Places There are places in this country, such as Little America, 290 miles west of Cheyenne, Wyoming, on Interstate 80, the largest truck stop known to humankind, a place so large that it has its own zip code and schlock and kitsch beyond expression, or, far up the Missouri, where it is not likely to be seen by chance, the pits where Sacajawea's village stood when she and Charbonneau, that barbaric White pig who had bought her from her Mandan captors, agreed to guide Lewis and Clark to the Pacific. And there are erosion sculpted rocks just south of Cheyenne where, in 1831, the Crow killed a band of Blackfeet who had taken refuge in this natural fort. North of Mitchell, South Dakota, lie the bones of beasts which died 60 million years ago and in the Black Hills are fossil Mammoths lying as they died in quest of water. There are places such as these, never seen by those who sit at home, which have cultures of the own and which teach my cynic's soul how small are the thoughts of Man and how unutterably vast the Cosmos he presumes to comprehend.