The ripe smell of decay works its way through the air conditioners just as I begin to see signs for ‘The Rot Garden.’ I assume enough time has passed since incident at ‘The Root Garden’ that anybody who noted me as a visitor would have forgotten my face and I wouldn’t become entwined in what, as far as I can tell, it a name-based turf war between two totally different locations. The signs are not what I expect from the grunge punk food attack that occurred at ‘The Root Garden.’ In fact, the advertising tone is nearly identical to that of ‘The Root Garden-’ emphasizing natural processes and a side of nature few get to see. ‘The Rot Garden’ does capitalize on gross-out humor in its illustrations, however, showcasing rotting fruit covered in flies, old skeletons dancing in muck, and an earthworm mascot that pleads for visitors to his home. 

Only very late and in very small print do any signs mention you might consider eating some of this. 

‘It’s just like cheese, they tell you. It’s like yogurt! Or, ah, pickles!

‘The Rot Garden’ and every funny-food destination like it will go to great lengths to make their menu seem appetizing by way of comparison, but the fact that they’re needing to compare at all tends to set them apart. ‘The Rot Garden’s’ more modern, and somehow more persuasive, take is to associate itself with those fringe health movements that, in neglecting large swaths of the food pyramid, resort to fermentation for the natural bacteria the body needs. This includes the all-fruit and all-meat ilk, both of whom will be happy enough with the offerings of ‘The Rot Garden,’ which certainly has bacteria on hand.’

‘The Rot Garden’ is largely open air: a field, a dump, really, with the odd open-air shelter where one might sit and eat. A very small adobe structure rises from the ground in the distance: a cellar, of sort, for encouraging different kinds of rot. A tin shack stands at the entrance, for selling tickets. The perimeter is marked by sun-bleached dumpsters and a cloud of insects fogs the air above. 

It all smells terrible. 

The man in the shack may very well be one of the people who participated in the attack at ‘The Root Garden.’ He’s wearing a leather jacket and a band tee that’s faded and cracked to such an extent that I can’t read it. He reeks of body odor when he shifts, which is somehow a reprieve from the smell of the place at large. A living stench.

“One please.” I tell him as he looks behind me. 

“Cool camper,” he says, “You going to be eating?”

“Uh… is it recommended?”

The man suppresses a smile: “Of course.”

My stomach sinks. “Then maybe something small.”

“That actually makes the ticket cheaper.” He presses a stamp down on the ticket and hands it to me. “We like to encourage people to push their boundaries.”

The tour itself is largely unnecessary. Unlike ‘The Root Garden,’ which reiterated much of what I already knew, the couple that walks me around ‘The Rot Garden’ points out especially nasty molds and insects and describes some of the intersocial drama between employees, including a boss they don’t name but who will disappear for weeks at a time and then reappear with, say, a truck full of soft pumpkins. They don’t seem particularly reverent of the place as an institution or a biome. They swat flies and complain that the boss won’t let them use spray.  

Finally they bring me to a picnic table where four more employees join us. A tray with three divisions has been plated with small portions of rotting food: an apple, a strip of unidentifiable meat, and a cream that I hope is yogurt. 

“Eat up, man.” The guy from the front hands me a fork. “You want a picture? It’s included.”

I hardly hear him. “Sure.”

After several seconds hesitation, I dip the tines of the fork into the cream and cringe to see that its white surface gives way to something swirled red. I bring the fork to my mouth and, as it hits my tongue, the flash of a camera goes off and the six employees recoil.

“Oh my god, he did it!”

“That’s fucking nasty”

One of the men turns to throw up. The others hold their faces or slap me on the back. By the time I’ve had a chance to indicate I’m done, I realize I never had time to taste whatever they just fed me.

On the way out of ‘The Rot Garden,’ the man tacks my picture to the wall of fame. It’s not a bad picture, but it’s the only one there. 

-traveler

Accessing ‘Sky Dakota’ with a vehicle is expensive and time consuming with a vehicle, but not so expensive as trying to find a place to stay and what is time, really, except an opportunity to relax in what passes for my house? The only vehicular access to ‘Sky Dakota’ is a chrome and oil-smelling industrial elevator, a spot on which has to be reserved in advance. Lucky the ‘Deep Dakotans’ didn’t hold me up after that murder, I suppose. That would have been a waste.

Ironically, darkness is my first impression of ‘Sky Dakota.’ The elevator itself is pitch black and, for obvious reasons, I’m not encouraged to run the engine during the hour’s ascent so I don a headlamp and page through the Guide and wonder what happened to all those paperback books that I’ve picked up at gas stations and read halfway. Sometimes I worry that the Guide grows via the consumption of other texts. Sometimes I worry if it’s jealous and makes them disappear, regardless of personal gain. Sometimes I worry I’ve given too much life to the Guide, and sometimes I worry that I’ve underestimated it as a living thing. It grows, doesn’t it? Surely I should be done by now. 

In fewer words, the travel authority of ‘Sky Dakota’ suggests that elevator users in need of a toilet are welcome to relieve themselves onto the surface Dakota below. I don’t plan to but, having consumed my body weight in diet soda on the way over, I give into the urge as soon as I feel like I’m out of view of anybody who might be hit. From this height, it would disperse right? I can’t be the only one that has felt a drop of water fall from a clear sky. 

I fall asleep in the camper with a clear conscience. 

‘As the toileting situation suggests, ‘Sky Dakotans’ don’t think much of their terrestrial brethren or of people who decide to come and go, residents or otherwise. The travel authority communicates this in a number of ways, including an insistence on being the original Dakota despite having not been heard of or seen by any continental citizen before the year 2013. ‘Sky Dakota’ claims to be richer and happier than other Dakotas, which it refuses to name on paper. It claims to own large swaths of sky that should belong to the federal government. It claims to have donated Mt. Rushmore and the Nekoma Pyramid to the lower states. It concedes the Crazy Horse Monument to Earth, its completion now long overdue.’

I wake when the elevator jolts to a halt. The door opens and I’m surprised to find that ‘Sky Dakota’ looks a lot like the Dakota I departed from. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a printout, newly attached to the camper’s windshield with adhesive that won’t easily peel off. It explains that my plates were run during the ascent and my background made me ineligible for entry into ‘Sky Dakota,’ citing legal incidents and low moral character. They’ve included a snapshot of me sleeping in the camper, presumably at the top of the elevator. ‘Sky Dakota’s’ cloud-capped towers are reflected in the passenger seat window. My mouth is wide open and I’m drooling onto my shoulder. Soda cans litter the floor. 

I’ll get into ‘Sky Dakota’ someday. 

But it’s going to take some doing.

-traveler

I panic when I come to and bash my head on the quartz just like I was trying not to. Someone is whispering nearby, so close that I suspect they must be in the hole with me. They’re not- they may be at the rim. I finally remember where I am and scramble out of the whole before a goat puts me under again. I check my phone and see it’s only been a few minutes. I snap near both my ears a couple times to get a sense for what damage has been done. They seem well enough. 

The quartz is thinning to veins again when I find the body- the body of a man- hung over the railing. Blood stains puffs of down that emerge from a sporty-looking vest he’s wearing. His mouth is stuffed with cloth and tied in a gag. He must have been stabbed. Nobody in ‘Black Elk Depth’ would have missed a gunshot. 

I worry for a moment about what to do and remember, belatedly, to check the path behind me and ahead in case the attacker is still nearby. Beams of light reach me from across the rim but the way above is dark. I think about calling for help but remember the danger of someone being at the summit. I worry that digging through the man’s pockets for a phone or a wallet will be implicating. I can’t carry him, so I don’t. 

I do leave a note, keeping it vague and indicating only that I’ve found the body and will reach out to the police when I regain cell service at the top. I place the note a few turns lower than the body to give the people behind me a head’s up, like a physical content warning. There’s no way around it except the way we came. 

I have a long time to think about the murder on my way up to the rim. I wonder if the man’s blood will dry or drain into the summit. That would be a nasty surprise for anyone coming later. I wonder if I might have saved the man if I moved faster. Maybe I would have been killed, myself. The goat might have saved my life and I have no way to thank it and any thanks it would understand would make it too friendly. I worry that I’m becoming too jaded for kindness. 

This has worried me for some time. 

I do call the police when I reach the surface. I ask if I should stay and they assure me that I shouldn’t. The ‘Deep Dakota’ plate is still parked when I leave. I wonder if it’s the victim or the perpetrator or just someone out taking a long piss in the stone desert that surrounds us. 

Headed back to the interstate, I turn on the radio and am surprised to hear the same sugary pop that’s playing above. I turn it off and exit to the surface in silence. 

-traveler

‘A thorn in the side of anyone in the business of selfies, ‘Black Elk Depth’ is more an interesting situation than a place. The physical opposite of a hill, the ‘Depth’ is more hole than canyon, winding down to a point at which a single trim human can stand: the opposite of a summit. Here, one can sense the wide open space above them and see the dim light cast upon the stone ceiling of ‘Deep Dakota’ from nearby cities. One can hear, with maddening clarity, the breathing of those travelers walking behind them and those trudging back up toward the rim. Conversations between hikers are frowned upon. The din at the summit becomes maddening over the volume of a whisper. It’s said a man stubbed his toe halfway down ‘The Depth’ once and burst the ear drums of a woman at the bottom. These are just stories, though.’

I have donned closed-toed shoes and have no one with whom to whisper as I begin the four-hour descent into the ‘Black Elk Depth,’ still wary of those flesh-eating mice, though rumor assures me they rarely leave ‘The Dark Prairie.’ There are a few other cars parked at the rim, only one of which sports the peculiar matte-black license plate of ‘Deep Dakota.’ The numbers reflect in my flashlight- only five, all said. The population of ‘Deep Dakota’ is less than half that of both surface states combined, but it’s been stable for decades. People rarely move below the surface. Deep Dakotans rarely leave. 

My descent is slowed by a herd of white goats that have chosen today to chew on the low shrubs that sprout inexplicably, and only occasionally, from the rocky pass into ‘The Depth.’ They aren’t known to be hostile and are, actually, the opposite at times. Feeding a white goat makes the herd friendly and tends to make slow progress slower. I pick my way around them, careful to hug the wall despite the railing that separates me from a very quick descent indeed. They hardly stop what they’re doing to notice my passing. One bleats a goodbye and I wonder if anybody at the summit was harmed. I packed ear plugs, just in case. My hearing is about the only sense that I haven’t blasted into numbness so far. 

Thick quartz veins begin to appear in the stone beside me in the third hour of hiking. My knees are tired already and I have the whole ascent to look forward to as well. It’s said that ‘Deep Dakota’ is rich with gold deposits that the local government refuses to mine. The state always has money for infrastructure, however, and it rarely takes federal aid. 

The walls and floor are entirely quartz by the time I reach the summit. The crystal is slippery underfoot and I grip the railing. A fall from here wouldn’t kill me- not right away. I try to see if I can spot someone at the summit in the periphery of my light but can’t tell. Other lights from travelers above and across cast long shadows and muddle my vision. It would be easy to get turned around, here, despite there being only the one path. My ears pop. 

If there was somebody at the summit before, they’re gone when I reach it. The Guide described the summit as being fit for a trim human, which I am. It didn’t mention that it is also a whole, six feet deep and tight to the shoulders. I lower myself in carefully, afraid of bashing my teeth on the quartz. Once I’m settled, I realize I forgot to put in my ear plugs. 

A goat bleats somewhere a mile above and I black out.

-traveler

‘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 51^st 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