Mt. Rushmore, South Dakota

🏕️ From Shoulders to Sidekicks: Returning to Mt. Rushmore with Saydie

This summer, Saydie and I packed up the car, loaded our gear, and hit the road for an extended camping adventure—just the two of us, chasing sunsets and s’mores across the Midwest. After winding through forests, lakes, and a few too many bug-swatting evenings, we pointed the nose of the car north toward South Dakota. Our destination? Mt. Rushmore.

Now, I’ve been there before. In fact, I still remember the first time I saw those granite faces as a kid. I was perched high on my dad’s shoulders, craning my neck to take it all in—Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, Lincoln—carved into the mountain like gods of democracy. I remember the awe, the scale, the way my dad whispered facts about each president like he was letting me in on a secret. That moment stuck with me. And this time, I was the dad.

Saydie had heard about Mt. Rushmore in school, but nothing beats seeing it in person. As we pulled into the Black Hills, the air felt cooler, crisper—like the mountain itself was preparing to greet us. We parked, grabbed our water bottles, and started the walk up to the viewing platform. I glanced at Saydie, her eyes wide, her steps quick. She was excited, and I was quietly emotional.

When we reached the overlook, she gasped. “They’re huge!” she said, and I smiled. I didn’t need to tell her anything—she was already soaking it in. We stood there for a while, side by side, just looking. I thought about my dad, about his shoulders, about how small I felt back then and how big the world seemed. Now, I was the one carrying the snacks, the sunscreen, the stories.

We took selfies, read the plaques, and even joined a ranger talk where Saydie asked a question about how long it took to carve the monument (she’s got that curious spark). Later, we grabbed ice cream from the café—because what’s a national monument without a sugar rush?—and sat on a bench overlooking the valley.

That night, back at our campsite, Saydie crawled into her sleeping bag and said, “I think this was my favorite day.” I didn’t say much—just smiled and tucked her in. But inside, I was glowing. Mt. Rushmore had given me a memory as a boy, and now it had given me another as a father.

From shoulders to sidekicks, the journey had come full circle.

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