The air is razor-sharp as we gather early in the morning in Custer State Park. A thin mist blankets the vast plains surrounded by gently rolling hills that fade into the horizon. Silhouettes of men in cowboy hats and their horses stand against the first rays of sunlight. Dozens of riders are busy with saddles, whispering words of encouragement to their horses. In just a few hours, they will be the main actors in South Dakota's largest annual spectacle: the Buffalo Roundup.

This event is why I’ve traveled to this relatively unknown corner of America. Today, riders will round up the 1,300 wild bison that roam the park—one of the largest herds in the world—onto a central plain where the calves will be counted and vaccinated. A third of the animals will then be sold at auction.

The riders, or wranglers as they prefer to call themselves, are responsible for keeping the bison herd under control. I woke up at the crack of dawn to speak to them as they prepared. One man, dressed in jeans and imposing leather chaps, nods at me as he saddles his horse. Introducing himself as Kevin MacRitchie, he tells me, "I have a ranch on the other side of the park and have been participating in the Roundup for 21 years. But every year, it still feels like the ultimate adrenaline rush."

Just how dangerous is it?

“I do get scared sometimes. Bison are highly intelligent and incredibly fast. Grazing on the prairie, they seem tame and sluggish. But they’re wild animals that won’t hesitate to charge if they feel you’ve come too close or pose a threat. That makes them dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. They’re faster than horses—50 miles per hour is no exception—and can run for much longer. Once, I was chased for over a mile by a large bull. But I see it this way: bison are just trying to protect their space. We, as humans, are merely guests here.”

At dawn, wranglers prepare their horses for the Buffalo Roundup but also take the time to catch up with one another.

As the sun rises and the temperature quickly climbs, Kevin and I walk through the prairie grass near the fenced area where the bison will be led. Beyond that lies the staging area where the wranglers' campers and horse trailers are set up. They’ve come from all over the state—and even farther. A lottery system is in place to give select riders from across the U.S. the chance to participate in the Roundup each year. It speaks volumes about the pride these people take in their work. The atmosphere is relaxed and even jovial. Kevin greets wranglers shaving outside, catching up with colleagues, or brushing their horses. An older man with twinkling eyes, gray, straight hair, and a curled mustache straight out of a Western movie introduces himself as Doc Howard. He’s the governor’s veterinarian. “She’s riding around here somewhere on her horse,” he says dryly. “She wanted to hunt elk before the Roundup started.” Doc pats Spook, his 16-year-old gray mare, on the flank. For him, the Roundup is still an adventure. “I don’t ride with 60 other horses every day, and they don’t ride with hundreds of bison every day.”

Kevin and Doc survey the parched ground with concern. “Two years ago, it was as dry as it is now,” Doc says. “We were riding about 30 feet behind the bison and couldn’t see a thing; it was just one massive cloud of dust. Our biggest worry was that if one of the animals turned around and charged us, we wouldn’t know until it was too late. That’s what today promises to be like!”

The wranglers gather shortly before eight on the veranda of the park rangers' office. It’s a colorful group: young men and women with small children, seniors well into their seventies, all dressed in jeans, cowboy hats, and boots with spurs. They listen attentively to a briefing from the rangers about the day’s schedule. It quickly becomes clear to me that the Roundup is more than a simple herding of bison; it’s a massive logistical operation. What began as a small-scale event with a handful of locals has grown into one of South Dakota's largest events. Thousands of spectators, some arriving before dawn, gather on the prairie to secure a good spot for the spectacle. The wranglers and rangers not only have to manage the bison but also the crowds.

“Every year, people get too close,” Kevin says. “They don’t understand that bison are actually wild animals—we’ve lost our connection with nature as a society.”

“Ironically, most tourists come here to experience that Old West atmosphere, and the bison are symbolic of that,” Doc adds. “The spirit of the Old Wild West is very much alive in our work and the bond we wranglers share.”

I understand what he means. Even after just a few hours in their company, it’s clear how passionate these people are about their work. There’s no bluster or boasting. A wrangler steps forward and introduces himself as Dave Flute. He’s part of the Sisseton-Wahpeton Dakota, one of the Native tribes in South Dakota. “I will say a prayer in my language,” he says solemnly, “asking the Creator to keep us and our horses safe today. Close your eyes and pray with me.”

The wranglers respectfully remove their hats and bow their heads. As Dave recites his prayer, his voice transitions into an old Native song honoring horses and bison. The air vibrates with his chant. When the song ends, a loud “Amen” erupts from the group. The wranglers divide into three groups and set off on horseback to herd the bison. Columbus photographer Tim and I will follow them later in a vehicle, but first, we take a moment to talk with Dave. What does the Roundup mean to him and the Native community?

“The bison is a crucial part of our history and culture,” he replies. “The animal provided us with everything. It wasn’t just about food; every part of the bison was used. The hide for our tipis, the fur for our clothing, the tail as a flyswatter and whip. Nothing went to waste. The Roundup is an annual opportunity to honor that history. And there’s good energy here. I ride with other Natives and friends of Natives. Everyone feels good and has the same goal. And good energy is good medicine.”

The Year’s Biggest Adrenaline Rush

Good energy is exactly what we feel a little later as we stand in the open bed of a pickup truck to experience the Roundup up close. Jason, one of the park rangers, is behind the wheel, driving us across the prairie, following one of the wrangler groups. Cresting a hill, we spot a small group of bison, seemingly split off from a larger herd. The animals are an impressive sight—massive, muscular bodies covered in thick, dark fur that protects them from the harsh winters.

“Their intelligence and social structure make bison complex creatures,” Jason explains. “Each herd has a leader, the alpha cow. If we can guide her in the direction we want, the rest of the herd will eventually follow.” The wranglers' challenge is to lead the alpha cow and streamline the movements of the pursuing herd. This requires not only agility and control over their horses but also a deep understanding of the bison. “We anticipate the animals’ behavior, ensure the herd keeps moving, and react quickly to unexpected changes to prevent them from panicking.”

The small group of bison we’re watching seems in no rush. They graze leisurely, appearing indifferent in the sweltering heat. Dave watches calmly, waiting for a signal. There’s a palpable tension in the air—what’s going to happen and when? Suddenly, we hear shouts and the crack of whips from dozens of wranglers behind us, followed by the unmistakable sound of hundreds of hooves pounding the prairie. Flanked by riders on wild, whinnying horses, a herd of bison charges past us in a thick cloud of dust.

At the start of autumn, around 1,300 wild bison are rounded up in Custer State Park by wranglers.

In an instant, everything is in motion—a flood of animals, noise, and adrenaline. Three separate herds are driven together into one massive, thundering group. Jason races after the animals, now barreling northward at breakneck speed. As our truck jolts and bounces over the uneven terrain, I cling to the metal rail of the truck bed, trying to take it all in: the brilliant blue sky, the golden prairie grass, and the whooping wranglers. It’s hard not to feel like I’m in a movie.

The landscape opens up, and we find ourselves on the edge of a ridge overlooking a vast plain shimmering in the heat. Below us, the prairie is filled with bison. Thousands of spectators cheer for the animals and the wranglers. All 1,300 bison must be funneled through a gate just 40 feet wide. The wranglers exchange quick, focused signals, their every gesture and movement synchronized. Dust and earth swirl, partially obscuring the spectacle, but everything seems to be going smoothly. Jason watches the flow of bison intently, scratching his beard before letting out a whoop of relief. It’s over. “Every year it’s a circus,” he says. “But a good circus.”

A Hidden History

As impressive as the Roundup is, something nags at me. The wranglers spoke about the spirit of the Old Wild West, of which their work is a remnant—a faint echo. South Dakota is often considered the heart of that Old West. The state’s expansive prairies play a central role in the history and mythology of America and its self-image. When gold was discovered here in 1874, thousands of fortune-seekers flooded the area, creating a frontier with restless inhabitants who continue to capture the imagination: figures like sheriff and gunslinger Wild Bill Hickok and the pioneering daredevil Calamity Jane. However, the romanticized image of this era often obscures not only the harsh realities of life at the time but also the atrocities committed by the U.S. government against the region’s Native peoples.

Modern-day South Dakota was first inhabited about 10,000 years ago by peoples who hunted bison. By the early 18th century, the Sioux had taken over the region from other nomadic tribes. During the gold rush a century later, thousands of settlers invaded the land the U.S. government had previously designated exclusively for the Sioux. The Sioux resisted fiercely, and the U.S. Army quickly realized there was a more effective way to defeat them: by exterminating the bison they depended on for survival. The systematic slaughter of the bison not only weakened the Sioux and other tribes but also robbed them of a vital part of their culture and identity. The prairies, once filled with millions of bison in herds that took days to pass, became silent and empty. Despite heroic resistance, the Native peoples were ultimately defeated and pressured to settle in government-assigned reservations. These reservations, often located on the least fertile lands, not only restricted their freedom of movement but also made them dependent on government provisions.

“And just as importantly, the reservations made us invisible to the outside world,” says Whitney Rencountre. We speak the day after the Roundup at the Crazy Horse Memorial, a massive monument being carved into a mountain just outside Custer State Park. When completed, it will be the largest statue in the world—a 564-foot-high and 641-foot-long granite depiction of the Native leader Crazy Horse on horseback. The idea for the monument arose in response to another carved mountain nearby: Mount Rushmore, with its 60-foot-high heads of U.S. presidents George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln.

“The mountains and the land you see here are sacred to the Lakota, the local Sioux tribe, so they wanted to create a monument honoring their own heroes,” says Whitney, who coordinates the foundation’s work on the memorial. “They asked Korczak Ziolkowski, a sculptor who worked on Mount Rushmore, for help. His vision has been taking shape in stone here since 1948, and now his family is continuing the work.”

By special permission, we’re allowed to walk on the construction site—visitors are usually only permitted in the museum at the base of the mountain. We stop at the stern, 87-foot-tall face of the monument. A little farther on, team members are working on Crazy Horse’s extended arm. Since no photographs of the leader exist, the entire sculpture is an idealization—a spirit—taking shape inch by inch. Some Lakota, including Crazy Horse’s descendants, find it offensive that their sacred ground is being disrupted for this project. What does Whitney, a Lakota himself, think? He nods thoughtfully. “That’s a logical sentiment. But you have to see this monument in the context in which it was conceived—a time when the U.S. government was trying to completely erase Native culture. Ziolkowski thought that by creating this sculpture, there would always be a place where people could learn about our culture, even if it was eradicated entirely. He didn’t consider whether the idea would be acceptable to everyone. And with that original mission in mind, we as a foundation continue his work, hoping to inspire others to learn more about the cultures of America’s Native peoples. That’s all that matters—we don’t focus on things we can’t control.”

Dual Worlds

As photographer Tim and I travel across South Dakota in the days following the Roundup, I begin to understand Whitney’s perspective. As prominent as the Crazy Horse Memorial is, the culture of the Native peoples in the state remains almost invisible. We embark on a road trip through the Black Hills, a mountain range that is sacred to the Lakota. According to their lore, it is a gift from their Creator, Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, and serves as the spiritual heart of their culture and identity. But years of displacement have largely severed the Lakota’s connection to this sacred ground.

It’s an awe-inspiring area, even for travelers. Tim and I enjoy a road trip through jagged granite peaks and winding roads cutting through forested slopes. Green pines compete for attention with quaking aspens, which glow brilliantly yellow as winter approaches. Occasionally, cheeky ground squirrels, or prairie dogs, dart from their burrows.

The Needles Highway in the Black Hills is renowned for its narrow, winding route through striking granite spires.

Nature dominates here, but this wouldn’t be America without enterprising individuals finding ways to capitalize on South Dakota’s Wild West image. We take the 1880 Train, a meticulously restored steam train operated by a theatrically bearded crew, winding past former gold mining towns. For tourists, ramshackle wooden homesteads reminiscent of 19th-century pioneers have been reconstructed. Beer flows in old-fashioned saloons with swinging doors, and cowboy gear is sold in Wild West-themed stores. It’s all so well done that the line between real and fabricated often blurs. Are we seeing what we think we’re seeing?

You could say South Dakota has a split personality. On one hand, there’s a yearning for the past—a golden, mythical time that many residents feel a genuine, heartfelt connection to. On the other, commerce is omnipresent, and the past is turned into a carefully marketed experience. The romance of the Wild West is so cleverly perpetuated that it’s sometimes hard to see where history ends and spectacle begins.

What lingers is the sense of how little contact we’ve had with the Native peoples—the very people who played such a pivotal role in the storied history of the Old West. To meet the Lakota and delve deeper into their culture, we head eastward. Photographer Tim and I set our course for the Pine Ridge Reservation, one of South Dakota’s nine officially recognized Native reservations. The route takes us past one of the state’s most spectacular landmarks: the Badlands.

This rugged, bone-dry region, which rises from the prairie like a massive stone wall, was a shallow sea about 75 million years ago. Over millions of years, sediments such as mud, sand, and volcanic ash were deposited in this sea. Erosion by wind and water created sharp peaks and valleys in a rainbow of colors—from white and gray to orange and purple. Fossils of long-extinct animals are scattered everywhere, seemingly just waiting to be picked up.

The southern, little-visited part of the Badlands lies within Pine Ridge, home to about 25,000 Lakota. Here, we meet Gus Yellowhair, who runs tours of the reservation with his daughter. Standing before jagged rock formations glistening under the searing sun, Gus shares insights into the dual world the Lakota inhabit.

Every Native reservation in the U.S. has a certain degree of autonomy. Communities can set up their own governments, enact and enforce their own laws, and manage their own economic affairs. “That sounds good,” Gus says, “but in reality, it’s an excuse for the U.S. government to avoid taking responsibility for the mess they created. In the 19th century, most Natives were forced onto reservations—places with no access to basic facilities or employment opportunities. Our culture was systematically destroyed—we weren’t allowed to speak our language, and families were torn apart as children were sent to boarding schools far away, growing up without their language, traditions, or history. I was one of those children and still bear the scars. Imagine what it does to you when others try to rewrite your story—your life. More than a century later, our people still face the same struggles, but the U.S. government washes its hands of it. After all, we’re ‘independent’ now, right? We’re supposed to fend for ourselves.”

As we spend a day traveling through the reservation, we see firsthand how decades of governmental neglect continue to echo today. The gentle, rolling landscape of Pine Ridge starkly contrasts with the poverty of its residents, most of whom live in trailers and shacks. The Lakota struggle with alcoholism, drug addiction, and numerous health issues. The average life expectancy here is around 50 years—lower than in many developing countries.

“One of our biggest problems is that we’re completely cut off, both physically and mentally,” Gus says. “We even call the world outside the reservation ‘The Outside.’ People here are on their own. The nearest hospital is 100 miles away, 90% of the population is unemployed, and the grocery stores only stock fatty, unhealthy food. When crimes are committed or people go missing, there’s no coverage in the national media. That’s why it’s so important for outsiders to come here and bring attention to what’s happening. It’s also why I see myself and my daughter as role models. There’s so much potential here, and we use tourism to bridge the gap between our culture and the outside world. Visitors come here to meet us, share experiences, and learn. That exchange is so powerful.”

The site of the Wounded Knee Massacre, where hundreds of Native Americans were killed by the U.S. Army in 1890.

With Fallon, another Lakota guide, we visit Wounded Knee, the most significant historical site in Pine Ridge. In this valley, during the bitterly cold winter of 1890, one of the worst massacres in American history took place. The U.S. Army surrounded a group of about 350 Lakota, led by Chief Bigfoot. Years of tension between the Lakota and the U.S. government—due to the seizure of Native lands for settlers—had already reached a boiling point. During an attempt to disarm the group, panic broke out, possibly due to a misunderstanding or an unexpected movement. The soldiers opened fire, killing hundreds of unarmed Lakota, including many women and children. This event marked the end of the Lakota’s armed resistance against U.S. expansion.

At a site with such profound historical and emotional weight, you’d expect a monument commemorating the victims and the atrocities committed here. Instead, there’s only a modest cemetery, with a narrow strip of grass in the center covering the mass graves of the victims. A simple plaque in the middle of the cemetery honors Bigfoot. A handful of tattered prayer flags flutter in the wind. The only visitor is James Whiteface, from a nearby village. His face is deeply wrinkled, most of his teeth missing. Under a solitary tree, he tidies up his family’s grave and places sage and tobacco in small urns.

“For us, this place is sacred,” he says softly. “We don’t need a grand monument to remind us of what happened. The land itself carries the memories.”

An Artist on the Prairie

With our minds buzzing with impressions, Tim and I leave the reservation and head north toward the North Dakota border. The majestic rock walls of the Badlands quickly give way to the expansive plains of the prairie. We’re traveling through the heart of what Americans call the Great Plains, an unimaginably vast carpet of grass stretching some 1.2 million square miles under an equally enormous sky. It’s tempting to view the area as one vast emptiness, a blank slate. But by now, I know better: countless spirits roam the prairie—the heroes, villains, and victims of the myths America has created to obscure or glorify its wrongdoings.

Our final destination is the small town of Lemmon, where we’ve arranged to meet artist John Lopez. A soft-spoken, friendly man in his forties, sporting an impressive cowboy hat, greets us at his studio, which houses a collection of imposing sculptures. I’m captivated by a life-sized statue of a bison. “I call it ‘hybrid metal art,’” John says. “I collect scrap metal and old farming tools from local farms and use them to create sculptures that tell stories about South Dakota—stories about bison, horses, and rural life.”

We walk through the courtyard of John’s studio, where a gnarled tree made of metal pieces, chains, and flowers commands attention. The history of the Native peoples also plays an important role in his work, John explains. “My older sisters are part Lakota, and I’ve learned a lot by listening to their stories and history. The Lakota culture has personal meaning for me as well. Take the tragic history of the bison, for instance. It’s ironic that I’m now creating bison sculptures out of the scrap metal left behind by the white settlers who once wiped them out…”

Still, John doesn’t see his work as a political statement. “I let people interpret it however they want. If a Lakota sees themselves in the story, I’m happy with that.”

Artist John Lopez creates impressive sculptures using scrap and other materials he collects from nearby farms.

John invites us to visit his ranch, just a little farther down the road, where he has a metal workshop and lets his horse roam freely on the prairie. “Growing up on a ranch is a unique experience,” he says, gazing at the setting sun. What does he think makes South Dakota so special? He pauses for a moment. “I think it has to do with the space here—the vastness of the landscape, the openness of the sky. It has a unique pull. There’s a complex history behind this state, but also a beauty, and above all, an invitation to explore.”

After a nightcap at a local honky-tonk, we bid John farewell. Our journey has come to an end—it’s a long drive back to the airport. John climbs into his pickup truck, and Tim and I into our rental. “Follow me!” he calls out. In the twilight, we obediently trail his vehicle along a straight asphalt road stretching endlessly to the horizon. On either side, wooden telephone poles mark the way, gradually disappearing into the distance like silent sentinels of the land. The sky turns deep orange and purple. John signals a right turn and vanishes from sight. We continue onward—the prairie and its spirits wait in silence.