The Poet's Table Is Over

If you are reading this you probably have some interest in the place known as the Poet's Table near Sylvan Lake in Custer State Park, South Dakota, and likely have been following the social media and local news accounts of its destruction. The table is gone. The cabinet with all of the writings and memories is gone. The walls are scarred with paint and chalk and scratchings of names and initials. Someone has announced they are in discussion with park officials about placing a new table there. I say "don't bother." You are totally missing the point and, like so many others who have visited the now not so secret location, are really clueless as to the meaning and significance of what this place once was about. And mostly what it was about was a secret. You could only find it if someone who had been there guided you or gave you vague clues about "shortly after the second water crossing" or "the leaning Birch tree points the way" and then allowed you to enjoy the experience of finding it yourself. If you did find it, the idea was to spend some quiet time in reflection and enjoy the pristine setting. Maybe actually write some poetry or contribute some small trinket or personal item as an offering to nature or perhaps to future travelers who could appreciate the message and also be inspired to contribute. Or just have seat at the table and read some Kerouac about the art of boulder hopping.

I remember when I first made the trek to the then secret location. There was no obvious path. I followed the clues and eventually noticed an area off the main trail where the grass was only slightly disturbed. I went in that direction and fate, the universe, or just blind luck led me in the right direction. The path is so worn now you couldn't possibly miss it.

 

Just looking at this picture should provide enough evidence that too many people are going up there. Or too many of the wrong people. And when it becomes a matter of volume rather than quality, bad things can start happening. Like people with no respect for nature or for themselves leaving trash and cigarette butts scattered around. And others having some odd obsession with leaving their mark which leads them to carving or painting their name or initials on the rocks, table and cabinet. 

Even in recent years when I would visit I might see three or four other vehicles in the trailhead parking lot. Today it was full. The TV news was even on the scene.

 

 

I suppose someone can drag another table up there, but the Poet's Table was never about a table. It was about an idea...a mystery...an experience exclusive to a few fortunate good and decent people who understood what it meant and took care of it and guarded the secret. Future visitors (if it is restored) will not be able to go there and be alone, or just be still and listen to the quiet. The secret is out. The Poet's Table is over. At least in its original context. It will never be the same.

Remember Woodstock '99? A perfect example of how sometimes you can't improve on the original. Or even come close. So, no matter what happens in the future, I won't go back. I will keep it alive in my memory as a wonderful place that gave me a few special moments to be cherished always. Since the Dalai Lama doesn't owe me any favors I will probably never achieve total enlightenment. But I will always have my memories of a very special and amazing place. As Bill Murray (Carl the greenskeeper) said, "so at least I've got that going for me."

 The Poet's Table. 

1969-2018.

Roger O'Dea     5/28/2018