailheads. Hoof it out a mile or two and you are, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Medicine Root trail heads northwest until it reaches an apex and turns to the southwest. At this point, we found a shady spot under a cottonwood tree, and enjoyed a simple lunch—meat sticks, cheese, Pringles, and electrolytes. Not exactly the bougie picnics we’ve been enjoying lately, but good nonetheless.

After finishing our lunch, we left the trail and continued north. We walked the requisite half mile from the trail, tucked ourselves in behind some more cottonwoods, and slowly set up our campsite. The sun was past its apex, but it was taking its sweet time setting behind the trees, so we in turn took our sweet time getting settled. We set up our tent, got our sleep systems unloaded, and drank more water. Then we tucked into the small pockets of shade cast by our tent and waited for the sun to dip down behind the cottonwoods, relieving the landscape of some of the heat, and opening it to a little more wandering before we made dinner.

Waiting is challenging. Most of us aren’t particularly good at sitting and doing nothing. We think we’re good at it, because it’s easy to waste time with our phones in front of us, lounging on a couch with a TV going, or sitting in a car listening to music. Doing nothing is easy when bombarded by non-stop stimulation. It’s harder when you strip all that away, and all there is to do is sit, wait, and watch the landscape.

It’s also very gratifying.

And so we sat down and we waited, finding ways to pass the time. Clarissa dozed next to the tent, and I sat on a tiny hill, watching the grass wave. Eventually I grabbed a cottonwood stick and opened up my Leatherman Free, then started whittling it down, until I had made the general shape of a bead. Imperfect, but not bad. I used the tip of the awl to begin drilling a hole through it, eventually trading that off for some cactus spines and a smaller stick to bore through. Ah success.

This was a silly little way to kill time while sitting there, but what a delight to just relax and play. As she roused from her light dozing, I joined Clarissa by the tent, pulling my expedition journal from my pack. I intended to scribble a few lines, when she asked me how far back this particular journal went. Soon, we were reading aloud what I had written during last year’s trip to France, laughing about some of the odd details I had recorded—such as, “Saw a dude’s penis on the beach today!”

This is the upside of boredom. Back home in our day-to-day lives, it’s unlikely that we would sit together taking turns deciphering my terrible handwriting and recounting previous adventures. But by stripping away all the distractions, both good and bad, we found ourselves enjoying getting lost in a few pages of scribbles.

Not bad, Badlands. Not bad at all.

Sundown

As the sun sank lower, falling behind the crown of the cottonwoods and later the horizon, the heat released its hold on us. It was still plenty hot, just not so stifling that we couldn’t explore. We wandered along mounds, skirted between crumbling Badlands’ formations, and scrambled up a butte, noting signs of wildlife along the way, most notably a fair amount of coyote scat.

The sun continued setting as we returned to our campsite and boiled water for our freeze-dried meals. As we sat and ate, Clarissa pointed to the ridgeline behind me. A coyote was ambling along, languidly, before unceremoniously just plopping down on the ground. He, or she, laid there, looking around, perhaps gazing at us, occasionally flicking its tail back and forth. As we watched, a second coyote approached and, to our delight, the two began to wrestle and play.

This behavior is common in juveniles, but even adult coyotes—like the ones we saw—will play this way. It can strengthen social bonds within a pack, or help resolve any minor issues between individuals without any real fighting. Coyotes also form monogamous pairs, and playful wrestling is often used during courtship and pair bonding. We were well out of breeding season, which is typically January to March, but the couples could be playing together because playing with your partner is fun.

We watched the two wrestling, hopping, bowing, and rolling around, and we loved every moment. Perhaps not as much as those coyotes did, but definitely a close second. I wished we were closer, but we didn’t dare move toward them for fear of scaring off the pair. So we just sat, watched, and made quiet observations to one another.

And then, just as unceremoniously as the performance had begun, the two stood up together, shook off, and ambled away over the ridge, disappearing from view in the waning sun. Shortly after our canine friends departed, the sun did as well, dropping past the horizon opposite of the coyotes’ ridgeline. We were, once again, alone.

A starry night in the Badlands

Slowly, the stars appeared in the sky, seemingly one by one, as if they were each waiting their turn to step on stage. The moon wouldn’t rise until after 1 a.m., so we had no interference as we watched the stars pop into view. We left our lights off, sat patiently, and continued watching. Soon the night sky was filled with clusters and constellations, brightly shining stars and some that glowed dimly in the background.

I’d love to tell you that we stayed up into the wee hours, watching falling stars and spying on the Milky Way. But as the parents of a toddler, we both felt the pull of our sleeping bags petty early. We pulled on base layers, and crammed our bodies into our sleeping bags. It had been hot during the day, but we were ready for cool night air in the Badlands.

Our down backpacking bags have a EN lower-limit rating of 17 degrees Fahrenheit, but are only comfortable to around 28 degrees. We didn’t expect cool night air anywhere close to those temps, and we were right. It only dropped to around 50 degrees that night. Cool enough that we needed to put hoodies on as we sat out and watched the stars, but plenty warm enough that neither of us needed to zip up our sleeping bags. It was a cool, comfortable night for sleeping, and we had left the rainfly off of the tent—we expected no inclement weather, and as I looked up, through the mosquito netting, I saw a canopy of stars burning brightly overhead. With this view I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep.

A nighttime cacophony

My eyes popped open to moonlight along the horizon, as long howls, yowls, and barks filled the night air. The coyotes had returned. Some might find it scary to be out among the animals while they’re calling out in the dark around us, but I’ve come to respect and admire coyotes. I like them, and while their howls and other vocalizations are often eerie, they don’t scare me.

I think, like the Badlands, coyotes get a bad rap. Especially around here and in other ranching areas. Yes, coyotes do attack livestock—they account for a large proportion of livestock deaths caused by predators. But, if you look at the total number of livestock nationwide, predation losses remain relatively small—less than one percent of adult cattle. Although predator attacks on livestock may seem like a large loss, the data shows us that livestock deaths due to predators are a minor part of total inventory losses, which are often more heavily influenced by disease, accidents, or other non-predatory causes. I’m not saying that a rancher or farmer shouldn’t be concerned about that; I understand that this is their livelihood. But if I happened upon a whole herd of pizzas, I think it’s understandable that I would want to take one or two here or there.

Coyotes are survivors, and I respect that. Few animals have faced such extensive extirpation campaigns—including bounties for killing them, intense poisoning campaigns involving strychnine and cyanide, large scale trapping and hunting, aerial gunning, the intentional introduction of disease, and destroying dens and targeting coyote pups. The coyote, as a species, has persevered. In fact, their populations have thrived and they have expanded their ranges and adapted to live more readily among humans. You don’t have to love coyotes the way I do, but I think they have earned our respect.

I smiled amidst the canids’ serenade, and drifted back to sleep. Several times throughout the night, I awoke to more coyote songs, and I enjoyed each encore more than the last. It’s often the case that when you try to understand something, rather than just being afraid of it, you begin to see its beauty. It’s like a wise woman once said, “If you walk the footsteps of a stranger you’ll learn things you never knew you never knew.”

Morning in the Badlands backcountry

The sunrise pulled me from slumber earlier than I would have liked. When we’re camping, we seldom try to wake up early—I have to be up early every day in my normal life, so unless a clear objective demands otherwise, I’m not inclined to drag myself out of my sleeping bag in the wee hours.

But when twilight arrived, around 6 a.m., the brightening sky roused me. Awake, but not committed to getting up, I laid back with my hands behind my head and listened as the rest of the world awakened around me. Birds started singing, insects buzzed and chirped, and the tall grasses swayed in the breeze. Sadly, I heard nothing more from our coyote neighbors.

An hour later, the sun had risen above the horizon and we had slowly made our way out of the tent, prepared some Mountain House breakfasts and coffee, and sunned ourselves in the still-comfortable morning air. We knew that in another hour or two we’d want a reprieve from the sun’s heat, but not yet.

Mornings in our daily life are often a hurried bustle of activity—walking dogs, getting the boy ready, preparing for work, etc. A slow, languid morning is always a bit of a treat for us. But as the minutes ticked by, the sun rose higher over the hills and buttes, and the temperature crept upward, we knew it was time to pack up and pack out. And so, we began—almost begrudgingly—the process of breaking down camp, packing our bags, and tidying the area. Within half an hour, we slung our packs and headed back toward the trail. Looking back to our campsite, you would have no idea that anyone had been there.

The return hike

Rejoining Medicine Root trail, we climbed to a high spot and surveyed the area that had been our home for the night, then began retracing our steps from the night before. Looking down, I saw a pawprint in the dried clay. I couldn’t tell you when it was left—it must have been shortly after the last rain—but I liked to think it was from one of our coyote friends we heard the night before.

The coyotes stayed top of mind as we walked, bumping into another pair of backpackers. We asked the young man and woman if they had been out the night before, which they had. “Did you hear all the coyotes?” the woman asked. We excitedly answered that we had. Before we could say more she replied, “I was so terrified, I didn’t know what to do.”

She had been been very afraid of a coyote attack, and while I can understand the fear, it’s pretty unfounded. There isn’t a large unified study of coyote attacks, but the one major study that focused on this data found that there were 367 documented coyote attacks between 1977 and 2015. Meanwhile, attacks from domesticated dogs number in the hundreds of thousands annually. The message isn’t that coyotes are good and domesticated dogs are bad—rather that if you’re going to malign a canine out of fear, perhaps it’s worth looking at the one responsible for far more attacks on humans.

I’ll climb down off my coyote soap box now—I didn’t lecture our fellow backpackers, but I told them that coyote attacks on humans were incredibly rare. They seemed like good people, if a little anxious. They pressed on and we continued back, following the Medicine Root trail, then onto the Castle Trail, each step bringing us closer to the car, and home.

I think that Clarissa and I are pretty good at communicating. We lead busy lives that lend themselves to long days, and still work together to raise a (hopefully) good addition to humanity. Sure, sometimes we forget any date or event that isn’t on our shared calendar and we each get frustrated here and there, but overall we talk things through. Like in most things, communication is key. We have a lot of great conversations, but I think some of our best happen while hiking. It’s not a constant stream of words—there are long pauses that can last up to a mile. But we’re free to roam, conversationally speaking, and when we’re alone on the trail, it’s not unusual for us to open up and share thoughts and feelings that we don’t always have an opportunity to discuss in our busy day-to-day life. As we retraced our steps from the previous day, a debrief of what went well led to a discussion of other camping experiences, and then to wilderness survival, and from there to the next stages in our goals, training, and aspirations.

Directions were charted, goals were set, and the beginning of plans were made. It’s safe to say that the course of my 2025 was determined, at least partially, by the conversation on Castle Trail. And while I have strayed from the path here and there this year, and plans have had to change, my head has stayed in the game. Probably more so than if I had sat around and brainstormed 2025 from the couch.

One last surprise

Less than a mile from the trailhead, as we hiked in silence, the unmistakable sound of a rattlesnake scared the ever-loving shit out of Clarissa, who jumped approximately 10 feet off the ground and sprinted ahead. After verifying that she hadn’t been struck, we looked for the culprit. On the left side of the trail, we found a small prairie rattlesnake—the only species of rattlesnake in the park.

Prairie rattlesnakes can grow up to 5 feet long, but this one was only about two feet long, give or take. And though he gave us a good scare, it’s unlikely that he posed much of a threat. They’re generally non-aggressive, but will strike when frightened or otherwise provoked. Their bites are dangerous—causing pain or numbness, swelling, nausea, and lethargy—but rarely fatal.

After returning from the trip, I mentioned the rattlesnake encounter to a friend at work. She immediately responded, “did you kill it?” No. No, we did not. Clarissa did warn the people we came across on the trail about the meeting—adventure is a community, and that’s good expedition behavior—but otherwise we left the snake unmolested, aside from taking some video.

Wildlife in National Parks, even rattlesnakes, is federally protected under the rules and regulations of the National Park Service. Disturbing, killing, or otherwise harming wildlife can result in some fairly serious penalties—like fines up to $5,000 and six months of jail time. But more importantly, it isn’t our place to kill an animal that is simply existing where it is intended to be. It wasn’t encroaching on us; we were in its habitat.

An animal has the right to a habitat. That includes rattlesnakes as much as it includes the bighorn sheep that other visitors were “oohing and ahhing” at less than a quarter mile away. It’s easier to like ungulates—they appear largely non-threatening. Especially the ones so used to humans that they remain completely unbothered by our presence. The coyotes we saw and heard are harder to love, despite being so much like the animals many of us share our lives with, but rattlesnakes are almost universally reviled.

Too often we think of the world in terms of what we want with no thought given to what that means for others. We think, “people are good, rattlesnakes are bad,” and mete out what we view as righteous retribution on a creature that we perceive as evil. But it isn’t evil—it’s simply an animal trying to exist. And the rattler reminded me, in his less than subtle way, that he too is alive and existing in this space—a space that is more his home than mine.

Humans and rattlesnakes share roughly 10-20% of their DNA. This may only reflect the fundamental genetic instructions common to all animals, like the code for cellular processes, protein synthesis, metabolism, and the urge to reproduce. And yet… That shared genetic makeup makes us cousins in a way. Distant relations no doubt, but family, nonetheless. So, respectfully, he rattled at us. In turn, we tipped our hats to him were on our way. With elevated heart rates, I admit, but no harm done.

And back again

There were no more surprises after we crossed paths with the rattlesnake. We rounded a bend and there we saw our first glimpse of visitors, admiring and photographing bighorn sheep. Each step brought us closer to more and more people, and farther from the Badlands backcountry. Back at the trailhead, we crossed the road, where more people enjoyed the brief Fossil Exhibit Trail, with its safe, wooden boardwalk, than we had seen the entire morning and night before. We dropped packs in the car, used the bathroom, and hit the road.

In moments like these, when I return to a crowded trailhead or parking lot after a little time in the backcountry, I wonder if any of the visitors milling around are even aware of what they’re missing out on. Yes, Badlands is beautiful from the scenic overlooks, or even the road. But just a few miles away, following trail and then leaving it, you get an experience that only comes from abandoning the crowds that have converged upon the readily accessible.

If you haven’t visited Badlands National Park, I recommend putting it on your travel itinerary. A drive through the park with frequent stops at the overlooks is gratifying, if your visit must be brief. But if you can spare the time, a slow walk through the park, on trail or off, and a night under the stars will bring you closer to the spirit of the place than any overlook can.

Just let someone know where you’re going: it ain’t bad out there, it just comes with its own set of dangers. The best places always do.