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encountered several elaborate prairie dog towns, whose<br />
residents posed for photos far more happily than the bison — at<br />
least as long as I remained in my car. When I got out of the car<br />
trying for close-ups, they quickly scooted into the nearest burrow.<br />
Hiking trails twined through the park. I chose one that<br />
traveled along the Little Missouri River. From atop a bluff, I<br />
looked out at the river winding its way through the painted<br />
desert. The river had carved a deep valley in the candy-colored<br />
mountains. The sand along its banks glittered in pinks and<br />
greens. As I contemplated the beauty, a scene right out of the<br />
Old West materialized. Across the river, a herd of wild horses<br />
rose majestically over the crest of a bluff. Their dark outlines<br />
contrasted sharply with the pale blue sky.<br />
Here at this moment, I felt Roosevelt’s presence far more<br />
strongly than in his hunting lodge. Gratitude flooded me. His<br />
foresight preserved this land and the stunning wildlife it supports<br />
for me and for all the generations of Americans to come.